I Didn't Know I Had PND. #savethenhs

Here are some significant numbers for you.

Five - Michael was born on the fifth day of April.
Six - I met him on the sixth of April.
Seven - He did not breathe for seven minutes.
Four - I wasn't allowed to hold my baby until he was four days old.
Nine - he was nine days old when he came home. We were so thankful - we were told that if he lived, he'd be in for at least six weeks.
One - This was how many times I successfully breastfed my son.
Zero - This was the amount of skin to skin time I got with my son. 
Two - This is how old my son was when I found out I had PND.

I won't go in to my birth story because it is long and complicated, but here is a link to it on my old blog. Up until probably six months ago, I had been very adamant that I would never have another baby and couldn't even watch tv/speak to people online who were talking about pregnancy and childbirth. It caused me too much anxiety, and too many flashbacks.

Post birth, I had the usual appointments but I'm hazy on the details. I remember perching on the edge of a blow up bed with a health visitor, probably the day after Michael got home, because we had just moved in and didn't have any furniture yet. I remember the next visit, which I might even have written about on my old blog, with a different lady who told me she was so shocked at what an irresponsible mum I was. I remember smiling, keeping it together, even laughing as Michael peed on me before being weighed, then collapsing on the floor when she left. Crawling to my baby's Moses basket, lifting him gently out, fat tears landing on his head as I held him close to me and whispered "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I am the mum you got". I remember the next time that midwife came round; a furious James made sure he was home, determined that the reason I had been victimised was that I was a "young mum" (age 22), and lo and behold she was nice as pie.

And then the visits were done. When he was 8 weeks old I was climbing the walls (and very poor because SMP is awful) and phoned my area manager to let him know I'd like to come back to work. I returned when he was 16 weeks old, the day after he started weaning in an attempt to manage his reflux (it worked). I had no medical contact, really. I didn't get him weighed unless written to and asked to do so. I plodded along, working and being a mum. I got a second job over Christmas and cried when I got sacked days before the big day, being told "you're spreading yourself too thinly and your baby must miss having his mum around". The guilt. Oh, the guilt.

But, oddly, all of this seemed par for the course. We all get weepy. We all feel immense guilt because that's what happens when you're a mum, right? We all want the best and punish ourselves when we can't reach it?

PND was first mentioned on Michael's first birthday. Every present he opened, every bite of his cake, every jovial song was punctuated with a memory that stabbed me in the heart. I couldn't stop dwelling on the skin-to-skin I never got. The breastfeeding I couldn't manage. The fact my tiny baby had been sedated for an MRI. His swollen ankles because he kept wiggling and  ripping the wires out of himself and they kept having to make new holes in him to re -insert them. The shaved patches of his hair to make room for more wires to be inserted. His cracked and purple skin that hurt him and cracked again when he opened and closed his hands, because he was post-term and I didn't fight them when I knew they had my date wrong. Every time he smiled, I looked at him and saw sorrow; he could have had such a different start if it weren't for me and my body. I excused myself to the bedroom, where James found me crying and we talked about the possibility of PND. I looked in to it, but thought it sounded more like PTSD. From that moment, I began to see my feelings towards my birth and Michael's first year as healing, not punishment. We had been through an ordeal together - it was almost as if I was allowing myself to feel pained by the memories as a way of accepting that it wasn't my fault.

Fast forward to 2015 and I was put on anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication. I was no longer crashing into pits of despair, but I became very self aware and realised I had been operating at what felt like about four notches below normal for as long as I could remember. I was no longer overwhelmed; I couldn't feel anything. I was aware of nothing but a quiet buzz and I couldn't decide if it was worse to feel everything or feel nothing. The few moments I did have of 'feeling' were because I was worried. I had been to a&e thinking I had appendicitis and discovered my anxiety was causing me real physical issues, and I found myself unable to manage my fears and stresses. This wasn't normal "I'm finding it difficult to get all of the things I need to do done" and getting a pills chucked at you to chill you out for a couple of months, this was all-consuming. I couldn't go on living my life. I never wanted to die, I just didn't have the energy to live. Socialising was out of the question. Somehow, I managed to carry on working and completing my university work while James took the reigns on parenting for a while, and we worked out systems so that we could manage my anxiety better together.

