Dear 2023

Normally, I’d be writing to you at the end of the year to thank you for what you gave me. So, really, this letter is very premature and I should be addressing todays to 2022. However, I feel I’ve conveyed everything I can about my feelings towards the turbulence of the last 12 months, so instead I’d thought I’d focus forwards.

I caught sight of you around November last year and began telling myself that when I finally reached you, all the negative feelings around the year I’d had, the anxiety and overwhelm, would be left behind in the hands of 2022 and you’d reach out yours and off we’d skip down the 12-month road of a new year, new me. So far, that hasn’t happened. It turns out, you don’t bring a magically clean canvas with you for me to start afresh at designing my life. Your entrance is more subtle than that. It happens overnight…literally, and I can only forgive my brain and my body for expecting them to acknowledge your arrival with a revived sense of calm. To them, Saturday simply became Sunday and there’s nothing special about Sunday.

So I’ve decided to write to you, perhaps as a form of what I believe is sometimes called ‘Manifestation’ – making something real through the sheer act of focusing on it, visualising what I want, or in this instance, writing it down. This is not something I’d say I believe in, however, I’m willing to use it as a base to put my desire for our 12 months together out into the world in the hope it gives my year some positive focus. So let me begin:

1. I will do more things for my own sense of joy. The last year (at least) has been driven by my crippling anxiety’s need for me to feel I’m being ‘productive’ – whatever that may mean – all the time. As a result, I have chronically failed to give myself permission to just sit and do something that could possibly have no other purpose than giving me enjoyment. As a child, I would sit for hours, when there wasn’t homework to be done, curled up reading a book. I didn’t feel guilty. I didn’t feel there was anything more ‘worthwhile’ to be doing. I want to go back to that. I want to feel that sitting and reading my book just because I feel like it, and in spite of the inevitable to-do list that will never end, is valid. That goes the same for doing some mindful colouring, cross-stitching, baking something just because…If I don’t give myself permission to do these things when I feel like it, or even when I don’t but my anxiety could really do with the downtime, then I might as well throw all my books out of the window and my craft unit onto the street. I have to confess there have been many times since last summer when I’ve envied the version of me post-surgery, lying in hospital or at home in bed, with nothing more important in the world than simply resting, doing things that relax me and make me happy while my body recovered. 2023, I do not need to wish myself in pain. there is always time for me and my list of ‘things for joy’ stuck to my fridge and it doesn’t only come around when I’m unwell. And if it feels like there isn’t, I’m determined this year, to make some – to pause, to say no to things, to leave more empty spaces in my calendar, to look at my list and book in more, much-needed, time with myself or even to just stop moving, sit down somewhere comfy and breathe.

2. I will prioritize my mental health. Sometimes I wish that I could experience walking through the day in someone else’s body. I want to know if how I feel is normal or whether there is an existence out there where butterflies do not life 24/7 in my chest and tummy and my brain is not running at 100 miles a minute. I briefly remember discovering that this reality did exist when I was first medicated. I became aware all of a sudden that the pit in my stomach had gone…oh the irony of the momentary anxiety this caused. But then I celebrated. Oh, the joy of not feeling constantly on the edge of a precipice or at the doors to an exam room, with the knowledge that there is no exam to relieve the feeling once it’s over. I remember that relief and I want more than anything to regain it. I want to feel less overwhelmed by the world and terrified for the future. I want to be excited about things to come. How will I do this? Well, to start, I’m going back to regular appointments with my therapist. I’m making myself a safe space, weekly at first, to look towards when the days and weeks are feeling too much.

I’m also going to review and reassess the medication first prescribed to me in December 2015 and that I still take daily. I’m no medical expert, but at this point, it feels more like a habit than anything else, as I lie here in the warmth of my bed, writing this letter, listening to my brain, with my body physically still feeling like I’m being threatened by a bear around my caveman campfire. I will never feel ashamed that my brain requires help but I do feel perhaps we need to assess whether the current help is the right one. As we walk this journey together 2023, I want to feel like my brain and I are becoming more connected, and that, as stated in a previous letter addressed to the rascal itself, my anxiety and I can become companions, rather than rivals.

3. I will embrace the unknown. Last year felt like a year of unexpected changes that my anxiety struggled to manage internally even while I seemingly dealt with them pretty smoothly from the outside. Although my heart was set on your arrival bringing consistency and no unexpected surprises, that is not realistic. I already had change lined up before you even got here: a new career path in the pipeline. I guess what I want from you now instead is to help me approach these changes more as exciting adventures to try, rather than possible regrets in the making. I want to be able to tell my brain – I guess that’s partly what this letter is aiming to do – that nothing is permanent. There isn’t harm in trying something new just because it scares me. The worst that happens? The new work isn’t for me…I was wrong. I step back. I reassess and I move forward. The best that happens: I discover a new passion and a new source of joy and fulfilment in my day-to-day. What’s more, I want to remove the pressure I constantly put on myself to be ‘perfect’ and to need to know everything from day 1. If I wasn’t slightly scared, that would be more of a concern. It is ok, good even, to enter the unknown with the openness to learn.

There are other unknowns in the year ahead: my living situation – where and who with, my medical dramas – do I choose to have surgery or not? Will I inevitably end up back in hospital again, my favourite nasal accessory dangling from my face? Some things can not be planned or known ahead of time. This year, 2023, I’m going to be ok with that.

4. Meet new people and start dating again. It’s been over 4.5 years and it’s scary. A large chunk of my 20’s has centred around my relationship with my best friend. It’s hard to imagine a life lived with someone else. And yes, my mental health is pretty low right now, and yes, this year feels like another year of changes, but the reality is, I like meeting new people and getting to know them. My side goal of dating is to try all the best hot chocolates in London so I figure, what’s the downside? Plus, if I succeed at following through with the first item on this list, perhaps I’ll meet a like-minded companion, who shares in something that brings me joy, along the way.

5. Focus on my own path rather than where others are or are going. I want to remind myself every time I open Facebook or Instagram, that I’m never seeing the whole picture. I’m seeing the highlights but not the moments in between. What’s more, there is no rush. 26-year-old me felt like time was not on her side - that I should be settled in a ‘career’ and a ‘relationship’. I don’t need to be though. Firstly, it’s ok to change my mind and try new things. No one, single job needs to be my one and only for the rest of my working life. Maybe the last 4 years, nannying was my thing. Maybe 2023 will show me that, for now at least, maternity nursing is what I love. Secondly, if I’d found the right relationship to be in right now, for being ready to settle down (whatever that means), then that’s where I’d be. But I’m not. Because I haven’t. Others have and that’s ok. They’re on their path and I’m here, bumbling along, on mine. I’ve got a lifetime ahead of me and if I spend it looking sideways at other people living theirs, I’ll miss out on what’s right in front of me and moving forward in mine.

