Happy Thursday, everyone!
Today Jay and I went to give our notice of marriage. Of course, we only brought Jay's driving license and not a birth certificate, so he's had to schedule an appointment to complete his notice next week, but I am all legally ready to get married! The nerves set in a little bit today when I thought about just how much I would have to say in front of people, but hey. It's all good!
We've had a pretty rough couple of days. The car failed its MOT and was going to cost £250 to fix, so after scraping the money together to get the necessary things done they discovered our head gasket had all but gone and threw another £700 on top of the bill. Needless to say, the car wasn't worth fixing. We're looking at cars now, and have been so so lucky as my Mum and Step Dad have let us borrow enough money to buy a better car than we normally buy and break the cycle of spending £500 every summer on a car that has no life left in it. Thanks, guys! We've got our hearts set on a couple of seven-seaters with roofbars so we're good to go for car boot sales in the area. Wish us luck!
Our summers have both been spent looking for work, too. Jay was pretty jammy this week, being offered four interviews - one of which he only popped in to hand in a CV and they ended up taking him into the office there and then (while I waited in the car wondering what the hell was going on for an hour!) and offering him the job on the spot. It's a delivery job so he can't start until we have a car, which is why we were so gutted when it was declared as good as dead, but luckily they're really keen for him to start there as he gelled so well with the staff and they're happy to wait for him! So lucky! And while my search got me nowhere except pretty down with myself, the website I currently work for are starting up a new section and are offering summer jobs which pay more per hour than I'm actually on for my regular job. So I've put my name down for 20 hours a week - so we've both achieved our summer goals of part-time jobs!
Everything's coming up fee-house.
Thursday, 25 June 2015
Thursday, 11 June 2015
Talk Me Through It: Smear Test
***WARNING, THIS POST CONTAINS TMI***
My anxiety is often centred on different situations, and by that I mean that I will focus on playing scenarios out in my head when I don't know how they're going to go. If I don't know the exact route to a job interview I'll play over every situation in my head to the point of obsession, maybe just as a way of being one step ahead of every disaster so feeling in control. So I've decided to start a little blog project called 'talk me through it', for anybody else who feels the same way that I do. Even if you don't suffer from an anxiety disorder, we all feel anxious sometimes and it can be really helpful to feel like you know what you're up against before you enter battle. Or whatever you're entering.
Today my topic is smear tests. This smear test (or cervical screening test) was my first one, though I'm no stranger to having medical professionals looking at my bits - in my pregnancy I had a vaginal scan and a stretch and sweep, as well as all of the other lovely things that happen pre and post baby. And the actual giving birth part, which didn't end up being vaginal, but did end up with lots of fingers and utensils being put inside me before the decision was made to get me off to theatre. I feel I am not saying soothing things right now.
A smear test is nothing like that. See, I can be soothing. I entered the room and had a short chat with a nurse about what kinds of things the smear test looks for, but I already knew most of what she said as I'd looked it up online, and asked about periods etc. Against the wall was a bed, with blue roll all down it and one extra sheet placed on top. There were curtains around the bed. The nurse asked me to take my bottoms off, lay on the table and cover my modesty with the spare piece of blue roll when I was ready. While I was doing that, she prepared her medical equipment, then asked if it was okay to open the curtain.
The procedure itself is short and painless. She asked me to pull my feet as close to my bottom as I could, then let my knees fall apart. She lubricated me then inserted a speculum, explaining to me exactly what she was doing as she did it. As I am plus size, she had a bit of trouble seeing my cervix so she removed the speculum and used a larger one, while asking me to put my hands under my bottom so I tilted my cervix up slightly. This may or may not happen to you depending on your size and shape, but it is nothing unusual or to get worked up about. The larger speculum doesn't hurt more, but you can feel it more. Honestly I was more worried I'd fart while she was down there than I was about her actually being there!
