We suddenly find ourselves with a beautiful Saturday night with nothing to do…. 
So the only thing to do was to fill some cups with answers to – Where? Do what? Wear what? And how? And let the Universe decide our last minute date night. 
The answer was ‘York, cocktails and bar snacks, fancy dress and drive.’ Now driving doesn’t go with cocktails but at least it wasn’t bus, bike or walk … and with a little bit of flexibility to the rules I am guessing we can ditch the car…??
Now the fancy dress! Hmm….. let’s see what the cupboard has to offer…

I was interested to read today that the brain itself feels no pain.  It has no pain receptors.

 

And yet my brain is the cause of so much of my pain, anguish and sadness.

 

I was also interested to read today that the brain will sometimes continue to produce pain long after an incident or injury that has healed, in order to protect the body.

 

Is that what is happening to me?  My over protective brain working over time for a heart that is perhaps nearly healed?

 

I was furthermore interested to read that for physical injuries, health professionals advise rehabilitation and gradual physical activity as soon as possible, even if it does hurt so that you don’t become a ‘prisoner to your pain’.

 

So if it is my heart that is causing my pain and is the experience to be recorded in my brain, is the physical activity I need to do, love more?

 

I am loving.  The adverb, not the adjective.  I am loving my boys, spending more time than I ever have done before this holidays.  I am focussing on doing activities I love doing and spending time with people I love and trust most.

 

I thought I was showing love to the Big Man, by allowing him back in to our life.  But I am a prisoner to my pain, the pain of how much I loved him then and will not allow myself the love I have for him now to show.  Despite the ‘call to action’ side of my brain screaming for me to let go and love, my ‘cry of warning’ side of my brain is muffling those screams and suffocating that love, reinforcing iron bars with walls of steel.

 

Trapped love, is the worst kind of pain.  Maybe that is why my heart is hurting more now than it has done before; because I am ready to let go and I am fighting so hard against those steel barricades.

 

 

 

I feel shame about a lot of things, but one thing I am not ashamed of is seeking professional help. When Tom has broken bones, we sought out the top orthopaedic doctors to fix him.  When Willy vomited for months, we sought out the top gastroenterologists to determine the cause and to fix him.

 

When cracks started to appear in our outwardly ‘perfect’ marriage, we engaged the help of a marriage counsellor; in this case not to ‘fix’ but to recognise the cracks forming as foundations shifted. Over the years, she has got to know our secrets, heard our pain, our anger, frustrations and given us the tools and mechanics to work through the obvious issues of young families, financial concerns, career objectives and the impact they all have on a loving, romantic relationship and family partnership.  And she is now a fundamental part of helping us through the aftermath of a tornado; sifting through the wreckage in a safe, calm environment with a view to rebuilding a new future, a healthy and strong future for us all.  She is worth her weight in gold.

 

Mental health is no longer a taboo subject in this country, thanks to our brave young Royals.  And while my brain isn’t broken, it isn’t working as it should.  Running or exercise, meditation and mindfulness have been wonderful ways of combating my depression, my sadness, my anger, but from experience, I have learnt that a good therapist is priceless in the events of unexpected, shocking events.  Especially in the aftermath of events you didn’t ask for or have any control over.

 

My therapist today help me see that based on the latest and biggest un-asked for shock, I am living in my prehistoric brain where my body is reacting instinctively from the modern day messages it receives from my prefrontal cortex.  My questions of ‘what if’… ‘what if’…. ‘WHAT IF..’ and trying to understand what happened over such a long period of time and apply that to a totally uncertain future to try and make it more ‘certain’, is causing the middle part of my brain (amygdala) to feel.  And those feelings of anxiety from a lack of security, anger and disgust about what happened, are driving me into my instinctive prehistoric brain which is trying to determine which survival mode to trigger.

 

Fight. Flight. Or Freeze.

 

And that is where the muddle comes.  Because in prehistoric times, they didn’t have the feeling part of the brain or the thinking part.  They just fought, flew or froze based on their instinct of the best way to survive.

 

Feelings may drive an action –  if angry you fight, for example.  But it is the thinking that causes the problems.

 

What if I fight?  I could get hurt or die in battle?  Who will look after the kids?

What if I take flight?  Where will I go?  How will the boys feel?  How will I carry them if I am running 100 miles an hour away from danger?