And that’s pretty much it. Yes, 2022 was a whirlwind but it’s behind me. Now is the time to look ahead. You didn’t make the entrance I’d hoped for, 2023, bringing with you a whole different mind and body to take over from the broken ones of the previous 365 days. But you arrived none-the-less as you inevitably would. You brought the possibility of things changing for the better, new adventures, and another 365 days to learn to love the person I should probably aim to love first and foremost: me.

2023, here’s to you

Onwards and upwards,

Dear Change

I’ve got to be honest with you: I’ve never been your biggest fan. I like familiarity and comfort, routine and confidence in knowing what’s to come. I do not like the prospect of you appearing, neither on the horizon with an element of warning before you, or suddenly and uninvited. This year, you’ve been far too familiar, making yourself at home in my life. Just as I get settled after one of your drop-ins, there you are banging on the door again. I thought when I first decided to write this letter, that it would be largely a telling-off, a complaint towards you and your thoughtlessness when it comes to letting me just live my life in peace. However, I do also want to thank you. For every visit that you’ve made, has brought with it, something good.

Your first major visit this year came when I went from happily working one day, picking up an 18-month old without question, to lying in a hospital bed the next, my insides torn apart and put back together. You were most definitely uninvited then, as I had spent a long time prior, confident in my body’s health status and, thus – perhaps a little overenthusiastically - enjoying all the joys that food had to offer. Waking up bright and early that Sunday morning in searing pain, I could sense your arrival was imminent. Things weren’t going to be as they had been from here on in. You took my physical and mental health and threw them into the air with no pre-agreement with me about where they might land.

Yet, had you not visited then, I would have not gained so much time in the home that I loved. Because of you, I got 7 unexpected, bonus weeks at the childhood home about to be sold. Instead of the odd weekend day noted in my diary to go and help sort and pack up, I gained so much more: my favourite bedroom turned, not for the first time, into a very comfortable recovery suite, mornings spent propped up with pillows next to mum, with a view over the garden and field, keeping my brain exercised with games of Wordle. Summer days spent with visits from family and friends, sitting in the garden or in the sunny shade of the drawing room, resting on the sofa. Because of you and your unexpected and uninvited presence, I can thank you from the bottom of my heart for the extra time that you gave me to say goodbye to a piece of my heart.

Of course, that goodbye was a whole other visit. By the point of completion, I had returned to work with you in my pocket, leading a slightly more trepidatious day-to-day routine with the children. But, at least with this visit, you were booked in. I knew you were coming and, thanks to your previous stay, I’d been given plenty of time to prepare for this one. In this sense, your presence at the end of the summer almost passed me by. It is only since then, on the odd weekend, or now as I spend my Christmas entirely within London’s city boundaries, that I am forced to reminisce on what I had and my heart aches, just a little. What you did teach me though, as you always seem to bring some lesson of sorts along with you, is that – not to be cliched – home isn’t really a place, but the people it contains. My family and I said goodbye to some walls, but really, nothing more, as the memories contained within them are carried with us wherever we go. Now, I write this from bed in my parents flat, in London, where I am, as ever, spending my Christmas break, at home.

For me, home has always been where my family is. I remember returning home to London after my recovery from surgery and feeling like I was leaving home in order to go back to work. Not long later, and you knocked on the door again. This time, in your hand, an invite to throw my life back up in the air, in the form of saying goodbye to my 4.5-year relationship and the life we’d shared from 2018 until that moment. I’ve always been scared of you, you know. And my relationship had been a particular area that you book-ended rather neatly. At the start, I feared you because I didn’t want to lose the friendship he and I shared. By the end, it was the same – my fear of you and not knowing what would happen to the relationship I so valued with this man I loved and cared about, made me terrified of doing anything about how I felt. But I pushed through and apparently let you lead the way, as I moved out of the flat we’d shared for over a year, and onto new living arrangements…

The first time living with a friend, as opposed to with my parents, in a home owned and operated by them, or with my boyfriend, a home jointly rented, but the admin and finances largely led by him. Suddenly, I was flailing in the open, my mind whirring with worries – what needs paying for? Who does the paying? What accounts do I need to set up? How do I take a bath for 3 hours when I share a bathroom with someone who doesn’t necessarily wish to see me nude…? You were everywhere and I felt overwhelmed by your presence. I cried daily, over every little thing: shopping – how, where, what? Managing meals after long-days out of the house. How do I spend my evenings without the consistency of the routine I’d become accustomed to over the last 4 years. Every single thing was new. I often woke up confused, not sure where I was and took a moment or 2 to remind myself where this bed was and where this room sat, and where my life was centred, in this new arrangement.

And yet, once again, you brought so much good with you. Almost 3 months on, and it’s hard to imagine not living where I am, with my friend, eating cheese at the kitchen table at the end of almost every meal, filling the fridge with Tupperware’s of batch-cooked lunches ready for the week ahead, asking questions such as ‘would you like to brush your teeth before I have my shower, or are you happy to wait?”. Evenings spent catching up on our day while we eat or sit on the sofa with an evening chocolate selection. When I first moved in, I took on the broadband account, and having never done anything so admin-like in my life, was filled with anxiety about what I needed to do. Yet, despite the hiccups that accompanied it, within a few weeks, I was able to declare we had Wifi and Netflix was on the cards again. You may have begun this particular visit bringing bags packed with anxiety and uncertainty, but I think, without me noticing, you did finally take your leave. Normality, in regards to my living situation, has taken your place.

Then, just as I was adjusting to you in my new home, I decided to introduce you to another aspect of my life, so that you might make yourself acquainted there. Dear Change, meet my work-life. I was getting too comfortable at home, and so used to having you around somewhere, I decided to discuss my future at my job with my bosses. Every conversation had – gentle discussions of the future of my role and where it was going, gave you a little more space to wiggle in. Not long into November and an agreement had been made that I would move on in 2023. So there you had it, somewhere new to take root. You were touring my life and this was a big stop for you. I’ve been in my job for almost 4 years so your impact was significant here. I’ve been through excitement, anxiety, uncertainty, imposter syndrome, back to excitement. You’ve taken me through all the emotions and now I sit somewhere in the middle of them all. While I’m terrified of the unknown, I’m also a little bit excited about what you might bring in 2023 in relation to my work. Together we decided I’d pursue something slightly new; helping care for tiny babies and their parents in those early days and weeks. I know you’ll be sticking around with me for a while now as all of this starts, but I think this time I’m ok with that.

So, for now that’s all. I just wanted to write it all down in a letter to you, to remind you how busy you’ve been in my life. I wanted to acknowledge how present you’ve been and remind myself how much I’ve been through as a result. And, more than that, I wanted to thank you. More times than I’d have liked this year, you’ve walked into my comfort zone, taken my hand and dragged me kicking and screaming into the unknown. Yet now, here I sit, approaching the last days of 2022, and it all feels like you simply did what was inevitable. You saw what needed to be done and you did it.