Once the speculum is in and she can see your cervix, a small brush that kind of looks like a mascara wand (I didn't see it, I looked it up online) goes inside and sweeps your cervix, collecting cells which will be sent to the lab. Again, this doesn't hurt, but you could feel it. It felt like the pressure you get when you need to pee, in a way. Then she was finished. She gave me tissue to wipe the lubricant away and told me where to dispose of it when I was finished, and then she left me in privacy to clean myself up and get dressed. Afterwards, she explained that you may experience light spotting/bleeding and said that the results will come in letter form from your hospital, not GP, in the next 2-3 weeks. Importantly, she said I will receive a letter whether there is a problem or not - this saves me panicking when I receive a letter, or panicking when I don't that they have forgotten about me and there is an actual problem.
Here are the things people commonly worry about when thinking about a smear test:
Exposing yourself. No offence, but it's nothing special, it's just a fanny. She's seen probably thousands, depending on how long she's been in her job, and she won't remember yours. We've all got them and being secretive about yours isn't worth potentially risking your life. Unfortunately, exposing yourself to doctors is part of growing up for both genders, from smear tests to childbirth to prostate examinations and everything in between. It's just something you have to do to stay healthy.
Pain. Like I said, it doesn't hurt. You can definitely feel that something is happening but at no stage did I wince or anything like that and I'm a huge pansy.
Awkwardness. YEP! It's hella awkward. But it's her job, she's going to be professional, it's literally five minutes out of your day. Don't feel the need to chitchat or anything, she wants you done and out of there as much as you do. Just do as you're told, get it done and move along. And like I said the most awkward thing to me was the fear that I would fart and you know what? I bet she's had that happen a million times too.
Period. If you are on your period, don't go! The NHS advises that the middle of your cycle is the optimum time to go. That way you won't be worried about whether or not you're going to start your period in the lead up to the event. And if you do start, just ring up and reschedule. NHS resources are stretched enough, and people not showing up instead of cancelling their appointment (so it can be offered to someone else) puts a further strain on things. They will be happy to reschedule to accommodate you, the nurses aren't going anywhere.
I think that's it! Sorry for way way way too much information but I figure it's better to be open and honest so that if you're worried you're not getting the full story, you can read this blog and know exactly how it happens. I hope this puts at least one woman's mind at ease. And please don't ever put off a smear test because you're scared of any of the things mentioned above, or especially if it's because you're scared of the outcome. A five minute smear test could save your life.
Wednesday, 10 June 2015
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.
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.
Sunday, 31 May 2015
Finding Big, Beautiful Happiness
I'd say I have always been big, but that would be a lie. I haven't always been big; I remember comfortably pulling on a size 6 vest top, hip bones sticking out the bottom, walking out in public and being told repeatedly how fat I was. I wasn't always fat, but I was always unpopular (and ginger), and I suppose calling people fat is the easiest thing to do.
I've grown up in a world that tells me that everything about me is wrong, and I suppose after the reception I got for the last post I did, it felt like the right time to address that. Body positivity isn't a golden-ticket opportunity: it should be a human right. It should be normal for every man, woman and child to live their lives without having to worry about what everybody thinks about the amount of skin they have on their bodies, or the amount of hair, or how smooth or dark or wobbly or angular various parts of their anatomy appear to be.
In secondary school, I was tormented because I was fat, and actually I was a size 14 when I left at age 16. I was punched, I had clothes cut up when I was swimming, I had coins thrown at me (and then shoes when people realised I was collecting the money!), I had mean things written about me and I rarely made it from class to class without at least one push or negative comment. About the ratio of flesh to bone on my body. How ridiculous is that?
I got my first stretch mark when I was probably about 16, too. I was showering at a friend's house and I saw one on my stomach as I stepped over the edge of the bath and caught sight of myself in the mirror. Oh god how I cried. The next year I went to college to study acting (left after three months, wasn't my thing) and in the changing rooms it became clear that even the smallest of girls had stretch marks because, guess what? People grow up and out and in all directions, and stretch marks are a normal part of most peoples' bodies.
