Return of the Blogger

My second blogger birthday seemingly passed me by this year (21st October). I suppose it's fair that I won't be celebrating, I feel that I've neglected the blog and people deserve to know why. I never expected to look forward to baring my soul on the internet, it's entirely the opposite of the safe internet practices we were told about when we were younger. I've only ever done it because I believed and still believe, that my words and experiences can help people. In the past two years I have been told that friends of friends have benefited from me sharing my mental health journey.

The truth is that I've been majorly struggling in recent months. In July I had a breast reduction, something which I have been longing for since I was 16 years old. Since the days of being bullied, I have struggled with low confidence and self esteem, particularly when it comes to my body. I piled on a lot of weight in a short space of time and...poof or rather KAPOW big bazoomas on my chest, all of the cake had fallen through my mouth and directly onto the cake shelf that is my clevage. I was ecstatic that 2016 was going to finally be the year that I'd make the change, that I'd finally have breasts that would be in proportion with the rest of my body. Although the operation was going to massively impact and improve my body confidence, I knew that it wasn't going to resolve all of my problems. I was even prepared for the post-op period of not being able to do much, of being in pain, being unable to have a comfortable night's sleep and being unable to exercise after consistently working out regularly for a few months prior to surgery. I had the slump, a major low period and over a month of insomnia.

We then went off on a holiday of a lifetime in September. Of course I was anxious about navigating through the airport and getting through the long haul flight. Even if I'm being jetted off to paradise I'll still want to launch myself at the emergency exits because I hate being confined and unable to escape. I had a fantastic time when I got there, for the most part anyway. The bright sunlight, the warmth on my skin, being consumed by two books (non-fiction still), swimming amongst fish of all colours and sizes and doing all whilst comfortably wearing a bikini brought me a great deal of joy.

Unfortunately when you check your bags in and hop aboard a plane you can't leave depression behind. There were some days when I resented how bright the sun was, I felt exposed and uncomfortable. I had bad stomach reactions to the drinking water, was often left feeling downbeat due to poor vegetarian options and generally felt anxious at all mealtimes and social occasions. I felt that I ought to be having a great time, that this was the break I needed and that my gratitude should be beaming from my every pore. Yet, I found myself punishing myself almost every evening. Old habits, an old illness broke thorugh the surface. I was purging all of the bad feelings and resentments I had. It wasn't the first time that I've had bullimia and unfortunately it wasn't the last. I've had a terrible relationship with my body, diets and eating disorders since I was 16. I'm hoping that this will be the year when I learn to love the body I have, or at least be a little kiner towards it.

There was a really bad night that I can't even go into right now. Even before all of this I had been considering that I needed to be put on an increased dose of anti-depressants. I'd had multiple breakdowns before and after the holiday and had generally been feeling empty for a long time. It might sound like the basis of depression anyway, but I knew it was getting worse. It was agreed that increasing the meds was the best way to go. However, due to mess ups with my prescription multiple times it was a couple of months before I was consistently on my new doseage. I knew it wasn't the only change I needed. I decided to enforce a schedule for my week: 3 days of working on my book and filming videos and the remainder of the week would be devoted to household chores and attempting to take care of myself. I'm still not sure whether things will work out, whether I'll start to feel happy or even content ever again. Even when I've achieved something like filming and editing two videos or tackling a load of laundry, I fail to feel good about it. People might praise me when I can't do it myself and I come up with an argument for why I don't deserve their praise. I know I can't just win at life without buying a ticket. I have to enter the prize draw, I have to back my own horse and accept the result I get and aim to improve on it or maintain my winning odds.

I'm hopeful that I will return to blogging more often. It might take me a while as I attempt to balance all of the other plates in my life. My plates might not be loaded with immense culinary dishes and I might have signifcantly lighter dishes than others, but to me it's a hardship and I need time to work on my balancing act and feel OK with the way my life is panning out.

I hope you're all well, happy or simply working on keeping your own plates spinning in the air right now.