I don’t know what 2023 will bring but, if you come and visit, I’ll try and remember through the uncertainty and the bits that fill me with anxiety, fear and doubt, that at the end of it all, you might turn out to not have been all that bad. Now settle down for a while please so I can read and colour, stitch and see friends, and, above all, relax into the New Year.

Yours Sincerely,

Dear Feeling in my Chest

Hi there. I feel we need to get acquainted as it appears you’ve made yourself comfortable and do not plan on departing anytime soon. You’ve found a comfy spot it seems – the perfect space for practicing your gymnastics, or jumping on the bed. Did you bring your butterfly friends too? Only, you don’t appear to be alone, and, while the butterflies are regular visitors, they too appear to have joined you this time for an extended stay.

I know you’re the not the most welcome of visitors, and you’re probably used to being told to “go away!” and “leave me alone!” and I confess I’ve often said this to you in the past…However, I was listening to The Anxiety Advantage where, in one episode, Yang-May talked about her own relationship with Anxiety – with you. She suggested that we all too easily treat you as the enemy, someone to fight off and send away. But what if we flipped our attitude towards you. What if, instead of treating you as a pain in my backside, I calmly approach you like I would a friend who is only trying to help. I do understand that’s what you’re trying to do. You're acting as you always have since humankind existed, keeping us safe from the dangers of the world. The thing is, the world has changed my friend. No longer are we cooking and sleeping in the open, contstantly needing to be vigilent for wild animals approaching and eating us for dinner. Back then, it was important that you were there, ready to warn us and to set our hearts beating faster and blood pumping so we could get up and run or fight for our lives and our families. Those days are gone. The world is a different place now and those wild animals now appear in the shape of long to-do lists, the never-ending feeling of pressure to be busy and to achieve things, financial worries, social media. Instead of being out in the open and our bodies simply setting us up for the best possible means of survival, we are sitting in our houses, or at desks, or surrounded by friends, with adrenlanine surging through our bodies with nowhere or way to be released. In these instances, we don't need all that blood pumping to our muscles ready to run our fastest or fight our hardest.

So, what am i trying to say to you? Well, basically, what I learnt listening to Yang-May the other week, is that I need to remember why you're there. I need to remember that you're just doing what comes naturally to you, and doing your best to try and keep me safe from the dangers of the big wide world. Instead of trying, and failing might I add, to send you away, I should talk to you and perhaps reassure you - and myself, my brain - that there is no iminent threat. I should have a gentle, understanding conversation with you and explain that, while I know you're only trying to help, I don't actually need all this adrenaline and you to sit in that comfy spot you've found, when things are actually ok. So, I wanted to write to you perhaps to begin this new relationship, to re-introduce myself as a friend and to reassure you. In doing so, I'm also hoping perhaps my friend Brain may intercept this letter and get the message too. Perhaps then the two of you could work together to improve your perception of real danger, and just relax. Ha! I'm the ultimate hypocrite. Relaxing is something I need to learn to do too. But perhaps, if we all work together, you, me and and Brain can learn. It sounds ridiculous, but even writing this letter is a big step for me. Not in terms of specifically writing to you about this topic, but in terms of writing my letters at all. I enjoy doing this, it is something that bring me comfort and satisfaction, that gets my creative brain whirring and releases the goings on inside my head. It's a form of therapy, of self-care. Thus, it is not something that I feel you actively encourage. There you sit, telling me I need to be "busy" and "productive", that my to-do list needs adding to or there are important adulting things I'm probably forgetting about. You tell me, not with words but just by being there, that lying in bed writing and listening to the rain outside my window, doing something I love and that, as an added perk, will help my mental health, is not achieving whatever it is you believe I should be doing. What if I find that I spend all this time writing this letter when I could have been...what?

So here's my message to you: I am allowed to relax and to do things that bring me joy. A conversation with my parents the other day centred on them telling - perhaps reminding - me that I work hard and that I am allowed - in fact i should - use my time off to do things that make me happy. I do not need to be "achieving" things (whatever that means) every moment of the day. If I want to spend an entire day in my pyjamas after a full working week of looking after two small humans, then I can do that. They reminded me that I'm one of the lucky few who has many solo pass-times and am very happy in my own company - that if I want to, there is nothing and nobody stopping me from spending my non-working time reading an entire book cover-to-cover as I did over afternoons as a child, or quietly cross-stitching with the radio on. The only thing that does feel like it's stopping me, is you. For a while now, particularly prevalent during the last few months of change in my life, you've sat there and made me feel - rightly or wrongly - that every moment must be filled with more "important" things than those that simply make me happy. Perhaps you simply don't value well-being and happiness in the way that I do. It's ok if you see things differently to me, however I want you to see things from my point of view, so that we can, as long as you're here, live in harmony together.

With all this in mind, here's my thinking. Let's keep communication channels open. I understand you're probably not planning your departure right now and I get it. There's been lots of change and you're stepping cautiously. I don't blame you. However, when you're feeling energetic and throwing out adrenaline here there and everywhere, let me talk to you and reassure you. Let me assess the reality of the situation and I'll - hopefully - most likely be able to tell you there's nothing going on right this moment that could result in somebody dying, the world ending, general impending doom. I'll tell you that we don't need to restart that to-do list of dread, writing down every little thing that I think of, because if something is important, either I'll remember it, or someone will remind me, or, worst case, something will happen because I didn't. And unless that thing that happens is the world ending or somebody dying, it's probably something that can be rectified.

Remember: THERE ARE NO WILD ANIMALS PROWLING THE STREETS OF NORTH LONDON. I want us to be friends, not enemies. Anxiety and you have been part of my life for as long as I can remember and so, while my ideal would be to let you check-out indefinitely and find somewhere else to stay, for now, I'll simply try and give you the reassurance that you need. All that adrenaline pumping must be quite tiring for you, as well as me, so we just need to learn to give each other a break.

And, I promise, if I am in a situation where wild animals are present or my life is otherwise in iminent danger, I'll let you do your thing. I'll sign off, by thanking you. Thank you for allowing me to write this letter. It did my heart and soul good. For now, my friend, speak soon.

Dear Ellie-May...Again

Dear Ellie-May,

When I last wrote, I ended with you leaving hospital but hinting at more to come. So, here’s a letter to remind you of the next hurdle you overcame.

With mum in the driver’s seat, you headed on the open road back to your childhood home: a bonus 6 week period up ahead, signed off work, to enjoy a place that will soon become another family's playground to build memories as they grow (but that’s another story). First there was mum’s birthday, a celebration with family, perhaps enjoyed too much as you retreated to the sofa in the mid-afternoon to rest and receive visitors, some baring the delicious beauty of chocolate tiffin, others the simple joy of company and conversation.  

