Letter to My 16 Year Old Self

This letter has been a long time coming.  But today I saw you.

 

Me, at age 16, in Japan, on a school trip. A few weeks before I decided to try and end my life. None of the pictures from this trip look happy. I *try* to look happy, but I think the eyes give it away.

Today I saw you staring at me asking me for help.  My 16 year old self.  The one who thought that life was not worth living.  So, whether I’m ready or not, this is a letter I have to write.  This is a letter to that girl who wanted, who wants, to kill herself, to put at end to the ache, the hurt, the hurt of not being good enough.  I hope I am good enough for you now.

 

I remember sitting there that night.  I phoned my two best friends and told them what I was going to do.  I can’t recall what they said, they probably tried to tell me not to.  I don’t recall.  I know that it was just before exams.  I was stressed to the max.  I didn’t feel up to the task.  I didn’t feel quite good enough.  I was never quite good enough for anything.  So I believed.  I didn’t believe in my soul, didn’t believe in myself.  All I believed is that I wasn’t worth believing in.  The concept of me being worthless was the most valuable thing in the world to me.  In that moment.  It had been, for weeks.

 

I looked at my medication.  Back in the day when I took pills to keep my asthma under control.  I took my pills, one at a time, each one being chased down by the next.  I didn’t drink any water.  None at all.  I swallowed, 16 pills, dry.  The doctors wondered how I did it.  I looked at them like they were fucking morons.  One at a time you freaking idiots.  I’m not a moron, don’t treat me like one, I’m not fucking lying to you.  I swallowed them one at a time.  It’s possible to do you know.

 

16 pills.  I even wrote 16 on my desk pad.  Poetic.  I had a sense of the dramatic.  One for each year of my life.

 

What would I say to you now, as you sat swallowing, determinedly, one pill after another, sitting listening to whatever music it was.  I can’t even remember it now.

The truth is, even today, I have no magic panacea that will take that pain away.  When the dogs howl and salivate all over your soul and scream to take you into their black dripping maws.  All you can see is the overwhelmingness of the pain, and they beg you to let them consume you, to take you away where you will feel no more pain.

 

I can tell you that that pain will turn you into the most amazing butterfly, no phoenix.  Butterflies are fragile, touch their wings and their ability to fly is hindered, but the phoenix, the phoenix is strong, powerful, and it’s tears have the power to heal.  You my darling girl will rise from the ashes, from the pain that scorches your body and you will burn brighter than ever.

But even that won’t be enough light to shine in your hole right now.

 

That hole is a deep one.

 

So for the moment, I’m going to sit there with you, and hold your hand, and know that I have been there before, and although I am scared to sit here with you, I will fucking sit here with you for as long as it takes, because I’m not going anywhere, and girls like you need women like me to tell them the hole doesn’t last forever, and that we can be amazing, that we are amazing, and that even if you can’t see it now, I can, and you need to hold onto me, even if you can’t hold onto yourself.

 

 

 

 

Attachment Living

 

A while ago I wrote about a nebulous concept, one I called “Attachment Living”

 

Today I’m going to expand on what I meant a little more, because, well because it’s pertinent to me right now, and I think it’s a concept missing in certain sectors of the attachment parenting community.  I think it’s something that get’s forgotten in a desperate game of one up-person-ship.  Who has the best baby carrier, who is “more” of an attachment parent than the next person.  To be frank, I couldn’t give a monkey’s bollocks about that sort of rubbish.  I really couldn’t, and I don’t think the monkey would be too happy if I did.
Plenty of posts have written about this topic.  About not being so freaking rigid.  I’m going to link all of the ones that speak to me right here, so that we get that part out of the way FIRST.

  • This post here from Conscience Parenting, did my head in at first, but now I get it.  I’m with her, I’m tired of the evangelical nature of some people.  I’m not leaving to community, but boy I have been sorely tempted.
  • This post here is the response from Evolutionary Parenting to Conscience Parenting, and it’s one where I support the conclusion, I’m sticking with the community.
  • This is one I wrote eons ago, about what I think attachment parenting is and is not.
  • This one echoes many of the things I wrote, but does it so much better, I only found it yesterday, but boy is it good.  Attachment parenting, is a frame of mind.  This I am in love with.
  • PhD in Parenting has a brilliant definitive history and list of what it is and is not, and breaks down the little nuances.  I’m particularly fond of this quote:  “When people think of Attachment Parenting, they often think of Dr. William Sears. He coined the term and came up with the 7 Baby B’s of Attachment Parenting. This list is essentially seven tools that can help parents to foster attachment with their babies. You do not have to do all seven of these to be an attached parent and you can do all seven of them and not be an attached parent. The seven B’s are a toolbox that can make attachment parenting easier. It is easier to use a drill than a screwdriver in many instances, but it doesn’t mean that it isn’t possible to do the same job with a screwdriver or that it isn’t preferable in some circumstances, but it probably will require more effort and more time.”
  • Jan Hunt, someone I deeply respect and admire has this to say on the topic.
  • And finally Dr Laura Markham, another of my go to parenting gurus has these insights to offer.
All of them (and I’m being arrogant enough to include myself in this) say that there are tools, the tools that Sears himself describes, but none of them, like Sears himself are prescriptive about those tools.  Sears himself says they are tools, not rules. So, tools.  Tools that help us form the most secure relationship we can get to with our children.  Like PhD says, it’s easier to use the screwdriver, but it doesn’t mean it’s impossible without.  Which brings me to attachment living, and what I mean when I talk about attachment living.  You need to have a good understanding of Attachment Parenting and Attachment Theory to get this, I think Tracy at Evolutionary Parenting has done a fabulous job of this in this post here, so please do go and read it!
Attachment to me, the philosophy, NOT the tools, is about love, and building secure relationships, and about trust and knowing people, and assuming the BEST of someone, and not the worst, and putting yourself in their shoes.  It requires a huge dose of empathy and, to a large part, a huge leap of faith.
What would it look like if we took it outside the parenting relationship.  What would it look like if I tried to apply it to everyone I met, everyone I thought about, everyone I saw.  It means putting aside all the dogma and shit in society that tells you to expect the WORST of someone.  It means letting go of labels and stereotypes.  It means opening your soul to the possibility, the greatness of human change and hope.  It means, against all hope, that you believe in the human capacity for change, for growth, for a person to genuinely see that what they might have done is wrong, even after many years, even on their death bed.  It means that the door for change is ALWAYS open.  It means that you believe in the profound plastic ability of the human brain for change.  It means you trust that someone can look upon others with love and respect.  Yes, I know it sounds utopian.  I want it to be normal.