The two things that changed how I felt about my body, ultimately, were the blogging world and having children. Lady after lady sets up a blog, shows how amazing her rolls can look in all their glory wearing easily accessible and affordable clothes and oh my god, suddenly I'm normal. And then there are the experiences I have with my children and my groom-to-be. Is our laughter dampened because I'm fat? Do they love me any less? Does our picnic taste less great because I was fat when I ate it? Did that game we play suffer because I'm above a size 20? Do they miss out? No. Are they happy? Yes. So, when all is said and does, what the fuck does it matter if I'm fat? It's not about changing who you are, it's about learning to love it and flaunt it and make the most of it in all its of its glory.
I mean, really, since when are humans valued on the amount of skin on their bodies?
The bride is still happily married, despite her friend wearing a size 24 dress.
I've grown up in a world that tells me that everything about me is wrong, and I suppose after the reception I got for the last post I did, it felt like the right time to address that. Body positivity isn't a golden-ticket opportunity: it should be a human right. It should be normal for every man, woman and child to live their lives without having to worry about what everybody thinks about the amount of skin they have on their bodies, or the amount of hair, or how smooth or dark or wobbly or angular various parts of their anatomy appear to be.
In secondary school, I was tormented because I was fat, and actually I was a size 14 when I left at age 16. I was punched, I had clothes cut up when I was swimming, I had coins thrown at me (and then shoes when people realised I was collecting the money!), I had mean things written about me and I rarely made it from class to class without at least one push or negative comment. About the ratio of flesh to bone on my body. How ridiculous is that?
We loved Wicked, even if my butt did touch both sides of the chair.
I got my first stretch mark when I was probably about 16, too. I was showering at a friend's house and I saw one on my stomach as I stepped over the edge of the bath and caught sight of myself in the mirror. Oh god how I cried. The next year I went to college to study acting (left after three months, wasn't my thing) and in the changing rooms it became clear that even the smallest of girls had stretch marks because, guess what? People grow up and out and in all directions, and stretch marks are a normal part of most peoples' bodies.
The two things that changed how I felt about my body, ultimately, were the blogging world and having children. Lady after lady sets up a blog, shows how amazing her rolls can look in all their glory wearing easily accessible and affordable clothes and oh my god, suddenly I'm normal. And then there are the experiences I have with my children and my groom-to-be. Is our laughter dampened because I'm fat? Do they love me any less? Does our picnic taste less great because I was fat when I ate it? Did that game we play suffer because I'm above a size 20? Do they miss out? No. Are they happy? Yes. So, when all is said and does, what the fuck does it matter if I'm fat? It's not about changing who you are, it's about learning to love it and flaunt it and make the most of it in all its of its glory.
My kids love their mama's squishy rolls, because there's more to cuddle up to!
I mean, really, since when are humans valued on the amount of skin on their bodies?
Friday, 29 May 2015
Thanks for the Fat Shaming.
We didn't know what to do for lunch today. We needed to grab bits and bobs for dinner, we had a few hours before it was time to pick Mooster and Jellybean up, we figured we'd kill two birds with one stone and have lunch in a supermarket cafe. Breakfasts at Morrisons are usually dee-lish, and we've enjoyed their 'kids eat free on school nights' promotion before, so why not give the lunch a try?
Neither of us got our first choices for lunch, or even our second choices. After a few attempts to order, the lady at the cashier exasperatedly read out a list of all the things they were no longer serving that day. I decided on hunter chicken, which is a chicken breast covered with BBQ sauce and bacon, and Jay had a portion of lasagne. It came with chips, but my partner and I each wanted a portion of 'loaded chips' (chips with a fancy topping) - I wanted pulled pork and cheese, he wanted chilli and cheese. She explained that she couldn't exchange the chips for the loaded chips, I said that was fine, I was happy to pay extra. "Would you like any onion rings with it?" "Oh go on then, why not?"