What if I do nothing and freeze?  Will everything stay the same?  Is that the best thing for me or the boys?

 

So my head is bouncing all over the place, between my desire to take action, move on, to please all the loud voices in my head telling me to ‘get over it already’ and my fear of the threat of history repeating itself for a third time and being on a larger scale once again.

 

My therapist reminded me that I also have another voice, the voice of compassion.  And yet in comparison to my voice of a call to action and my voice of a cry of warning, it is a whisper.   Quieter than that.  It is a breath, so small that it is being obliterated.

 

And that is where good therapy is not shameful, just as a doctor diagnosing and mending a broken arm is not shameful.  It is necessary in order to heal the body, mind and soul, all 3, not just the mind.

 

They are all connected.  My mind in turmoil is causing my body to be in turmoil;  the anxiety causing tension headaches and IBS.  And my soul is dark where it was once the bright yellow of ‘Joy’ and sparkly.

 

And there is no shame in wanting my Joy back.  There is no shame in wanting ‘me’ back.  There is no shame in seeking help to find her.

 

 

 

 

Melancholy.  Such a pretty, light, flighty word for such a heavy, lonely feeling.

 

I recall after other big shocks of loss in my life, almost like a tsunami, there is the initial overwhelming wall of grief and devastation and then there has always been an after tremor, slightly milder, but still pretty harrowing.  After the loss of our first baby, it was about 5 months afterwards; after the death of Mumbo about 6 months.  And so this would make sense.

 

There is no quick fix.  Just recognition that it is here.  And that it will pass.

 

I have help; professional as well as the arms and ears of loved ones.

 

And I have my happiness rock, back in my pocket, so that each time the grief squeezes, I can reach for it, feel its smoothness, look at the word and remind myself that happiness is still within me, just shrouded in a cloud that will pass.  I love the metaphoric vision that Happiness is in my hands.

It’s like all the blood drains from my cheeks all the way down through my legs and flows out of the bottom of my feet, making me feel weak, reptilian, heart of ice.

 

It happens in a split second of my thought process…

 

Today it started with an old memory triggered by a song I loved and reminded me of my uni days – Oasis’ ‘So Sally can wait!’ And with the next breath the blood drains as quickly as a dam opening, as a thought triggers new memories in quick succession leading me down a path I didn’t intend to go as I sang happily along…

 

My whole mood and day changed from sunny and happy to emptiness and again that question – what am I doing? Am I doing the right thing? Will forgiveness and trust ever be something I can give myself and him? Can we build a life and a second marriage if those aren’t possible?

 

I am putting myself under enormous pressure to do both as move date approaches. The excitement and tension mounts as we talk to architects to go through development and conversion plans and the scale of the project we have in front of us.  Can we handle the pressure if the fundamentals aren’t yet tight knit and locked into our foundations?

 

And then I ask myself, the same question I asked myself this time last year as I lay crying on my bed in Vegas, what’s the worst that could happen?

 

And the answer is the same… we sell up and I move to the South, back to the safety and surety of my dad, my sis and the iron ring. Knowing I tried and did my best to rebuild, forgive and nurture us back together.  I have done that once before, felt joy after sorrow. I am willing to give it another go, but the back out, survival plan is the same.

 

And knowing I have a plan for all eventuality gives me strength … and slowly the warmth seeps back into my body, melting the iciness of my heart and the blood starts to flow life back into my veins.

 

This is the process I have been using for 6 months. It has had a lot of practice and now I have it down to a 4 hour art…. rather than a 4 week, 4 day one…. roll on it being a 4 minute one, even a 4 second reset one!

 

 

With a full glass of wine in hand I am trying to determine whether my anxiety levels have reached warning levels because of small boy obnoxious behaviour or just everything else.  Or maybe it is both?

 

Maybe I am being too harsh on them, him, myself.

 

We are about to make a massive leap into the unknown, new everything.  And while it is exciting, it is also terrifying, particularly when I am feeling so raw. I am trying to keep myself calm, but really I am a duck paddling furiously under water, not really knowing which way to go.  And perhaps that is why they are playing up; they are sensitive to the undercurrents and don’t believe the smile on my face.

 

Or maybe I am just overthinking this and they are just brothers, winding each other up; energy stores replenished from 2 weeks of fabulous holiday and ready to go back to school?

