'Things Remembered' - #HAWMC

Today's Prompt: 'What is an item you have kept with you that reminds you of an important time in your life?'

I've kept lots of ‘things’ over the years. As my parents would profess, I'm renowned for being a bit of a hoarder. I’d keep anything and everything in my youth. Little things that remind me of happy times; love letters from when I thought I knew what love was, gig tickets covered in sweat and booze, birthday cards, get- well cards, blurry Polaroids from before Polaroids were ‘vintage’ and a black tulip bulb my beloved brought me from Holland that I can’t bring myself to plant in case it dies on me. Amongst other things.

But the one thing that remains constant, and that I can’t bring myself to dispose of is my diary. I've kept a diary since I was 14 years old. I'm now 31. Not the same diary OBVIOUSLY – it would be incredibly heavy and have cost an absolute fortune in paper. Don’t be such an idiot.

My diary has been an outlet for years and years of teenage angst, heartbreak, happiness and anxiety. From my early teens to my thirties I've had somewhere to channel my feelings and emotions over everything from the banal of an argument with my Mum because I hadn't made my bed properly AGAIN, to the devastation of leaving my fiancé practically at the altar. 

My diary has helped me in countless ways; it allows me to express thoughts I would never say out loud, think through major decisions and make conclusions about my next steps in life. 

It’s a silent comfort. 

When I was diagnosed with Crohn's I wasn't honest with my diary for the first time in my life. I lied to myself. Literally. Although mines were the only eyes my pages would ever see, I still couldn't bring myself to express how I felt. I'm not sure why this was; perhaps straight up denial – if I was to put this down in actual words it would become real. It would be a ‘thing’, a stain on my pages for all eternity. I hated everything about what was happening to me and I used my diary instead as an escape rather than a confessional. Eventually as my hospital stays began to last longer, and I became lonelier, I began to seek refuge in my dusty pages again. I tentatively started to document my day to day life as a newly diseased woman. I realised I'd written on everything notable in my life to date so why stop now just because it was hard to put into words.

I have difficulty reading those pages now, years later. I was so, so angry. Then the anger turned to sadness, then abject misery and disillusionment. My main focus was on myself and my pain, but my parents run through my words like a vein. I was devastated that they were hurting. I was angry at being put in the position where I had to be looked after again. I was an adult yet I was suddenly regressed back to childhood against my will. My diary is a stark reminder of just how ill I was both physically and mentally.

Keeping a journal became keeping a blog - the blog you are reading now in fact! I don't often talk about my condition in my leather bound pages now because i share it with al of you. Terrifying as that prospect once was it is now one of the biggest comforts I have in living with chronic illness. It allows me to share with the world something I was once too afraid to share with myself. 

My diary is for me, and all of you. I carry it with me to remind myself of all I have achieved and to document all I will achieve in the days to come. Everyday is page one, until I reach page none. 

This post was written as part of WEGO Health's Writers Activist Monthly Challenge - #HAWMC

'My Hero' - #HAWMC

Today's Prompt: 'Who are your heroes and what makes then awesome in your eyes?'

I've never really condsidered anyone to be my 'hero'. It seems such a strong word; evokes so much in terms of bravery and selflessness. 

Mainly I suppose I'm not a fan of the word 'hero' because it seems to be used so readily. I always think of cartoon or fictional 'heroes' when I hear it. Like Tarzan swooping in from a branch to rescue a scantily clad beauty from the jaws of a salivating tiger. Or Batman punching robbers with SWAG bags to rescue an old lady from having her priceless pearls pinched. These heroes are always selfless and brave, they risk their own lives to save others and expect nothing in return. They also aren't real.

When I think of 'real-life' heroes in my own life, I have to scale it down a little, and forget about capes, and pants worn over tights. unfortunatley, as those are two of the things i think about most in any given day. My main heroes don’t have any special skills, they don’t own sparkly costumes and they certainly don’t know kung fu.

My parents are two of my heroes. They love me and my brothers' unconditionally, and  teach us how to laugh and to give and accept love. They have shown me what perserverance and courage can do, and have made me feel safe and comforted from birth to the present day.
They pick me up when my heart and body is broken, put me back together again and never expect anything from me other than to be me. They are proud of me when I'm far from proud of myself, they have taught me forgiveness and generosity, and to valuable others happiness every bit as much as your own.