So then our food arrived. A woman (who had not served us previously, so I don't know her name) brought over a hunter chicken, a lasagne, a portion of onion rings and, for some reason, two BOWLS of cheese. I assume it's because we asked for cheese sprinkled on the chilli & pulled pork and they misunderstood. Another waitress walked past her carrying extra plates and said "have you got everything for that table?" and ours replied "I would imagine so. There's a load of food here." - sting one. Jay had gone to fill my empty glass at this point, so it was just me. "Have you got everything?" "Almost, we're just waiting on two portions of loaded fries" I replied with a smile. I worked in customer service for a decade, so I always make an effort to be extra nice to service staff. "Oh." she said, glaring at me. "Decided to be greedy today, did we?" and stomped off.
The previous waitress with the extra plates walked back the other way, and our waitress said the extra plates were "for the fat ones over there, they've decided to be greedy and order a load of food". I was in the middle of explaining to Jay what she had said, when I overheard the second comment and said "she is literally slagging us off right now". He turned to look at our waitress who stomped back to the kitchen, and the other waitress threw our extra plates down and walked off without a word.
Now, there are a few things I need to point out here. Firstly, this is not a typical representation of Morrisons staff: we have had breakfast there often and the morning shift are a delight. Kind, chatty, I've actually gone out of my way to contact Morrisons with compliments about the morning staff before. Also, I don't know if the waitress who made the comments had some sort of learning difficulty etc - but similarly, the staff at Morrisons don't know if I have body issues, any sort of eating disorder, they don't know anything about me. I might have been going in for an operation so having one big meal before going 24 hours without eating. I might have been homeless and having my only meal of the day. And, actually, none of that matters because I was a paying customer and it was my own damn business how much I decided to eat.
And if anybody is interested, I ate one chicken breast, a couple of onion rings because I can't stand the taste of burned food and the pulled pork off the top of one portion of chips because the chips were rank. What a greedy bitch, right? And would it be any of Morrisons' business if I was?
Neither of us got our first choices for lunch, or even our second choices. After a few attempts to order, the lady at the cashier exasperatedly read out a list of all the things they were no longer serving that day. I decided on hunter chicken, which is a chicken breast covered with BBQ sauce and bacon, and Jay had a portion of lasagne. It came with chips, but my partner and I each wanted a portion of 'loaded chips' (chips with a fancy topping) - I wanted pulled pork and cheese, he wanted chilli and cheese. She explained that she couldn't exchange the chips for the loaded chips, I said that was fine, I was happy to pay extra. "Would you like any onion rings with it?" "Oh go on then, why not?"
So then our food arrived. A woman (who had not served us previously, so I don't know her name) brought over a hunter chicken, a lasagne, a portion of onion rings and, for some reason, two BOWLS of cheese. I assume it's because we asked for cheese sprinkled on the chilli & pulled pork and they misunderstood. Another waitress walked past her carrying extra plates and said "have you got everything for that table?" and ours replied "I would imagine so. There's a load of food here." - sting one. Jay had gone to fill my empty glass at this point, so it was just me. "Have you got everything?" "Almost, we're just waiting on two portions of loaded fries" I replied with a smile. I worked in customer service for a decade, so I always make an effort to be extra nice to service staff. "Oh." she said, glaring at me. "Decided to be greedy today, did we?" and stomped off.
The previous waitress with the extra plates walked back the other way, and our waitress said the extra plates were "for the fat ones over there, they've decided to be greedy and order a load of food". I was in the middle of explaining to Jay what she had said, when I overheard the second comment and said "she is literally slagging us off right now". He turned to look at our waitress who stomped back to the kitchen, and the other waitress threw our extra plates down and walked off without a word.
Now, there are a few things I need to point out here. Firstly, this is not a typical representation of Morrisons staff: we have had breakfast there often and the morning shift are a delight. Kind, chatty, I've actually gone out of my way to contact Morrisons with compliments about the morning staff before. Also, I don't know if the waitress who made the comments had some sort of learning difficulty etc - but similarly, the staff at Morrisons don't know if I have body issues, any sort of eating disorder, they don't know anything about me. I might have been going in for an operation so having one big meal before going 24 hours without eating. I might have been homeless and having my only meal of the day. And, actually, none of that matters because I was a paying customer and it was my own damn business how much I decided to eat.