And yet that buzz was still there. It felt like I echoed on the inside. Like something was inside of me, tugging downwards and never letting go. Pills had zero effect on me (and to be honest I'm still trying to find something that makes me feel different - I am beginning to think that maybe feeling that way is just who I am and will never change) so I finally managed to get referred for some counselling (after trying and being told there was no help available for almost a year).

It was there that I was told I had PND. I said "no, that isn't possible. I never wanted to hurt my baby", naively believing that PND was the media portrayal of mums throwing babies down stairs or smothering them. "I don't feel like I can't love my baby", I said, believing media portrayals once again, "it's like I love my baby too much".

And it all went from there. I probably did have PTSD because of my own physical trauma during birth. The NHS literally saved mine and Michael's lives that day. But as soon as I started realising that PND could overwhelm you in ways that wasn't just feeling disconnected or even hateful towards your baby, I was able to allow myself to be a better and healthier mother.

Here are some significant numbers for you.

Five - Michael was born on the fifth of April
Two - the NHS saved two people's lives in that very room on that very day. 
Eighty five - the percentage of new mothers who suffer from PND. Each of these women rely on the NHS.
One - there is only one NHS. Without the NHS, this story would not have been possible. At the end of every paragraph of this post, this story had the potential to end had the NHS not been available to me and my family. This country would be lost without it and it baffles me that it's validity and necessity is even called in to question.

#savethenhs

How to Handle Competition in a Positive Way

To start this post, I'd like to point out that competition is not an inherently negative thing. In fact, it could be argued that there are no negative situations - it is your reaction to them which counts - and if you are viewing competition as a negative then maybe that reflects more on your attitude and mindset than the situation itself. If you approach competition as a negative it will consume you, and you will become bitter and resentful. So, in order to remain mentally healthy and an all-round positive person, take steps to challenge your negativity and view competition as the positive source of inspiration it can be.

Check yourself before you wreck yourself

Why are you feeling negative about competition? Do you feel threatened because they are doing something better than you are? Do they have an edge that you just can't grasp? If competition isn't a good thing, then you're not up to the challenge. Get there.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer

The best way to dampen a negative fire is to pour positive waters on it. What I mean by that is simple: make nice! Tell your competitor what an inspiration he or she is to you. You don't have to end up best friends, but you may end up learning from each other and stepping up each others games. Plus you will probably discover that your competitor has a lot of admiration for what you're doing too.

Up your game

If somebody is a threat, you need to use that as positive motivation to adapt and improve. Your earnings could potentially be minimised if somebody else is selling what you have to offer, so this is the perfect way to really think about your USP and bank on it. If there were no competition in life, none of us would ever have a reason to get any better.

Consider a collaboration

It's not possible in all situations, but sometimes competition can fizzle out completely if you use it as an opportunity to say "hey! I'm talented, you're talented. Let's do something talented together!". Besides, even if your competitor says no, you get to be the bigger person because you suggested a positive outcome to a potentially negative situation. And that's got to feel pretty rad.

Perspective

Let's be honest: is it the worst thing in the world if somebody else is doing what you're doing? So somebody gets more blog hits or has a more successful hashtag than you - will it kill you to let it slide? Put your loss into perspective, use the tactics listed above and dust yourself off. Start over.

I'm not saying it will be easy. Goodness knows sometimes I need to give myself a stern talking to because I allow myself to get consumed by taking shots, or even taking pleasure in 'winning' at the expense of the loser. But there is room for everybody to do their thing in this world, and a bad attitude can only lead to bad decisions. Allow yourself to see the positive in every situation and you can't help but feel good, too.

The 'One Day' Dress

A month or so ago a 'motivational' photograph was posted on Facebook. "Every woman has a pair of 'they will fit me one day' jeans". I smirked; it wasn't so long ago that maybe I'd have been consumed by that kind of mindset. Obsessing over the notion that "things will get better IF I lose weight", that seems to over-arch the common experience of adulthood. How sad, I thought, to delay happiness because of the size of your clothing, and how well your body fills material based on the number on the label.