My partner is my other hero. Although we may have had more up and downs in our lengthy relationship that Burton and Taylor, (albeit with fewer marriages), we have worked together to maintain something quite wonderful. He has shown me how to look at my 'flaws' for what they are; part of me and nothing to ever feel shame or anger about. I'm proud of him a little bit more everyday for everything he has achieved and everything I know he will achieve in the years to come. I'm honoured I get to be a part of his life and constantly flattered he even entertains the idea of being part of mine. He makes me laugh 'til my sides hurt and when my sides hurt he looks after me.

He calms me down in that way that love does.

When I became ill it didn’t even enter his head to do anything other than support me, when others would have (and did) run a mile. He's my hero not because he defends my honour in bar fights (although he would), or because he scales the side of buildings to save me from a possesive gorilla (although he would), but because he has shown me what it means to feel truly happy.

Everyday heroes are better than comic-bok heroes because they are real. And punch less.

Last but not least, my friends, and all of you battling chronic and debilitating illnesses everyday are my absolute heroes. You all inspire and motivate me to be he very best version of myself in spite of my condition. Your words of encouragement even on my darkest days heal more than any medication. When I see what so many of you achieve despite counless obstacles standing in your way, it only serves to give me the kick up the backside we all sometimes sorely need.

You are heroes to me because you are thriving rather than just surviving.

This post was written as part of WEGO Health's Writers Activist Monthly Challenge - #HAWMC

'Breaking News' - #HAWMC

Today's Prompt - 'The top story of today is…YOU. Share with your readers your proudest accomplishments in the last 5 years. Don’t be shy, tell us everything!'


Today’s prompt was a tricky one for me, as tooting my own horn is something I find incredibly difficult. I gave up playing the trumpet aged 8 for starters, so to try and get a tune out of it again now at 31, well it would just be disastrous. 

I always was shy and unassuming, but since my diagnosis my lack of self-confidence took a major nosedive. I was suddenly thrust into the murky depths of an illness I couldn't begin to understand; my body had changed in seemingly every way possible, I felt physically and mentally unappealing, and my outlook on life had changed almost beyond recognition seemingly overnight. It was terrifying. 

Sometimes it still is. 

Occasionally I'm hit with a stark reminder of how much my life has changed since Crohn's slithered into it, and in those moments I feel the fear and panic I did back then all over again. I regress 7 years in an instant and my panic at the unknown is palpable. 

So, in answer to WEGO Health’s question, I’d say one of my proudest accomplishments has been overcoming my fear, and entering the world as a ‘diseased’ person with something more than just trepidation; something like enthusiasm and courage. 

I've learnt, (slowly), that living day to day with a chronic illness is something that requires a lot of work, both mentally and physically. That I must learn to listen to my body and accept that sometimes it might be best for my health in the long term, to slow down. 

I've learnt that there is no shame in admitting you need help, and that accepting that help isn't a sign of weakness, but one of strength. An ‘accomplishment’ to someone with an incurable and chronic illness can be something as small as making it through a full day without needing a nap. Or managing to go out with friends and not feeling utterly exhausted after an hour. That may seem poultry to some, but to me it's a little piece of daily encouragement that helps me to keep my head up when I feel at my weakest. 

This post was written as part of WEGO Health's Activist Writers Monthly Challenge - #HAWMC 

'Creature of Habit' - #HAWMC

Today's Prompt - 'What good habits, (health or otherwise,) do you have? Do you have a routine that you follow every morning? Are there any bad habits you wish you could break?'

I have a daily routine; in so much as I get up at the same time every day in order to get to work on time. I leave myself enough to get showered, dressed and ready, to prepare my lunch and all the other mundane day to day things required. I stick to the same bus timetable and I have my dinner at roughly the same time at night after work is over. But other than it being a routine out of necessity, it’s not a planned and regulated routine. 

I think sometimes I’d maybe like to have one of those, or at least to be able to find the energy to make things a little more regimented, but I also like to live my life day to day. Having IBD takes away so much of the control from you that it’s vital you relish every opportunity to grasp some of that back for yourself. 