And if anybody is interested, I ate one chicken breast, a couple of onion rings because I can't stand the taste of burned food and the pulled pork off the top of one portion of chips because the chips were rank. What a greedy bitch, right? And would it be any of Morrisons' business if I was?
What I didn't eat of my 'tonne of food'. Thanks, Morrisons!
For anybody interested, I contacted Morrisons to complain and they said they are sorry.
Wednesday, 27 May 2015
Wedding Wednesday: TWO Wedding Days?!
Somewhere along the line, between booking our perfect reception venue and checking we had all of the right ID documentation to do the actual getting married thing, somebody booked August the 8th at our local registry office.
I shouldn't have been surprised; I'm aware of at least three other brides who are sharing my day, and local brokels (I went for local brides and local yokels there because I'm CLEVER) probably chose the date for the same reasons I did. It's a weekend. It's the school holidays in both England and Scotland. It's 08/08 which is nice and neat. August is a popular wedding month. I get it, I get it, and I shouldn't have left it so late to get this stuff finalised. So, this morning, I spoke to my local superintendent registrar and she informed me that the 8th of August was all booked up, sounding pained and uncomfortable as I'd just revealed that I'd already booked my reception.
"Oh, that's okay" I said. Easy, breezy, beautiful. "My reception isn't like a proper reception. It's just like people getting together to celebrate. It doesn't need to be on the same day. Just, like, some time within the next week or something would be cool!" I surprised myself with the ease at which I said these words. Not as much as madame registrar, who sounded very confused, spluttered a little bit then said "is the 7th okay?"
And here's why it is:
A year ago, the very idea of this situation arising would have filled me with panic. But as this wedding lark has gone on, I've come to appreciate the singularity of it all. I'll never be engaged again. We'll never get married again. We'd never have had a wedding day again but, guess what? Now we've got two. And we've got two whole days to soak up the happy. :)
I shouldn't have been surprised; I'm aware of at least three other brides who are sharing my day, and local brokels (I went for local brides and local yokels there because I'm CLEVER) probably chose the date for the same reasons I did. It's a weekend. It's the school holidays in both England and Scotland. It's 08/08 which is nice and neat. August is a popular wedding month. I get it, I get it, and I shouldn't have left it so late to get this stuff finalised. So, this morning, I spoke to my local superintendent registrar and she informed me that the 8th of August was all booked up, sounding pained and uncomfortable as I'd just revealed that I'd already booked my reception.
"Oh, that's okay" I said. Easy, breezy, beautiful. "My reception isn't like a proper reception. It's just like people getting together to celebrate. It doesn't need to be on the same day. Just, like, some time within the next week or something would be cool!" I surprised myself with the ease at which I said these words. Not as much as madame registrar, who sounded very confused, spluttered a little bit then said "is the 7th okay?"
And here's why it is:
- We get to enjoy not one, but two wedding days. It's a wedding weekend, y'all!
- We have now cut our special day in half. Meaning, the busy morning and the busy afternoon are separated. Meaning, we have time to process and the stress level has just been slashed.
- We have a moment to step back and take in all of the best moments, instead of getting caught up running from place to place to make things on time.
- Our reception is a 'blessing ceremony' anyway. I'm not even wearing my dress to get legally wed so, really, the wedding day that everybody is going to see (only immediate family invited to the legal bit) is our proper special day that we wanted to share with anyone.
A year ago, the very idea of this situation arising would have filled me with panic. But as this wedding lark has gone on, I've come to appreciate the singularity of it all. I'll never be engaged again. We'll never get married again. We'd never have had a wedding day again but, guess what? Now we've got two. And we've got two whole days to soak up the happy. :)
Monday, 11 May 2015
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.
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?
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