And then it hit me. I've still got my 'one day' dress. 

It was 2012 and I was in a charity shop in Kingston, Milton Keynes. Jay found a suit jacket in his size and was really pleased; it was almost brand new and super cheap. I spotted a gorgeous cream dress with a floral pattern on it, and an adorable heart-shaped cut-out over the cleavage area. My eyes were drawn instantly and I needed to have it. Unfortunately, when I grabbed the tag, I saw 'size 18' slapping me across the face. "No matter", thought 21-year-old Sophie. "I'll fit into it one day".

A screenshot from my instagram in 2012. Seeing my own words, and my own insecurities thrown out there for all to see in an attempt at justifying my own body, makes me so sad. Why shouldn't I have "rewarded" myself for the beautiful body I was in, instead of punishing it? My body is capable of brilliant things: in fact, at that very moment there were cells dividing without my knowledge, beginning the wonderful adventure that I now call Moo.

Because that's what I did. I dieted, I got depressed, I binged, I put on weight, I got depressed, and then the cycle began again. But each time was the last time. Every time, I started with a heart full of hope because all of my problems would go away if there was less weight on my body. How could I be sad when I was confident? Who could help but respect me if my stomach was flat? What would I have to worry about if I was fit and healthy? I could go shopping with friends and family without spiralling into depression because all of my attention was focussed on how nothing would fit me. In my mind, if my stomach didn't hang, I could conquer the world.

Anxiety doesn't work like that, and neither does depression. People don't work like that - they don't automatically decide somebody must be a bad person because they weigh more than them - and if they do, they're not people I want to know. I am happier and more confident than I've ever been; I have modelled for a plus size brand (and would be happy to do so again), I take more pride in my appearance than ever [unless I'm at  University. University would be lucky if I washed, let alone brushed my hair or even put some make-up on], I'm super happy to take outfit photos and promote my fat body in all its glory, and I have a solid group of friends who promote body positivity at any size. And so, just like that, I decided to get rid of the 'one day' dress.

I didn't make a fortune; it sold on eBay for about £1.50 plus postage. But it wasn't about the money I could gain, it was about my mental health. This was the last step in accepting that I am who I am and every body, at every size, deserves love and respect. And actually I would encourage anybody who is punishing themselves for being who they are to challenge their mindsets. If not now, then when? 

Navigating University With A Mental Illness.

I have often felt overwhelmed and just quit situations when they got too difficult in the interest of self-preservation, and part of me honestly figured that University would be the same. But I've worked really hard and I've changed a few things in order to make sure that I stay on top of everything and I keep my head and my heart in my studies. Here are some things you can do to make life in University easier when you have a mental illness.

1. Keep an open dialogue with your doctor and/or counsellor. He or she will be able to adjust medication accordingly, identify the things that make you struggle and recognise the difference between ordinary 'not coping' and 'not coping' because of your mental illness.

2. Work two weeks ahead. You don't necessarily have to do this, and actually I've had three assignments in quick succession this month so haven't been able to keep up to date with this, but I've found reading without a time pressure meant I was able to take a breath, read it slowly and even re-read it if I found something I was struggling with.

3. Maintain your system of organisation. In first year, my system was one notebook, rip the pages out and file them in the relevant folders once a week. Did I do that? Well, I still have most of my notes from the second half of the year laying around the house. This year I have one book per module and my weekly reading notes go in the back half of the book. That way, I only need to remember one item per module and everything is on hand.

4. Read fiction, too. Or other kinds of factual books, if that's your thing. Heck, even blogs! Things were not clicking last year and I was having a huge crisis of confidence, until I started reading some really easy-going fiction and I realised I was just overloading myself and my brain needed a break. 

5. Let your personal tutor know what is going on. I haven't gone into ins and outs with mine, but he knows I am on medication, he knows I signed up to University counselling (I didn't actually use it, only because local counselling became available) and he knows I stressed myself out so much that I ended up in A&E last December. Your personal tutor's job is to guide you through your studies, making sure you achieve the best grades that you can, so of course he or she is going to offer you tips for organising your time and lightening your own load. They are there to help, not to judge.