A pretty dress and putting on some make-up
for the first time since pre-surgery

The week was filled with visits from family friends, cups of tea, delicious home-cooked food and early evenings spent sat on the lawn watching the colours change as the day drew in. You read, crafted and coloured and found admin slots to claim on insurance and seek heart specialist appointments (high heart rate, blah blah blah). Every other day, the local GP surgery where you’d grown up welcomed you with their kind smiles and sympathetic eyes, to inspect your wound, change your dressing and discuss your worries. You laugh quietly to yourself remembering the nurse at the hospital who reassured you “you won’t need to see your GP for dressing changes, you can just do it yourself for 2 weeks”. Now 5 weeks later and, until 2 days ago, removing your dressing entirely was not an option. The wound has been tricky, the healing complicated. Your scar almost resembles an exclamation mark, a straight line following the scar that already existed, but finishing at the bottom with more of a full-stop…a circle that has gradually shrunk in diameter but will always look that slightly bit different. You’re still not able to consider swimming or even, god forbid, have a bath. It’s only in the last week or so that you’ve ventured into the shower, progressing just that little bit from sitting on the outside of the bath, your hair draped back for mum to wash it. Perhaps later today, you’ll remind yourself what it’s like for water to wash over your tummy, the skin exposed to the elements, no longer hidden behind its protective gauze barrier.

A completed craft project:
a Bookmark for mums birthday

Anyway, I deflect. The point is, that minus the healing pain and the exhaustion, you were moving forwards, the direction one usually hopes to travel in life. Then things changed. Monday 27^th June, 11 days post-discharge, you began to feel something different. You’d been used to the pain the wound carried, and some sharp internal stabs which you continue to put down to internal healing…but this was different. It was both unfamiliar and familiar at the same time. Cramping. Struggling to stand up straight. Bending over just a little. You felt off, but not off enough to retreat to a horizontal position and stop eating or drinking. You ate a little supper. You watched tv. You went to bed. Two hours after falling asleep, around about midnight, you awoke with very familiar pain. Blockage pain. It wasn’t the worst you’d ever had, but it certainly wasn’t nothing. It was you, twisting and turning in bed trying to get comfy as every few minutes your stomach gurgled and spasmed, the pain radiating to your back. It was: trying to doze even as nausea sat on your chest. At 5am, after several failed attempts, the nausea was somewhat relieved…need I say more. After hours of contemplating whether the situation was bad enough to disturb our parents slumber, you hobbled semi-hunched, to their room. From there, things moved a bit more smoothly.

Considering briefly your options: waiting it out for a few hours, going to the local hospital, driving back to London…you decided on the latter. As you lay, activity buzzed around you; mum packed bags, for you and for her, dad, downstairs, readied his chauffer hat. A few false starts later, and you were on the road. It wasn’t yet 7am and you were on the motorway, pillows protecting your tummy, a bowl beside you. Google maps predicted 2 hours…possibly more. It felt like an eternity.

When you arrived, however, things seemed to speed up. You were able to find a chair while mum explained who your were to the stranger behind the glass. Mum mentioned your recent surgery and the doctors parting words that we should return with any concerns. Less than 5 minutes from walking in the door and you were being triaged, the surgical team were being called and, as mum kept reassuring you “you’re where you need to be now”. Unlike last time at least, no-one dared tell mum she had to leave. You sat shivering on the plastic chair while internally laughing as the triage nurse picked up the phone and described her concern over your tachycardia…been there, done that. De ja vu.

A familiar look - nasal-gastric tube, face mask and headache cool-pad

The surgical team didn’t feel the need to rush and see you, they wanted A&E to asses things first. You already knew the day was going to be long. You could only be grateful it was day and not night. There’s something far worse about the hours of waiting, not being able to sleep, counting down until dawn. You were quickly moved to a trolley (I would call it a bed, but they don’t come with pillows or with the fun remote control that the ones on the wards do). Only patients beyond this point, so it was “bye bye” to mum…tears brimmed as you watched her part the curtain and head for the exit. You were moved right to the end of the department, in a space with 2 other beds, tucked around a corner from the staff desk. It took a while but you were eventually hooked up to pain relief, nausea medication and fluids, familiar steps in the process. The male nurse in charge managed to make you laugh more than once, a miracle in the circumstances. He apologised profusely when at one point you were abandoned without access to the little bell button required to call for help. He even found you a pillow (“shh, don’t tell”).

“Eleanor Russell for CT”

You heard the robotic voice echo and were filled with confidence that things were moving much faster than usual. You were even allowed to stay on the bed as a kind porter transported you through the department, past police guarded doors (curiouser and curiouser), to the imaging corridor. Just one other patient sat waiting, You breathed a sigh of relief, knowing the 20 minute wait you’d had that first admission was clearly not an issue this time. Ha. Over an hour later, sobbing with frustration, your back to the door to the CT scanning room, you still waited. As other patients behind you arrived, waited 5 minutes, were called, and left. As the door to the room opened and closed, the warning lights flashed on and off, as the robotic voice from inside repeated over and over “breathe in and hold your breathe. Breathe normally”. Twice, someone came to your tearful side and explained they were still waiting for instruction from my doctors, or “there’s other people waiting, you just can’t see them”. Finally, your turn. Almost 90 minutes had passed. Within 5 more you were in and out of the machine, the sensation of having wet yourself a familiar one by now as the dye seeped through your body. You didn’t even have to wait for the result, as the radiographer reappeared to detach you and stated:

“No wonder you’re in pain. You’ve got a blockage again”.

Not long after this, back in A&E, some familiar faces appear around the curtain: The kind face of Saxon, one of the doctors, and her senior, a lovely pregnant lady who’d been responsible for getting you on the morphine pump only weeks before (lets call her Dr. B, B for baby). Their sympathetic eyes and words of “We’re so sorry you’re back here” were all you needed for the tears to come again. Their news wasn’t bad though. It’s just a partial blockage. No twists this time. No closed loop. “We will need to put a nasal-gastric tube down, and give you some medicine to try and unblock it though”. You were so relieved that none of that mattered. The tube was inevitable. And, last time, the medicine hadn’t even been an option. Bring it on. Along came your new favourite nurse. In one go, he got the tube down. Don’t get me wrong, I hate it with every fibre of my being, but when we work as a team and successfully insert it first time round, it’s a pretty proud moment.

“Oh, I was meant to use the bigger size tube”

“what?"

“no, no. It’s ok. We’ll leave it for now and see what the doctors say”

A little while later, de ja vu struck again. Saxon and Dr B reappeared. They tested the tube and confirmed your nightmare: “you need the bigger one I’m afraid”. Kindly, they said it didn’t need doing immediately and they’d give you time to compose yourself, to breathe and someone would do it later. Later came, after changeover, and another nurse took 2 attempts to get it down. Even more unpleasant than the last, the tube wider, the sensation worse. Only an x-ray could reassure her (and therefore you) it was where it needed to be. At least the wait for this scan was non-existent. The tube was in, the positioning fine, just a wiggle here and there. The medication was given late at night, a disgusting drink that reminds you of bonjela. As Tuesday night turned to Wednesday morning, you were moved back to the familiar confines of the ward you’d spent 11 days on, a familiar nurse appearing in the half light of the men’s bay (no space elsewhere) to re-canulate you before your least favourite drip, potassium, was connected up to your body.