 

I have one week to amuse them and keep them from killing each other, or killing myself – not really – but I may lock myself in the loo with the wine.

 

 

Today another of Esther Perel’s phrases sprang to mind as the ‘Big Pack’ started in earnest:  The first sweep of the house to throw out collected items over the years that are not coming with us to our new start.

 

She makes the point most people in the West will marry or have serious relationships with at least 2 or 3 people. For relationships where an affair has caused the relationship to break down, she says to the couples she works with ‘Some of us are going to do it with the same person.  Your first marriage is over. Would you like to create a second one together?’

 

Very early on that question helped me (and us) move on to answer ‘yes’; If I could forget everything that upset me about my first marriage, including the behavior of the man in it, I could.  So everything to do with that first wedding went in the bin or was smashed in a fit of early anger.  And pretty much everything to do with the marriage, with the exception of the children, extended families and trusted friends, is being left behind, sold off or thrown away.

 

Today I found a little book that the 3 girls in my uni house kept to record our ‘snogs’… a little bit like a little black book.  All our secrets.  And in it was the date of our first kiss, our first night together back in early 1997.  We are very different people, 20 years on to the 2 people who are deciding to create a second relationship, a second marriage together.  And as with any second marriages, there isn’t really room for much of the first for the second to be a success, except the lessons, the learnings and the wisdom of experience.

 

So why, over our delicious family Easter roast, when my Mother-in-Law asked me what I wanted to do with my wedding dress that was with hers and my sister-in-law’s did I hesitate?  My beautiful dress that I designed myself, walked up and down Berwick Street for original and handmade lace and silks and spent hours with my dressmaker to make sure it was just how I had imagined.

 

I can’t quite bring myself to skip it, bin it, burn it, rip it or tear it…  and in that moment, she knew.  ‘How about I keep it for one of your nieces?  Just in case they want it.  Lovely Yorkshire puddings, Ali!  Where did you get your beef?’.

 

I hope one day, I will be a Mother in Law just as wonderful as she is.

 

 

 

I recently watched Esther Perel’s Ted talk on infidelity and marriage again.  I have always found her words and insight useful and refer to it when my anxiety peaks.  And in my experience, her words around shame and infidelity feel true; that while historically divorce was the ‘old shame’, the ‘new shame’ is the decision to stay together.

 

Very shortly after the truth of the situation presented itself to me, we shared the same with our close circle of friends, revealing the facts and asking for their support, to give us time and space to work through the situation in private and to protect the boys from speculation and gossip.  And this they have done and respected our wishes.

 

However, in hindsight this has perhaps left us in a bit of our own bubble.  And as we break out of it, tentatively and nervously, speaking, seeing and being sociable again we naively thought that everyone would be on the same page as us.  And yet, I feel that perhaps Esther’s words are actually correct; staying together incites shame, that some would find it easier to understand if we were to separate, divorce and continue life on our own separate path.  If the roles were reversed, I would probably feel the same, having previously said if it were to ever happen to me, I would repeat the actions of Mrs Bobbit and disappear off in to the sunset, clutching my most precious boys and never looking back.

 

There is a side of me that welcomes their anger and disgust towards him, for it is perhaps justified.

There is a side of me that welcomes their unwavering support towards me, their protection, their mistrust of him, for it is perhaps justified.

There is a side of me that welcomes their desire to understand how and why it all happened, for it is perhaps justified.

 

But there is also a side of me that is sad that they cannot see what I see and feel.

 

If they have seen inside our bubble for the last 6 months, they would have seen that we talk about everything, every day and it is painful on both sides; we talk about it all with both sadness and regret, anger and tenderness, disgust and total remorse, tears and screams;  they would have seen our many, many, many therapy sessions which unravel the how and why that helps us accept even if not fully understand what happened.

 

And yet I ask myself, do they deserve the answers or to see inside our bubble?  Isn’t the role of a good friend, in this scenario, to be non-judgemental and accept my decision either way and trust that I am wise enough to know what is right?

 

Perhaps they see this as a miracle and don’t believe it.

 

Perhaps they see this as a miracle and fear for me, the boys, us and that is why they don’t believe it.

 

Perhaps if they saw it as I see it, as a miracle and believe in it, because I choose to see the love in our future, and not to live in fear of it they too would also believe and be happy for us and relieve us of our shame.