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Breast Intentions

During my recent working vacation I had some breakthroughs. Most notably with my GP, if you follow this blog you may remember me referring to a particularly brutal doctor in the past. After inducing a breakdown, being too anxious to attend appointments and generally feeling beaten down by their words, I decided enough was enough. I either had to cease treatment with this doctor and find another one, something which I was reluctant to do, or address this doctor's shortcomings and failures in dealing with me. Despite talking about my mental health more than ever before, it's still very difficult for me to discuss my problems with GPs. I've been through a few doctors now, I understand that some people struggle to talk about mental health and that they might not understand it or may even dismiss depression as an illness all together. Is it so wrong to expect that your GP would be sympathetic and understanding of mental illness? I don't think so. Perhaps it's an area that's skimmed over but covered enough so they have a general understanding of mental illnesses. Either explanation is still unacceptable. 

I decided to face the problem head on, albeit through a letter. I'm not especially eloquent in person, I stumble over my words, stutter and rarely get my point across in face to face conversations. It's not as if I don't know what I want to say, I can go into a conversation having rehearsed every potential scenario in my head, stressing over the details, ifs and maybes are my forte after-all! To compensate for this I decided to write a letter to my GP explaining my thoughts on their treatment towards me. Essentially, several comments were made on my personal life and how I choose to address and treat my mental health conditions. If I couldn't proceed with any further appointments with them I at least hoped to highlight ways they could alter their behaviour for any other patients they might have with depression. Fortunately they responded well, and we've agreed to continue our doctor-patient relationship. I could have easily rolled over on these issues, I could have allowed them to believe that I'm a particularly sensitive individual and that they need to treat me accordingly. This doctor does have a fairly forceful nature in the hopes that they can push patients towards getting better. I know that they have made a real effort to understand every aspect of my life, they've accepted that for now I do not wish to seek the help of a counsellor.

I wasn't sure how they'd react to my letter, before I received their response I was convinced that I was going to have to search for another doctor. Fortunately bridges hadn't been burned. At the end of the letter I decided to address something I'd been too nervous to discuss in an appointment. The addition of which turned the one page letter into a three page essay! It's something that I have previously discussed with other doctors only to be shot down with their personal opinions. During the height of the bullying I experienced, I turned to food for comfort and up until that point I'd never really understood the term 'comfort eating'. I suppose I just felt some immediate satisfaction and happiness after each forkful of cake, cheesecake or whatever else I was sneakily shovelling in after school. This routine soon took it's toll on my body, and without realising I had become 2 stone heavier and had gone from a B cup to probably around an F cup. I was mortified, I didn't want to have my breasts measured properly to reveal the true extent of how big I was. I received even more attention and scrutiny. I was called out on by my P.E. teacher in the changing room because my sports top was now "inappropriately tight", cheers for that. I avoided P.E. lessons when our group of girls was suddenly mixed with the boys because of bad weather. At that time I favoured getting a 'no kit' mark against my name rather than bouncing on a trampoline in front of the boys and giving myself black eyes.

Six years on and not much has changed. I still avoid getting measured properly as they are still growing. I've had breakdowns in changing rooms because of them and would rather avoid crying in front of a lady with a measuring tape and enormous bras. I managed to lose most of the weight I had gained, but I never regained the confidence I once had nor the pleasure of buying and wearing clothes that made me feel good, and I certainly haven't lost the other two things I gained *ahem*. Since I was 16 years old I've wanted a breast reduction, for many many reasons. I've been told that I should be grateful for what I have, that I should flaunt it and that they really "aren't that big". I've also been told that due to being severely depressed I was "a suicide risk and it would be a waste of NHS funding", and yes that comment was made by a Doctor! GPs haven't exactly been my biggest cheerleaders on the matter. I understand that it's a slightly controversial thing to get funding for, but it's not for cosmetic purposes. My quality of life isn't what it ought to be because of how much I am limited by having a big chest. I am going to be turning 23 in January. I feel like I haven't even had a chance to feel like a young person, a young woman. During these years I haven't developed a personal style, I don't experiment with clothes or have fun with them. I simply hide my large chest and feel quite frumpy.

If you want an extensive list of all the reasons behind me wanting and needing a reduction I will happily provide it for you. I'm prepared to fight my case for this. Usually I wouldn't think I was worthy of anything, I'd think that there must be people worse off than I am. For once I'm saying "sod it, why not me?"and finally I have the support of the doctor I thought would sack me in as a patient. They are in my corner and ready to do battle with the NHS board of referrals, it might be a long battle but for me it's worth it.