The bigger tube is in...

What followed over the next week was both better and far worse than the days spent recovering from being cut open down the middle. It was better because the medical situation wasn't as serious. The tube was doing its job of clearing the blockage, the pain relief was effective, the doctors visits were, largely, reassuring. I say largely because, although in the moment things were fine, the particular doctor in charge of you (no longer Dr B. may I add) liked to look ahead. He would start by showing you the scans of your tummy, explaining, with a slight smile, that what you were seeing was good. Yet by the end, he would have explained that, should things not progress further, and should you still be unable to eat or drink by the following week, then surgery may be on the cards. He spoke of the unwillingness surgeons have to operate so soon in succession and the risks attached. Then he moved on from surgery and talked of parenteral nutrition – a necessity in the event that you reach a week without eating or drinking. You would be hooked up to some form of intravenous nutrition, either via another nasal tube (that would be one per nostril…) or via the veins. Both of these futures gave you nightmares. All this to say, while all these horror stories were verbalised, the reality, in the moment, was good and things were progressing well.

Gloomy with the state of my world
as you consistently sweated off the tape that stuck the tube to your face

The “far worse” part of this admission wasn’t really physical at all (the back pain, and bed discomfort equally as frustrating and painful as before however). No, instead, the problems arose from your mental health. With every admission into hospital, you end up somehow off your anxiety medication. This tends to occur because you are instructed not to eat or drink and you have to disclose the pills you require daily for your brain to work. The box of dopamine boosters is required to be put to the side and doled out by some medical professional who, more often than not, hasn’t even heard of that particular brand of pills. In fact, this time, aware of this, you’d intentionally not disclosed the box that sat in your backpack. You figured this meant you were in control. Except, you were also still highly aware that you couldn’t consume anything orally and therefore didn’t feel confident that you could take them at all. So you didn’t…1 day passed. 2 days passed. Your head felt foggy and dark. You were incredibly low. You wanted to be put to sleep until it was all over. You were scared.

Attempting to quell the shivering with your blanket from home
only to find it was too hot for that

Finally, you asked the question and were told that you should be able to take them. So you did. 60mg – that’s 2/3 of your usual dose. Within 20 minutes, mum and Steve held your hand and stroked you as you shook uncontrollably, your teeth chattering. You weren’t cold. You needed help and you wanted it to stop. Mum asked a kind stranger with a lanyard, walking the ward, if she could see someone from the mental health team. This kind stranger, a dietician, as it happens, was reassuring and within half an hour, a doctor appeared. She crouched down and asked you to explain how you felt. She reassured you that someone would come by in the morning. You would get help. They were going to help you. For now, you were told, take the pills but take less. You’d been off them a while and perhaps the jump was just too big for your brain to land comfortably. Start small.

The next morning, after your daily visit from the future-focused doctor man, 2 unfamiliar faces poked their heads around the curtain. A lady and a man, notebook in hand, heads tilted in that way of saying “tell me your woes. I’m here to help”. You blurted everything out and was reassured by comforting sounds and words. It was understandable you felt trapped, you were hooked up to all sorts of places and physically you were restricted. What could they do to help you? You explained about the Dr. Future and the anxiety his forward-thinking provokes. You asked again about the pills. They left and you felt slightly more seen. More heard.

From there, things improved: your head started to feel less foggy. Your tummy gradually unblocked. You followed instructions from the weekend consultant and walked 1 hour a day, 5 minutes every hour. The nurses became used to you pottering up and down, past the desk, between the window overlooking the hospital entrance, and the double doors at the other end. They’d smile: “another walk?”. Thumbs up from the jolly-faced surgical consultant, pleased to see you were on the move.

Saturday 2^nd July, day 5 of admission, and the good news really started. If nothing comes out of your tube by the end of the day, they’ll take it out! Never have you wished so much for something…or more accurately, for nothing. You were determined that nothing would come out of that tube. That day dragged…every half an hour you checked to see how much time had passed and calculated how much longer until the 8 hour timer the doctors had set would be up. Finally, you spotted Dr. B. Around 5pm, she popped in to visit the lovely lady lying opposite, and as she came to wash her hands, her departure imminent, you caught her eye.

“Shall we look at removing that tube then?”

Freedom!

Finally, you could drink comfortably without a straw. Finally, you could try eating little bits of ice cream and soup. Finally, you could sleep more comfortably, able to lie on your side without feeling the tugging sensation down your throat. Finally, finally.

You were told to take it very slowly with food. Dr. B. said low fibre for a week or so, no bread, no meat. The nutritionist gave you a list. Meat has no fibre. White bread is fine. Confusing. Sunday came and went with soup for lunch and supper, back to declining pain relief. Monday came and discharge was in sight…when mum arrived at 2pm, it was simply a waiting game.

"soft diet" - whatever that means...

You were finally free.

Since then it’s been a bit of a rollercoaster. You’ve been much more nervous. More…trepidatious. Nervous about eating and being very careful about trying new – by which I mean, old standard meat and vegetables you once ate without a second thought – things. Meanwhile, anxiety-wise, you’ve never been better…well, for a while that is. Despite being on 60mg less medication than before going into hospital, your heart rate has settled, and you’re suffering far less from the daily butterflies you had been before. For now, you’ve cancelled the heart specialist. Back at the GP, you left your last appointment with the nurse exclaiming how impressed she was with the progress of your scar – and that’s despite the poor wound care you receive in hospital, the lack of appropriate bandages. You’re bending over now without thinking about it and yesterday you ran (in as much as you do this faster pace of walking) up the drive.

Ironically: lower the dose of anxiety medication
and your heart rate normalises...

Next week you aim to start back at work, a week later than first planned, but not a week too soon. The last month and a half, almost 2, have been such a whirlwind. Emergency surgery, a triple bowel twist and a blockage, (very) slow healing, lots of sleep, lots of sitting, your brain all over the place. But finally, now, you feel ready. You know going back to London life, working 40 hours a week, 10 hours a day, is going to be a shock. You know you may need to be more patient with yourself than you normally are but…let’s give it a go.

2 days after discharge, mum arranged a spa afternoon:
hair wash and blow-dry, facial and pedicure

The countdown to, some semblance of, normality begins.

Be kind to yourself,

Yours,

Dear Thoughts

 Dear Thoughts,

You are not fact. Well…most of the time. Unless you’re specifically about a fact…What I mean, is that you are not always what you seem and you can’t necessarily be taken at face-value. You are open to error and it’s not your fault. You are based on connections in the brain and sometimes those connections can be off. It’s so easy for us to sit and listen to you, like a little person in our brain telling us how it is, but we’ve got to be able to identify when you may be exaggerating a little or overgeneralising. I know you’ll try and deny it, so I want to share with you some examples, just so you can see what this habit can do.

