This week I turned twenty four. An age that I used to think would be one where I’d have my life together, all figured out. It seems like a properly grown up age, doesn’t it? On paper, I guess I do have that life together. I’ve found a very lovely man, with whom I live in a very lovely apartment, with our (not biased at all here) very adorable toddler. I even work for a company who while I won’t go as far as describing them as very lovely, do treat their employees with decent conditions and some rather lovely perks. I’ve been to university, attained my degree and an education on top of it which didn’t happen in the classroom or lecture hall but rather in the rainy cold mornings spent working towards something Student Union related, or the late night “tired and emotional” chats enjoyed with Lennoxes chips. I live in a city which I now consider home (not quite “home home”, but getting there) after six years here, it’s given me my accent, my love of tea and my life as it currently stands. As far as things go, it’s not a half bad way to be at 24.
When my child was five months old, I gave in to common sense and made a visit to my GP where I was diagnosed with postnatal depression, prescribed medication and referred to a consultant psychiatrist for further care. This was not my first foray into the world of mental health issues, but this to me was progress; I was on top of my game and making sure that whatever was going wrong in my head was to be remedied so that I could focus on making life as good as it could be for me and my new little family. Almost a year on, things are better, mostly. They are being reviewed constantly by professionals who know what they’re talking about and I consider myself more educated about different mental health issues and the effects that they have, my triggers and effects of the medication on different parts of my life.
It has been hard work, but I am getting there. Read More
It is that time of year again. Summer is winking at us around the corner and despite the apocalyptic weather at the weekend, I’m feeling confident in my choice to lay out the sun cream and the sunglasses for tomorrow. It’s Leaving (and Junior) Cert time. The Irish educational system has two set exams each year that each student in 3rd and 6th year must take.
Post Natal Depression is a bitch. There, I said it. I’ve thrown down my gauntlet and I refuse to be nice about her anymore – that black dog is a pain in the behind. I’ve tried numerous approaches: ignoring it, pandering to it, acknowledging its existence yet still ignoring it – and yet the deep seeded horrible feelings that it incites in me still bubble to the surface at any moment, and change my thought pattern to something negative.Read More
In internet circles, I find myself surrounded by some of the most amazing inspiring people on a day to day basis. I interact with them in Facebook groups, on twitter, people I’ve never met in real life but have spoken to on a regular basis for the best part of a year. They are strong, courageous women (mostly) who have found themselves able to speak out about things that aren’t normally talked about; things considered taboo. Lately I’ve found myself wanting to say things in the same vein but have found myself afraid, not knowing exactly what to say, or how to say it, or whether I should say it at all. From authors who I really admire, the lovely Marian Keyes, to fellow parenting bloggers Karen and Suzy, these women have made me feel as if it is okay, which is exactly why I’m writing this now.