So when I'm able I make plans. 

I try not to make those plans too far in advance, as I tend to feel it’s detrimental to my mood if I can’t follow through on arrangements. It’s a big shift from the days when I could fill up my social diary months in advance; now I'm lucky to be able to plan each day of the week. If I manage to achieve all my goals it’s a great feeling of victory. I've realised it’s not a massive negative to have relinquished some of the control to Crohn’s Disease. It’s an unfortunate necessity and one which has to happen every now and then in order to feel at my best. 

In terms of habits I wish I could break, I suppose metaphorically beating myself up when I can’t do certain things, would be top of the list there. I'm learning it’s OK not to do as much as I used to, and find happiness and pleasure in things which require a little less of me. I try to break the habit of punishing myself and apologising to others for my disease on a daily basis. I'm not entirely sure it’s a routine I’ll ever get out of, but it’s one I could do without. I try to routinely praise myself for what I can do, and stop hating on myself for what my disease ensures I can’t. 

This post was written as part of WEGO Health's Activist Writers Monthly Challenge - #HAWMC 

'Good Samaritan' - #HAWMC

Today's prompt; 'We love random acts of kindness. Write about a time that you benefited from the kindness of a stranger, or a time when you were the one extending a helping hand. How did you feel?'

There are many occasions where I've been a 'good samaritan'. Like that time I helped a pensioner cross the road safely, or when I didn't laugh too long as my brothers' new bike directed him face-first into a fence, or that time I let a tramp handing out charity stickers press said sticker onto my chest for 5 seconds longer than was socially/lawfully acceptable. But as I don’t want this post to run on for over 100 pages, I should shy away from talking about my own acts of self-less heroism and focus on an occasion where I benefited from someone else's kindness. 

Although I've been showered with love and compassion from almost everyone around me since my diagnosis, one of the examples of kindness I cherish above most, comes from a complete stranger. 

When I was around 26 and experiencing another yet stay in the worlds bleakest hotel, known as hospital, I was LOW. I was seriously ill, and my partner and I were in the midst of buying our dream home. I was useless to him, stuck in bed attached to a drip and leaving him to handle BIG 'couple-things' on his own. This house and the excitement of us finally living side by side was a glimmer of hope in what seemed like a downward spiral of bad-news. 

He called me around midday to tell me we had lost out on the house. 

I was inconsolable. Embarrassingly so. And I was alone. 

Being alone can be dangerous, especially when your head, and body is filled with nothing but bad news and various unappetising cocktails of drugs. All I could do was think about the negative. I'd had every room in that house decorated to within an inch of its life (in my head). I’d foreseen where he would sit and watch TV and where I would sit and watch him watch TV like the love-struck fantasist I was. Suddenly all my plans were relegated to the bench and my hopes for our future seemed bleaker than that book 'Bleak house' which was about a bleak house or something. 

Anyway, I was devastated and nothing anyone said seemed to help. I realise now it was just the final straw; I'd been feeling depressed for a long time and this having been taken away from me seemed like I'd lost the only piece of control I'd had left. I sobbed and sobbed. Each time the nurses pulled the curtain around me open I'd struggle up and pull it closed. I wanted to be alone in my misery and the other ladies in my ward, with a combined age of approximately 355845, offered little comfort or conversation. They didn't seem interested in the intricacies of Beyoncé's new single and I wasn't especially interested in shouting "NURSE" and soiling myself 5 times a day so we had little in common. 

My main visitor was a male nurse, he walked in to give me a telling off for the consistent curtain-closing and was met by floods of tears. He asked if I was OK, I said no and he walked off. He had been panicked by a hysterical woman and that just made me angrier and more ashamed at my mortifying predicament. I raged internally about him most of the day after that, which didn't make me feel any better, but it had stopped me crying, which was good, as my eyes had become so dry that I was close to getting fresh tears shipped in from Gwyneth Paltrow's Oscar speech leftovers. 

However, that night an unexpected and wonderful thing happened. 