So one way you like to act up for me a lot, is through jumping to conclusions, making an assumption – no proof – of what someone may be thinking (mind-reading) or what may happen in the future (fortune-telling). I do these a lot, spiralling downwards into a world of anxiety and panic after an interaction with someone and you deciding it had deeper meaning: my friend is angry with me, they think I’m rubbish at my job, they’re thinking how annoying I am etc. etc. Or creating a whole world of worries about my future, normally on the lines of: I want to have children but not too soon that I it detracts from me getting comfortable in a job or career, but not too late that perhaps my medical history will reveal problems and it could take even longer but I want to ensure my children meet their grandparents and, and, and….None of this spiral is based on any facts. My parents are both healthy, I’m only 25 and I have no solid information from which I need to panic about the effect my medical history has on my chances of reproduction. Take a bow, dear thoughts, you’ve successfully and erroneously skewed my thinking.

Another example? The mental filter. This is when you essentially place a sieve above the collection of details about my day and let the positive ones fall through but catch the negative ones for me to sit and focus on. I’ll have a really good day at work, but somewhere during it, one negative – or perhaps we should say ‘less positive’ - thing will have happened. That negative thing will sit at the front of my mind the rest of the day, and when asked how work was at the end of it, I will focus mostly on that event. It used to be said quite often that I’m a glass half empty, and it makes me feel just a little bit better to think there’s a reason behind it. I’d do well at school but then get confused on a question for homework and suddenly the world would come crashing down…

That leads me to another way my brain lies to me. When I label myself. I do this all the time. When I take a negative event and use it as evidence that I am a bad person in some way. I can’t do this maths question? I’m stupid. I couldn’t get the baby at work to nap today? I’m a terrible nanny. I’m ill and people are needing to look after me. I’m a nuisance and always cause trouble (that one is also an error of ‘over-generalising’ – just because I’m requiring help now, it doesn’t mean I always cause trouble)…

I won’t list more of your mistakes. The point is, as you can see, you aren’t special. You are prone to mistakes just as much as anyone else. The problem I have, is that you sit there spewing words in my head all day with great confidence and my anxious brain just believes ever single word you say. Well…not anymore. I’m actively trying now, as I articulate in this letter, to not take what you say as true without having a look at it properly and seeing what error(s) you may have made. I have known about how you operate for a long time, ever since I first attended therapy at the age of 12, but this is the first time I’ve properly used this knowledge to help myself and take control. Even the other day, I found myself walking with the baby at work, over-thinking as usual, my brain chat-chat-chatting and I just wanted peace. So I started to note down every time you appeared, what you were saying and where your errors lay. And suddenly the feeling of anxiety or panic would ease. You’d start shrinking or fading until you were barely there and I could keep moving. I suddenly feel I do have the power over you. You’re just in my head, but I’m out here and I can see what’s really going on. I’m not blaming you, dear thoughts, for all the errors you make; they’ve come from years of forming faulty connections. I’m just letting you know that now I really understand you, I plan to put less value onto what you say, and release some of that control you’ve had over my life for all of my life, a little at a time.

I’m not saying this relationship is over. I know you’ll always be there and I’ll probably never stop listening to you entirely, but I’ll just nod now and say “ok, thoughts. I hear you but I’m getting on with my day” and perhaps gradually your interruptions will get fewer. Perhaps you’ll start to listen to my side. I’m not expecting you to never make errors again, but I hope you understand why I need to step away, to not listen so hard or trust you so much.

I know you’ll always be there,

With you always,

Dear Mental Health

Dear Mental Health,

I write to you today, on a day dedicated to you and raising awareness of how important you are. Today is the 10th of October, otherwise known as 'World Mental Health Day'. I don't appear to have written to you before, which I find extremely odd considering how much I care about you and your well-being. Before I started writing, I found myself doing some research to find our more about you:

What are you? According to the Mental Health Foundation, you're capable of change and improvement. When you're in good form, you enable us to cope with life, feeling, expressing and managing emotions, whether positive or negative. If things are well, you allow us to cope with change and uncertainty and bounce back from any struggles we may face. You're different for everyone with roughly 1/10 people affected by anxiety or depression in any given moment. Yet, considering how common such conditions are, talking about you continues to be tricky for a lot of people, pushing you into the shadows.

I am one of those 1/10 people, I think that's been made clear enough on more than one occasion. You don't feel at home in my brain and you act out. I am lucky though and can and will keep finding you the help you need to feel better. The theme for your special day this year, is 'mental health in an unequal world'. The focus is on how things can change to help those with mental health struggles who are already facing other socio-economic and personal challenges. How can potential stressors be eased to minimise their impact on mental health, especially in a post-pandemic world? The Mental Health Foundation website has some recommendations for how government can do this. I'd tell you to have a read...but I'm not sure how much you'd take on board.

I know how lucky I am to get the help I need. I appreciate that I have access to the finances needed to pay for a psychiatrist, therapist and daily medication. I am lucky to have family and friends who support my twisty-turny, hilly journey involved in looking after you, dear mental health. I am grateful for this as we all navigate a time during which research has shown increasing numbers of people suffering. People's lives have been, potentially, drastically changed - losing jobs, losing homes, missing, and sadly losing, friends and family, juggling work and home-school, reduced access to necessary services and treatments. A tonne of change with a dollop of loss is understandably causing havoc to people's lives and minds. Keeping you safe, stable and happy has not exactly been easy for anyone. 

But people do increasingly realise how important you are and want to do whatever they can to help so that people can feel happy and safe around you rather than sad, anxious, afraid and alone. 

You may not be as visible as more physical health needs: no sling, crutch or bandages in sight, but you are there, hidden away in everyone. One simple step we can all make to bring you to the forefront of people's minds is to discuss you more...So I will always talk about you to the world, mental health, because you matter: not just today, but everyday. 

Speak soon (and always),

Dear Future Me...When This is All Over

Dear Future Me...When This is All Over,

I'm writing to you from strange times.

Just over 4 years since being diagnosed with, and medicated for, Generalised Anxiety Disorder, and a gradual introduction to what it is to live without constant nerves filling the everyday, and my brain learning to run marathons rather than sprints, the butterflies have returned in their droves. While spring edges closer to summer, the physical butterflies dart around the garden before my eyes, making me smile, while internally, their psychological twin darts around my tummy. These are not driven by the onset of warm months full of time in the sun, but by the madness COVID-19 has brought to the world I knew.

A pretty butterfly...not a psychological one

The world is so strange right now. New vocabulary has entered every household. Words like Furlough and Social Distancing, and new meanings for 'isolation' and 'stay at home'. New party games are developing everywhere, drinking at the sound of 'flatten the curve', 'unprecedented' and 'right thing at the right time'. My mum's Oxford degree in PPE is not what the world is short of...If anything, everyone could now claim to be experts in PPE from the amount of times we hear it mentioned on the TV and the radio.