6. Utilise the resources your University has available for you. If your University offers mental health support, it'd be a shame not to take it. If you are struggling and need an extension on an assignment, don't put it off - things are easier if you speak up sooner rather than later. Join societies and study groups if you feel like you work better in a group, use the silent study areas if you want to work on your own. 

7. Lean on your friends and family. I have ranted away to family and friends at times, and I have been distracted at other times and it has just made approaching my work seem all the easier. If they understand your mental state, they will want to help you.

8. Pat yourself on the back for every achievement. Did you hand in an assignment that you found difficult? AWESOME! Did you achieve a 'pass' grade? Even better! At the start of first year it was the end of the world if I got a B, and now I just feel amazing when I hand something in or even speak up in a seminar. It's about singling out achievements and celebrating them instead of seeing them in the bigger picture and devaluing them.

Five Tips For Getting Over A Friend Break-Up

Source

Friend break-ups are a necessary part of life; we all grow in our own ways, and its unlikely that paths will continue to intertwine with every friend you've ever had. The happy friend break-up is natural and calm, a simple difference in direction, hopefully with a few coffee dates in the future to catch up and if not, hey, no hard feelings. But sometimes a friend break-up can seem exactly like a romantic break-up in that it is sudden, it is hurtful and your life will never be the same again.


Think of it as self-preservation
If you aren't going to be friends anymore, there is a very good reason: you and that friend were not good for each other. Sometimes the healthiest thing to do is decide to just stop fighting a losing battle, look after your own mental health and quit while you're still ahead. And it is totally okay to put your own needs first. You need to be your own number one.

 
Let yourself grieve
Grief happens when our lives will never be the same again, so it is totally okay to wallow when a relationship has ended - just because it wasn't romantic doesn't mean it didn't mean something to you. You can eat that huge tub of ice cream if you want! And it's okay to cry if that's what you need. Similarly, it's cool to just want to be angry and rant for a while. But when you're done, come back to this step. It's natural to feel sad, and it doesn't make you weird.

 
Surround yourself with positivity 
Whether that be other friends, your family, your pets, making headway at work, knuckling down and achieving something - anything - is absolutely the best way to pull yourself out of a funk. Use that negative energy and channel it into self-improvement. When you build the foundations of an amazing new mansion, you don't feel sad about the dirty little shack you left behind.

Source

Reflect on the experience 
What about this friendship didn't work? Should you have been more assertive? Were you too assertive? Be honest with yourself so you can be a better friend to others. Or just learn what to look out for and avoid in other people in the future.

 
Break-ups are not a competition 
You might need to be around your ex-friend a lot, due to mutual friends, working or going to school together or just happening to frequent the same places. Be strong. Just because the ex-friend looks confident and like your break-up hasn't stung them at all doesn't mean that is the truth. And if it is, I guess you made the right decision getting the hell out of there. Don't get drawn into bitchiness, "who is more over whom" competitions, fake niceties or, worse, a full blown argument. Keep a cool distance; you are not in eachother's lives for a reason, so continue to stay out of eachother's lives now. You don't need that kind of negativity creeping back in.

  
Other than that, just be you. I am a firm believer that everything happens for a reason. Your friend was in your life for a reason, and now there is a better reason that he or she isn't. Be a good person, be strong and make some bad-ass new pals. And if those ones don't last either, there are plenty more bad-asses in the sea. Look for the ones who give you strength and you will never go wrong.

Source

Mental Health: Caught Between a Rock and a Hard Place

This post is going to be in stark contrast to my last one, to the point that I'm really going back and forth about whether or not I should actually post it. I don't want to be a liar and I don't want to offend anybody. I don't want to trigger anybody. I don't want to open myself up for hatred from a) the body positive community and b) trolls. But I guess I'm human and I am allowed to feel things, and maybe this will represent the undulating nature of mental health. Just because something is okay on Monday, doesn't mean you won't hate it on Tuesday.