It was the middle of the night, I'd had no visitors, I was lonely and couldn't sleep, and YET AGAIN found my curtain being pulled back. This time though it was by an older nurse; she smiled and sat beside me, and told me that the male nurse who'd been in the ward earlier, said I'd been "having a bad day and could do with some looking after". I instantly felt awful for internally scolding him. I was also reluctant to go over everything again, but she took my hand, asked If wanted to talk about it, and looked so genuine and kind that I started to well up all over again. I relayed my sorry tale and she sympathised and sat with me for much MUCH longer than she needed to, told me that things always seem worse than they are when we are in hospital. She was right of course, and it's something I try to remember to this day. 

I have felt hopeless since that day, and when that happens I try to think of that lovely nurse with the smothering bosom who had so much kindness in her eyes that her tears probably smelt like grannies apple-pie and kitten cuddles. But I digress. The compassion she showed me is something she probably shows every weeping stranger on daily basis. I felt embarrassed she had seen me that way for a little while then I realised feeling weak is necessary i order to appreciate feeling strong. 

Offering comfort to someone is so incredibly easy, but can mean so so much to the recipient. 

Try it. 

I'm off to slip into my best bra and buy a charity sticker from a tramp.

This post was written as part of WEGO Health's Activist Writers Monthly Challenge - #HAWMC 

'Key To Happiness' - #HAWMC

Today's prompt for #HAWMC was: 'What do you think is the key to happiness?'..



‘Laughter is the best medicine’ is about the only cliché I can get on board with. Fair enough for medical professionals I’d imagine it’s rarely advised; as using only laughter as a one-cures-all fix is highly unlikely to work. Especially if you have broken ribs, then I’d wager laughter is just about the worst medicine you could take. But either way, it remains one of my most treasured expressions of joy.  

The key to my happiness is laughter. Hilarity is so utterly vital in maintaining happy relationships, be it romantic or otherwise. My partner for example, makes me laugh until I can’t breathe multiple times a day and having been in (short) relationships with humourless men, I know how unbelievably amazing that ability is. When I make my partner, friends and family laugh it feels like I’ve won a gold medal. I laugh at anything and everything, from someone falling over, to wordy satire about the state of the economy. (But mainly the first one). I’ve put myself in stupid situations to make people laugh, and pulled the ugliest faces known to mankind to generate a giggle. I can’t and refuse to try and understand people who don’t want to revel in laughter. Having a ridiculous and self-depreciating sense of humour saw me through childhood and my teens and deftly helped me swerve being bullied (I had braces, an ironing-board flat chest and boy hair).

I laugh a lot. Mainly at myself and my situation because I’m a ridiculous human being and the course my life has taken over the last few years is one which would leave me in a permanent funk if I didn’t take a step back to LOL at it. I’ve found that blogging and writing about my life with my condition has granted me a wonderful opportunity to remember that I am still alive and kicking. Doing my utmost to make an awful situation decidedly more bearable. When I take a step back to laugh at the moments when I’ve been bent over in a roomful of medical students with my most intimate areas on show, or when I’ve dropped a poo-sample out of my handbag and had to retrieve it from under a pensioners chair, allow me to remember that these things only feel incredibly embarrassing and curl-into-the-foetal-position-cringeworthy at the time. They are only as bad as you make them out to be. If you chose to laugh at your supposed misfortune instead of weeping and wailing about it, you have no idea the change it will make to your outlook.

Crohn’s disease doesn’t make me happy, it makes my life much harder than it should ever have to be, but the day I stop laughing at myself and the world around me, is the day I give up. Something I can’t ever see happening. For starters I haven’t even mentioned my teenage dress-sense…

This post was written as part of WEGO Health's Activist Writers Monthly Challenge - #HAWMC 

'Wordless Wednesday' - #HAWMC

Once again I'll be taking part in WEGO Health's 'Activist Writers Monthly Challenge' also known as #HAWMC! So all throughout April I'll be flooding your Twitter, Facebook and whatever social media I can find with posts provided daily through the medium of prompts by WEGO Health themselves. 

Today is Day 1! 

Prompt: Post a picture that shows how excited you are for the next 30 days! 

You can get involved yourself by signing up here: 

http://lps.wegohealth.com/hawmc-enter/

or just spread the love by sharing our posts or reading our ramblings! Ok love you bye! xox