Social Distancing has brought queues stretching for miles from shop windows - because that's the safest way to now receive your bread from the baker or prescriptions from the pharmacy. People hop around pavements as they try and stay 2 metres from the person in front, the person behind, the person next to you in the queue for the shop next door, while also avoiding getting too close to those simply trying to walk by as normal. Meanwhile, for us in the countryside, this has provided a perfect opportunity for fresh supplies to be made available in cardboard boxes, delivered to your door or to the door of a friend. Fruit and vegetables are no longer brought from the shelves in the shop but found sheltering, labelled, out of the sun, in a friend's driveway, ready for collection from those who ordered them. Egg boxes are left outside the front door by an unseen friendly hand. At the butcher, having ordered in advance, we now drive into the car-park out the back, give our name and wait for a helpful assistant to bring out our supplies and place them - no touching the car please - in the opened boot. As we walk through the village I grew up in, we cross the road when we see people and no longer hold open gates to wait for others to pass. We see friends in the distance but stay at a distance to say hello. As we pass the neighbours houses, we count rainbows in the windows and note the lack of children out playing despite the emptiness of the school playground.

A photo I sent to mum of the queue to the bakery...
before it had even opened

It's a strange time and yet I often find myself worrying about wasting it. I worry it will come to an end and I won't have "achieved" things that I won't have the chance to try to achieve for a long time to come...if ever. Although working from home doesn't always look too ideal - the blurred lines that now exist between relaxing at home, and the need to be productive, the questions of 'do I have time to nap on the sofa before my next meeting?' and 'do I need to take my pyjamas off at all...ever?' - I sometimes wish I could, just to give each day purpose.

Yet, I'm trying to remember what all this is about: It's a pandemic. I've seen it said across lots of my social media that this is not a time where you need to beat yourself up about getting things done, make long to-do lists and learn how to speak a new language. This is a time of crisis and confusion across the world. Economies struggling, jobs disappearing, and people ill and dying. If you haven't got out of your pyjamas one day since this all began, it doesn't matter. We need to be kind to ourselves and do what is right for our own mental health.

What's that for me? Well, I personally like routine. I like a sense of order and knowing vaguely what's coming next. Without the daily structure of my job, after a day or so of wallowing in my sadness and confusion when my Furlough began, I created my own timetable. It's not strict, as such, but there are key elements: there's tea in bed followed by a couple of hours at the table on my laptop doing a course of some kind each morning. At around midday, the studying ends, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays I head to the living room for Yoga. After lunch, I fill my time with anything I fancy: reading, cross-stitch, colouring, baking? Between 4 and 5pm the kettle goes on for tea, and perhaps a cake is cut. At 5pm, I settle down, with mum and perhaps the boyfriend and dad (until he is too angry at the tv he has to leave) to watch the daily press conference. On weekends and bank holidays, I don't study...because even in a pandemic and without a job, it's still important to have proper breaks to relax.

Zoom Yoga...I promise I stopped just for the photo

Talking of which, the irony regarding some work-centred conversations with my boss about holiday entitlement before all this has not passed me by. In February, I was worrying that my current annual time-table left me with no holiday or break from work, beyond a weekend, until mid-August. I was concerned about getting burned out and we discussed adding some holiday time to the Easter weekend. Little did we know that by the time the Easter weekend rolled around, I would have already been off work for 2 weeks and that beyond that chocolate egg celebration, this 'holiday' would continue for another 4 weeks to bring me to today - the day I sit here writing my blog.

Giant Chocolate Easter Bunny delivered to my door

As of yesterday, my boss emailed me to confirm a continuation of my furlough 'holiday' for another 3 weeks...so it continues. Replying to a WhatsApp from our work group chat - a group consisting of me, and the mum and dad of the hilarious and adorable 2 year old I look after - I shared my anxieties. I told them I'm worried about what happens once the government are no longer providing support. I am so incredibly grateful to my bosses for keeping me safe. I am so lucky to have been off work for nearly 2 months and yet provided for financially. I am lucky that while my monthly pay is less, I am supported and currently spending far less than I would normally, from the comfort of my parents home. And yet I worry each time I get that message about not going to work, that one day that will become permanent. I worry that as long as they have questions about their own job security, that I of course will have concerns for my own. When our communications last night evolved into updates of the little one, and photos besides, I found myself tearing up - not for the first time may I add. While they keep me away as long as it's safest to do so, and as long as financially it makes the most sense, what if, eventually, they decide it makes most sense to not have me back at all. I worry I'll lose a job, and a family, that I love.

And while my brain spirals on contemplating the future of my job, it can't help but panic about what happens when - or if - I do get back to the London life. What happens then? I miss my job but when it's there, will I be able to visit my family at weekends? What happens at Christmas? I guess what I really struggle with most, is the fact that the answer to all of these questions and worries is that nobody knows. We are told daily, "we will do the right thing at the right time".....So I guess we just keep waiting and wondering until then.

Not much social distancing in our annual Christmas family photo...

And yet, what to do with the time while I have it? Some say take advantage - It's probably the only time ever the government will pay me not to work...and yet, it's not a holiday. It's too long for that and I didn't have any choice in the matter. So, I am using it to do things. It turns out if there's one thing about myself that I'm learning right now, it's that as long as education is not compulsory, and as long as no one is tracking my progress but me, I can (sometimes) enjoy it. I choose what I am interested in, and what skills or knowledge I want to learn and develop. And for a couple of hours each morning, Monday to Friday, I focus my attention on those. My pile of printed certificates is growing...although now when I look at them, I barely remember what I learned. I've got certificates about child psychology, fire safety and food hygiene. I have learned about safe sleeping for babies and the impact technology may have on children growing up in the digital world. My favourite so far though, is the one I've been doing for a couple of weeks now: British Sign Language (BSL). I'm finding myself practising beyond my self-allotted study time as well as enthusiastically forcing my family to let me practice on them. Don't worry, they're loving it. My boyfriend approaches me at my laptop each morning to ask what 'toast' is in BSL...I am consistently disappointing him since I haven't got to the food and drink section yet. He'll be so thrilled when I do.

Speaking of toast...Home-made Sourdough anyone?

When I'm not signing, I'm using my time to cook more and experiment with recipes and ingredients. I have aided in the production of thrice weekly sourdoughs, I have picked endless Wild Garlic to add to my creations, and got back into cake baking. I have felt the frustration build as I watch social media advertise lockdown as a time to watch our weight, and work on our fitness. Lockdown is, in reality, whatever you need it to be, in order to be ok. For me, Lockdown meant a giant Chocolate Lindt bunny got delivered to my door for Easter and also that I have discovered the best chocolate cake recipe in existence. As mentioned above, I occasionally hit my yoga mat. Alternatively, I gain my movement from walks in the woods or hunting every dandelion to de-head in the garden. I did try Joe Wicks once...it lasted approximately 5 minutes before I resorted to dance parties with my choir over Zoom.