Here is something that is not a secret: I am fat. And I worked hard to reach a place in my life where I didn't feel an internal flinch when I made that bold statement. At the doctor today, my nurse took my blood pressure. It was high. She asked if she could then weigh me. Just an FYI, I was there for a smear test, so my weight really had nothing to do with why I was there. Just routine dignity invasion. I asked if I really had to, she said I'm afraid so, yes. Then she looked at the scales and said "oh gosh, you really have put on a lot of weight, haven't you?" [referring to the last time I was weighed at my GP, two years ago, at my postpartum check-up] ... She really was only trying to be kind I suppose, and she whispered "Obviously you know you're...." and I replied "fat" and laughed because laughing is how to make things not sting, dontcha know. And she said "right, so lets deal with it. How can I help?"

And honestly I was stumped. Because here's the thing. I've worked for so long to convince myself that its good to be me, exactly as I am. In the past I've had a tetchy relationship with food. I used to sneak food to bed and eat it in the middle of the night. Food has always been a reward to me. And when I feel bad about myself, food is a comfort. Even to the point that I have hidden empty wrappers, or gone to a shop to replace something so nobody knows its gone, as an adult. When I'm really down I eat an embarrassing amount and sometimes I don't even know I'm doing it until its done and Jay gets home and says "did you eat an entire multipack of Twixes?" and I think "shit, yeah, I must have done". So when I have dieted, one of three things has happened.

Scenario A: I achieve goals when I diet. Reward? Food. Just a little bit in secret to say well done. Addiction back. Can't stop. Time to start over.

Scenario B: I lose no weight. I fall into a pit of self-loathing. Comfort? Food.

Scenario C: By the second day the feeling of restriction is too much. I literally feel no point in living anymore, as dramatic as that sounds. I hide and cry. Depression plummets. I have no alternative but to go back to life exactly how it was. I talk myself into eating my old diet because it's better to be fat and happy than thin and depressed, right?

And so I tried to break this cycle by jumping into the world of body positivity. Wonderful bloggers, vloggers, models, writers, who had such beautiful things to say about bodies that looked just like mine. These ladies are sassy and they aren't afraid to show it, so why shouldn't I be happy to look like me? I honestly felt this way almost unfalteringly for months (High street clothes shops make me feel like utter shit because I am confronted with a million things I'd wear and 0% of it would even fit me) and I was on a pretty high cloud. Heck, I even figured I'd start swimming a couple of times a week so that I could eat the same, look the same, but just feel a little bit fitter. I got to the happiest I have felt about my body in my adult life (which happens to also be my heaviest) and I was proud of myself for breaking the cycle and approaching the situation in a mature, rational and stable way.

But then the doctor happened. "Let's deal with it. How can I help? I can help with getting you in to exercise, I can refer to you to a dietitian" and I interrupted because I felt drained just hearing the conversation begin. "I go swimming actually, I've just been there now, that's why my hair is wet" "Well done, that's an excellent start. What else can we do?"

What did I want to say? "I am scared to go to a dietitian because I think I am going to feel overwhelmed, controlled, restricted and my depression is going to get out of hand again. I am worried I'll get into a cycle of hiding and binge-eating.  I am scared to feel judged. The thought of even embarking on this journey exhausts me. I feel like everything I say sounds corny, or like an excuse, and I'll never be taken seriously or understood. I don't feel mentally strong enough to deal with this right now."

What did I say? "Not sure really. I'm just... Swimming."

"Right. Well I leave that with you", she said with a smile. She didn't pressure me or make me feel guilty. We changed the subject, I left feeling fine. But the more I reflect on things the more I wonder what I am supposed to do. Mental health vs physical health, I suppose. Can I even achieve one without the other?

I'm screwed.

Mental Health Awareness Week 2015

The 11th to the 17th of May 2015 is Mental Health Awareness week, and I thought I'd pop a little something up because it's close to my heart and because I think we all need to be a little bit more aware of eachother in general.

Did you know that 1 in 4 people in the UK will experience some form of mental health problem in the course of a year?

Did you know that 10% of children in the UK suffer with a mental health problem?

Did you know that British men are three times more likely to commit suicide than British women?