 

Esther also says that infidelity can be the death nail in a marriage that is already dead or dying, but also that where love remains, couples can turn a tragedy in to something to learn from and grow into something beautiful.

 

I choose to see the beauty in this miracle, not the shame.

 

I have never been more prepared for a dinner party in my life! And I have never been more apprehensive… is that the right word? 
Everything is done: the lamb has been marinating for 2 days and now getting up to room temperature before cooking on the BBQ; my veg all ready to go and my special secret delicious potato salsa is prepped; the courgette crostini are just waiting for their mini poached quail egg to be rewarmed and popped on top; my impressive first attempt raspberry roulade is setting nicely and mumbo’s chocolate pots look beautiful in my special ristretto cups.
My table is laid and looks beautiful with spring flowers from Granny’s garden, the wine is either being chilled or warming by the Aga.
My magnolia lipstick applied and all I have to do is choose between pink and silver shoes….

And try to slow my heart as I remember the last time we entertained and my heart was shattered as she decided that it was the perfect time to introduce herself to me. 
So as I turn off my phone…pink or silver? G&T or V&T?

My mind can be my best friend or my worst enemy.  In the day, it is my best friend as I can ‘control’ it, have the energy and power to dispel negative thoughts with good ones.  I focus on my mountain and the view I know is there from the top.  I imagine myself running down the hill the other side, breathless, laughing, legs just about keeping up with the momentum and speed…. And finally landing in a crumpled, happy mess at the bottom, lying on my back, looking at my pink house framed by the blue sky, breathing heavily in between bursts of laughter.  I am light and free.

 

But while I am still here, on this side, the pull of the safety of the ocean bed, the pull of the string to the black box gets tighter, stronger, the tension causing the ache to become more of an acute pain.  My instinct is to run harder and sprint to the top; perhaps forcing the thread to snap, my connection to the past to drop away?

 

In my therapy session today, she helped me see that the cord is representative of the tension and anxiety I feel because I am naturally goal orientated, and driven to succeed.  I want my happy new life. Yet the threat of my past experience, recent shocks and the magnitude of the details still unknown is preventing from moving forward, fearing that not knowing every detail will cause an unwelcome, unmitigated risk of failure, repeated devastating shock in the future.

 

The forced breaking of the two apart she says is not what needs to happen, as much as I want it to.  And that I need to introduce a third dynamic – not focus on goals or the future, not worry about the threat of the past, but a more gentle practice with more compassion, more self-care, for while she recognises that I am angry, the majority of the anger is directed at myself, my shame, my foolishness.

 

So perhaps while I have been allowing myself some respite and rest physically, I haven’t relaxed on the mental side.  Perhaps even the physical rest has allowed more ‘space’ for mental abuse and hence a recent relapse.

 

People advise me ‘Don’t look back’, but that is just the modern way of brushing things under the carpet.  A new way to ignore upsetting memories, unhelpfully suppressing strong emotions.

 

Having to retell and relive my story for the first time in a long time today was difficult.  Even in my bad days, I have been steadfastly focussing on living in the moment with my incredibly beautiful sons and the incredibly exciting future plans, mentally replacing each little speck of reminder dust with a current positive thought or future plan; mentally brushing it under the carpet.  Chastising myself for being so stupid, berating myself for not being over it all by now and pushing myself harder to get up that mountain.

 

I learnt so much about self care, self compassion when Mumbo died;  I applied many of the techniques in the early days and months, but as we made future plans, I became exasperated with myself and forgot those simple things, or rushed through them.  I internalised my anger at him as I knew how much it upset him, exhausted him and us both, and took the hit myself, frustrated by my overwhelming trust, calling myself stupid and naïve, ignorant, an idiot then and now.

 

#breakingbadhabits was important to get me up and out, to live and find pleasure in small things again, but perhaps in doing so, I didn’t give myself enough time to heal while I was moving forward;  I pushed it all to the back of my mind, under the carpet in order to move on.

 

Today, my therapist lifted up that carpet.  It wasn’t pretty.  And she told me that it wouldn’t be able to leave it in Ashfield Paddock as I had hoped.

 

So it’s time to clean up so that I can take my carpet with me without tripping up as much as I do now.  And it’s definitely time to clean up my self talk.