Evidence of bluebell walk...

Why torture myself with attempts at working out to videos on YouTube when I can use my time to find a comfy spot to delve into my reading pile? At first, my anxiety told me to try and alternate relaxing, enjoyable fiction with educational books...then my mum pointed out that this was ridiculous and to read what I enjoy. Since that conversation I have stopped 2 books early doors. I want to be reading for pleasure. Forcing myself through stories I'm struggling with is just not worth it.
I am also dedicating this time to developing my new cross-stitching skills but now with added motivation. While before, I did it simply as a post-work relaxation activity, now I have decided to direct it towards a particular home. Each time I progress further on it, I get closer to seeing its' framed conclusion, positioned somewhere in the bedroom of a little girl who I haven't been able to hug in months. Each time I look at it, I am hopeful of one day returning to normal life, and seeing my work family again. I look at the little girl silhouetted at one end of a rainbow and am reminded that there is always an end somewhere, even if right now, in this moment, I can't see it...beyond the curve.

A rainbow curve is my type of curve

So for now, just keep going.

Dear COVID-19

Dear COVID-19 (may I call you Corona)

Wow. You really are quite the globe-trotter aren't you?! For almost 3 months you've been off on your adventures travelling the world to visit as many countries and people that you can. And you don't travel light. Your carry a hell of a lot of baggage - that's a lot of persistent coughing and no wonder you're short of breath. I mean if I moved that quickly across the world  I'd be pretty hot and breathless too.

Now: it's time for you to go.

All you've done since the moment you got here is cause trouble. Big trouble.

You've made hundreds of thousands ill and taken tens of thousands away from those who love them. And for those you haven't taken, you've left us with your souvenir of fear. You've left people across the world confused and scared, wondering who you've seen, where you are and where you might be heading next. You've put distrust at the forefront of people's minds as they pass each other on the street, someone quietly clears their throat and others meticulously watch where the hands of those around them go. While the world continues to turn, many of the people on it are afraid of going beyond their front door. You've seen how hard grown adults find it being told not to go to the pub, imagine telling a 2 year old they can't go to the playground or see any of their friends.

You've created a live running episode of Black Mirror - the world is one where a deadly virus is spreading and as many as possible should stay in their homes, letting others know they're there only by rainbows painted on their windows.

Cllr Adam Clarke, deputy city mayor for Leicester,
has displayed two rainbows in his window - Sky News 

You've created the Hunger Games - watching the population swarm supermarkets, stockpile toilet rolls and buy out the world's supply of hand sanitizer. It's a fight where those that need the most help stand helpless in the battlefield that is the supermarket aisles, staring at empty shelves.

From a country obsessed with queuing and that likes it's routines, you've thrown it all in the air. Just 2 weeks ago I was waking up to start my week knowing mostly what my day held...or as much as you can do when it revolves around a toddler. Last night the country was told our population is hopeless at listening and doing what it's told so now we're all in detention. I'll be at home for 3 weeks it seems without the daily distraction of a little human who's biggest concern is why she can't use all her miniature cutlery from the kitchen drawer to dig in her mummy's lovely plant pots. After the call with my bosses this morning agreeing it's safest we stay apart for a while, I've got to confess...I cried...more than once. I'm someone who thrives when I have a routine in place, an order and consistency to my week. As someone who's job can't be done from home I am finding myself in limbo. In response I am trying to create a new routine: a flexible and open routine consisting of things I love each day - making my way through my reading pile, doing something crafty (my cross stitch or perhaps some mindful colouring), some writing (tick for Tuesday thank you very much Corona) and perhaps some cooking. Oh and yoga...always yoga.

So while that may sound like a nice way to spend 3 weeks and you, Corona, may be thinking "what's she complaining about, it sounds blissful", it's not sunshine and rainbows...or perhaps it is but the rainbows require rain. The rain being that even for those like me who are lucky to be healthy during isolation, we are still isolated. There's no escaping the fact that you have forced  families apart. Mothers day was a day where many mothers were celebrated through screens. Families got together through technology,  their faces 4 squares on an ipad. 

Definitely sitting too close for Corona in this happy family picture

Then there's those, often of the older generations, who are unable to navigate this new virtual society. People, of all ages, who may live alone, have been forced into loneliness in a way they weren't before. I have a family friend in her 90's who lives alone and who I offered to talk to through her letterbox...because that's where we are now apparently. You seem to not be aware of the numerous benefits that socialising has to one's mental health...or perhaps you do, hence your incredibly hectic social calender.

What have I lost socially? I hear you ask mockingly. Well, to be honest I hadn't really realised what I'd lost until this weekend. I often describe myself as a home body and an indoors gal. I don't "go out" much. And yet, it turns out I do have a very busy and important social calender. Besides my 5 days spent nannying, I spend 2 hours every Tuesday evening singing with my choir family, who, until  2 weeks ago were still prepping for our big 10th anniversary concert in Cadogan Hall. Weekend days not otherwise spent would take place volunteering in Great Ormond Street Hospital, helping patients and families to smile during difficult times. 

A mad new years volunteering session before Corona joined the party

Now? Well now the show and forseeable rehearsals in person are off, and my volunteer activities are on hold. In other words, there is a hospital full of children who's weekend entertainment and distraction from reality (normally bought by an army of yellow t-shirts) is nowhere to be seen. And 2 brilliantly talented and hard-working ladies and their flock of singing starlings are left flapping their wings helplessly while the words to Let Me Entertain You spiral through everyone's heads. 

Definitely cuddles up too close for singing with Corona wanting to join in

And that's just the impact you've had on my little world. You've gone further. You've gate-crashed weddings and birthdays and even funerals. Because of you, friends and families with dates in their diaries have had to cross out celebrations and goodbyes.

And the worst part? You're not even brave enough to show yourself. You just dart around from person to person, friend to friend, stranger to stranger, playing lucky dip with people's bodies and minds.  

I guess I should say a little thank you though. You've brought the world the gift of a nightmare but you may have accidentally left some positives behind. You've certainly brought people together, as communities find every way possible to help each other. Neighbours are finally learning each others names. While in the working world, people are getting creative. Those unable to work using their traditional methods are drawing on technology to continue bringing joy to the world, whether through online yoga classes or group singing fron bedrooms and living rooms across the world. While separating some from their families, you've forced others to find fun and creative ways to form weeks and months of memories with their children, parents and siblings. 

But really, in the end Corona, we miss touch. We miss the hugs, the kisses, even the high fives you've stolen from us. What's more, we aren't enjoying the uncertainty regarding the length of your stay.

Really what I'm trying to say, and I think I speak on behalf of the world when I say this: you've overstayed your welcome. So, I am writing to inform you that, from the bottom of all our hearts, we kindly (smile falsely planted on our faces) wish that you would, sincerely, f*** off. 

Regards,