Did you know that women are more likely to receive treatment for a mental health problem than men? This point and the last combined suggest to me that women are more open to seeking help with a mental health problem and that men statistically will keep their problems to themselves until they become too hard to handle.

Did you know that 9 out of every 10 people with a mental health problem in this country feel that they experience some form of stigma or discrimination? 

Did you know that three out of every four young people with a mental health problem are too afraid to confide in their friends? 

These are just a few statistics that I've found from a quick Google search, but already it is clear that mental health problems can affect any of us, at any time, and that it is 2015 and mental health problems are still a taboo subject despite the fact that they are normal, we are normal, and we are all so much more than our serotonin and dopamine levels. So let's talk.

Hi. I'm Fee. I'm a Mum and a fiancée and a mature student. I'm funny, I'm kind, I'm clever and I'm loving. I like long bike rides, picnics, curling up with a good book and watching romantic comedies over a takeaway with some good friends. And I am on daily medication to help me with my depression and anxiety. 

How about you?

If you are concerned about your mental health or the mental health of somebody close to you, there are some great websites full of information and advice here and here. Speaking to your GP could change, or even save, your life. If I can do it, you can do it. It's time to talk.

Jelly's Sharing Assembly

Yesterday I spoke about Jelly's past with childhood anxiety, and I just wanted to follow up on that a little bit.

After writing yesterday's post, I went to Jelly's school, and watched her take part in a sharing assembly, which was all about Egyptians. Not only take part, but confidently sing, dance and deliver lines with ease. After the assembly, we had the opportunity to chat to her, tell her how well she'd done and have a look at the Egyptian costume she'd made. She was grinning, mocking her friend (who was acting shy!), jumping up and down and then cuddled us all and said she'd better get back to class. And then she was gone.

Now, this sounds like nothing. But looking back a year, this is a huge deal. In her Christmas play at her old school, she requested a non-speaking part as the idea of speaking in front of anybody caused her to panic. Yesterday, she spoke loudly and clearly and lead others to their lines. Last year, she wasn't sure if she could handle us being there as the idea of saying goodbye to us all over again caused her extreme anxiety. Yesterday, she gave us a quick hug and off she went. These things are huge and should be celebrated. She should feel so proud of herself. I can't believe the difference one year and a good school makes.

Well done, little Egyptian! 

Childhood Anxiety: Our Experience.

As I look over my laptop I see a happy child. She is smiling and giggling. She's being loud and obnoxious and in your face. She is just like every other eight year old girl, and that is all we ever wanted.

Looking at the title, I'm sure you can guess that things haven't always been this way. I entered Jelly's life at the age of 3, and I already commented then that things were a little bit off; I'd be on the phone to Jay and he'd say "sorry I took so long, I was trying to put [Jelly] to bed and she was in hysterics because [whatever item] wasn't in the right place". I've had experience with OCD and this was my first worry, and I remember telling him straight away to just be careful 'justifying' the anxiety she was feeling by having things exactly where she wants them.

Her life at nursery had been fine up until then, but not long after this she began being upset at having to go in. To this day she can't hear the Postman Pat theme tune because it fills her with dread; when she was that age, the beginning of Postman Pat meant it was time to go to nursery. She would repeatedly ask her parents where they'd be while she was in there. Would they promise not to leave? Would they wait outside for her until she was finished? Where exactly would they be, who would they talk to, what would they buy? Question, question, question. To lose control of the situation was to feel that her parents didn't care about her anymore. She couldn't bear to be forgotten.

She moved on through the year and ended it on a high: she loved school, had a blast going in. We all had high hopes. She enjoyed most of her year in Foundation with a few minor normal separation anxiety episodes, and was looking forward to Year 1. And then right at the end of the summer holidays, her Nan died. This was the first person to have died in Jelly's life and of course she took it incredibly hard. Jay and I had taken her to the park for the day while her Nan was in hospital, actually, and Jelly had asked us if her Nan was going to die: we said of course not, because we didn't think she would. And that meant she learned the secret no child should ever learn: parents do not know everything. You can't always rely on them to be right.

A month or so after her Nan's death, she had been back in school for a few weeks, and she began to cry. "What's wrong?" Miss Sick-of-it-all (as we called her at the time - a fun play on her name, but I won't name and shame the witch on here. I'll call her Miss Sick for now.) asked her. "I'm upset because I miss Nanny", she said. "Hasn't that been about a month now? It's time to start getting over it." replied Miss Sick. Jelly was distraught: she hadn't realised there was a time limit on her grief (which there isn't), she didn't trust us when we told her it was okay if she felt sad at school, and she began to obsess over not being able to control her emotions while she was there, and if she would get into trouble if she accidentally cried.

The school itself is an establishment which had excellent results with Ofsted (at the time, it lowered last year) and was very focussed on good grades. However, this comes at a price. The school is regimented, detached and unemotional. Some children excel at sports or academics: these children do well at regimented schools. Jelly excels at art. She does not excel in a regimented school. This sort of regimentation made her vomit some mornings or nights, checking her bag again and again, working herself into a panic, shouting at us from bed that she was sure she MUST have forgotten something that would get her a telling off the next day.

Once, she put her hand up and asked for help. She was told they were disappointed in her for not grasping what they'd said. She was then terrified to put her hand up again, so fell behind when she didn't understand. Once, she couldn't finish her lunch. She was forced to eat. This made her terrified of lunchtimes, because she felt humiliated and sick. She was scared of the time in class and scared of the breaks. She told us that all she wanted was for a teacher to cuddle her if she was upset - we knew this didn't need to be literal (although that would help), it's that she wanted to feel that the school had compassion and could tell her that it was okay to be upset. But it wasn't, in their eyes. They repeatedly told her to grow up, get a grip. Every time we complained the school apologised, told us this wasn't quite what was happening and that they'd make an effort to 'accommodate for [Jelly]'s oversensitivity'. Which they'd do for a week before telling her to grow up and get over it all over again, because they couldn't give her special treatment.

Year Three was the worst. On top of the strict teachers, a new girl moved to the school, who was a bully. In previous years she would leave school smiling, happy to have completed another day. In Y3 she would leave school crying because she knew she had to be back tomorrow. Towards the end she would even cry on Fridays because she was so scared about Mondays. Sunday nights were full of the worst fits of anxiety. I'm not ashamed to say that every Sunday night left the parents in tears too; towards the end she was having anxiety attacks and began to verbally lash out at us, which is so out of her character. She's the sweetest and most polite girl I know usually. We literally pushed her into school in the morning, as she screamed and grabbed at us, while the teacher grabbed her arm and pulled her inside the doors. She obsessed over 'wave at the window' - she'd run to the nearest window and watch us leave. God forbid we ever forgot (which we sometimes did if we were in a rush) to wave. She started to do this at home when she was dropped off at each parent's houses too, letting her school anxiety leak in to home life. She stopped eating evening meals; her anxiety made her lose her appetite. She would be up until around 11pm in hysterics. Eventually we just couldn't help her anymore: it didn't matter if we told her it'd be okay or not, she didn't believe us. We'd close the door and let her scream and throw herself around. We had to have Moo sleeping in a travel cot with us because her crying at night disturbed him and if he cried in the night and woke her it'd make her worse in the mornings. It was particularly whenever there was a special event, like a school play or an assembly: instead of being happy to spend extra time with us, she spent the time leading up to the event obsessing over the moment we'd leave and she'd have to say goodbye twice in a day. In her last week at the school, she took part in a Sport Relief event. She left school crying a week before it because she already couldn't take her mind off the moment we'd be leaving. We told her we wouldn't go and it made it all the worse for her. She was torn between saying goodbye twice and being the only child not to have her parents there. We knew that something was wrong, but didn't know if it was because of the school or because of who she was. Obviously she was overly sensitive but we didn't know how much of it was down to a terrible experience at a school that wasn't right for her. What we did know was that the school refused to address the bullying (we were repeatedly told Jelly was mistaken and that no bullying went on at their establishment and that the bully in question is actually a very shy and polite girl who everybody gets along with - perhaps she just FEELS bullied because of how incredibly sensitive she is. 'We know how she makes mountains out of molehills'.) and they were fed up of having to deal with the way she was. They also pulled her into the office and asked her why she THINKS she's being bullied, then interrogated her about her home life. "Do your parents fight a lot?" "Does your Dad get very angry?" "Is your Step Mum not very nice to you?" etc - anything to pin the blame. At parents evening her teacher suggested she was probably acting up for attention because we were paying more attention to Moo. We shot down that theory pretty quickly. We spent months talking to her doctor about it and we all agreed our action plan: we would look for a new school for her. It didn't work for our family schedule to homeschool as a long-term solution and we felt that the structure and sociability was impotrant for improving her anxiety, so we needed to find a school that would suit her needs. If the problems continued once we found the ideal school, the issue was with her and we would deal with that.

We met a bit of resistance when removing her from school, purely because the head teacher had to sign a form agreeing that it'd be in the best interests of the child to leave. We had cited our reasons as harsh teaching methods, inability to cope with emotional demands and refusal to resolve issues of bullying, as well as stating that she had anxiety issues, we felt there was damage that couldn't be undone and that she would always associate this school with anxiety. To sign the form, the head teacher had to agree to these things - which she obviously didn't want to do. But she did sign it. In her comments she basically said that our reasons were wrong but if we felt Jelly would do better somewhere else, that was our choice to make. I honestly think she was happy to be rid of the child who took a lot of work and the parents who were always complaining about the school! We took her out of school a month before the Easter holidays and home educated her for a while. She got more done in that month than she had in the last year, working one-on-one with us through textbooks we'd bought and we encouraged her to be independent in her research; for example we took her to a wooded area, had her list all the species she saw, then had her choose three, research them online and create a wildlife poster. She gained confidence when she realised she COULD do things, she'd just never had the chance. We took her to view schools with us because, ultimately, the choice of new school had to be with her. She chose the first school we saw. We made her see a second just to be sure but the second school only reinforced her decision.

Her new school is a local combined school, a 30 minute walk from her home with us, dedicated to supporting communities as well as positive learning. They have 'mentors' in place for children with emotional difficulties, which is what really lead her to choosing this school. Her last school had 800 pupils, this one has just over 200. The children are able to have the attention they need, and her learning and confidence have come in leaps and bounds. The teachers are wonderful, they all know all of the children's names (impossible in her huge old school) and make them feel special. Occasionally she will have a bout of anxiety - the first day of term, or if a teacher has scheduled absence and a substitute that she doesn't know comes in. But generally she is happy, is excited to get back to school, has a solid group of friends... Generally she is thriving.

The point in blogging this is two-fold. First, I am so so proud of her (and the three of us who, it has now become apparent, made the right parenting choices to get her out of this trap) for how she has come along and I want to brag about it on her behalf! She will always be a sensitive and anxious child, but we now know how to identify when something is becoming too much for her and she has learned techniques to deal with her anxiety. I'm willing to share these on the blog for anybody who needs them. And secondly, if you have read any of this and nodded along, this blog is for you. When she was going through this tough time, I scoured the blogosphere for inspiration and found nothing. I tweeted, I posted on forums - there is so much support out there for children with learning difficulties or gender confusion but almost nothing for children with mental health issues (and the help that IS there is only because it overlaps with the former). It was like a black hole in the internet, yet I know that so many parents are watching their children go through similar things.

My advice to you, if you are reading this and finally feeling like somebody knows what you're talking about, is to have open communication between parents, and then also with your child. Stability and dependability are what your child needs. If something is all consuming and CAN be changed, change it. I do not support running away from your problems, but moving Jelly to a different school has given her the chance to learn that school can be fun and that she deserves the chance to thrive. We realised that Jelly only had one childhood, and we had to decide between letting her torment herself for the sake of teaching her to face problems head on, or move her once, give her a chance at a 'normal' childhood and if that doesn't work we take her to therapy. And maybe one day we will still get her therapy: she still has control issues and she still lapses sometimes, but now it feels like she's on a level playing 
field and we can guide her like every other child.

We're proud of how far you've come, Jellybean xx