 

Like Attachment Parenting, Attachment Living does not mean blind acceptance.  It means being consistently flexible.  I’m a bit of a fan of the concept of “authoritative parenting”.  Like some other parenting philosophy junkies, I call it Backbone parenting.  Just because it makes it easier to distinguish from authoritarian parenting,  The words are so easily confused!  I like the backbone image because it shows at once how we can be strong and flexible, we have our limits.  So when I say Attachment Living, I don’t mean Permissive Living, a la permissive parenting, where there are no boundaries at all.  Note, I’m with Dewar when she talks about her concerns about how people define Permissive Parenting, for me it means letting kids get away with hurting other people, violating other peoples rights and feelings, and deliberate rudeness, so let’s be clear on that before we move on!

How does that look in real life?  Well, it’s freaking hard.
If you want to live Attachment Living, I think there’s some things that are pretty fundamental… so here we go…
You need to be committed to seeing the best in people, doesn’t mean you will do it all the time, it’s a hard thing to do, but it does mean that you will try very had to do so.
You need to be committed to seeing beyond labels.  Labels are not people, they put them into boxes and don’t allow them to be them.  It’s a way of granting conditional acceptance to someone.  Sure, keep the label if *you* gave it to yourself, but be mindful of giving other people labels.  Sometimes we can’t help it, I do it all the time too, but I am getting better at not doing it.
Be aware that other people haven’t travelled the same journey as you have.  Their journey’s are different, you don’t know the troubles they have gone through, and more importantly the impact of those troubles on that person.  This is called checking your privilege, something people get their knickers in a knot over constantly.  If you’re unsure about what privilege is then check out this link and this one here and watch this clip - it’s short I promise.  Then if you think you need a bit more understanding of it, then read this piece here.  Actually that last link is VERY important, because it talks about how to show empathy, and it’s VERY hard, to someone who seems to be denying their privilege.
Be honest with yourself, and other people.  Being passive aggressive and dishonest seems like the easy way, because it’s non confrontational and it hides things, but really, it’s hurtful.  I’ve been terrifically guilty of being passive aggressive in the past, and probably will be in the future again, but try not to be, it’s not pleasant.  If you have an issue with something someone has said, then say it to them.  This is especially true in the online world, remember, I can’t see your “honest” eyes, or hear your sarcastic tone.  All I have are your words.
Be honest about how you are treating other people, how you are treating your community, your country, the world.  Is it really being connected with other people to not worry about how you are treating the world?  Is it really ethical to not care in the slightest how your chocolate is made or where the parts for your electronic items come from?  Start caring.  I know we can’t fight EVERY battle, that’s not what I am asking you to do.  I’m asking you to make small changes, to think to engage your brain, to attach and not detach from the world around you.
Be honest about your needs and honest about the need to put yourself first and the need to walk away.  Being open to everyone doesn’t mean you have to stick with them, or hold their hand or tolerate what they are doing.  You can and should choose to say enough, I won’t tolerate this any longer, I come first right now, my needs are important, and I choose to walk away.  How that manifests might be different depending on the relationship and context.  Above all, as you walk away, as you put yourself first in that moment.  It could be putting your baby down momentarily, while they are crying, because you are overwhelmed (note I said for a moment, I’m not a proponent of leaving babies to cry for a long period of time!).  It could mean saying no to an abusive partner.  Equally it could mean saying no to a child when they want to do something that is not healthy for them or you.  Be honest, don’t hide yourself and your needs, don’t allow yourself to be a doormat.
Don’t sacrifice all to the cultural gods of either independence or interdependence.  Know that both have their advantages and disadvantages.  One is traditionally associated with the East and one with the West, but it doesn’t make either intrinsically better than the other.
Accept that words have power, that they can hurt, and they they build and define realities.  They have the ability to include and exclude, and your words will build or destroy your relationship with others.
Finally, and fundamentally, for goodness sakes think critically.  Question things, open your mind, don’t just accept what comes, engage with things and think, encourage others around you to think, but think with compassion.  Above all else think with compassion.  Thinking with compassion, acting with compassion.  Even when others diverge from our path.  Even when they walk a path that is littered with the corpses of a detached world.  We still MUST show attachment.
I’m also prepared to believe that this list isn’t definitive for me, it’s a process, there are probably things I’ve missed.  If you think I have, then by all means let me know and we can discuss it, it’s a growing list, the door is open for growth and healing.
So this, this I hold to be true.  I will keep the door open for anyone and anybody, for I above all things believe in the possibility for human change and human growth.  I know that some people believe that there are people in our communities incapable of change, the psychopaths, the sociopaths, I still hold that with the plasticity of the human brain, and the advances in neuroscience that one day there might be an opening for change.  I am attached to that concept, and I swear to live by it.  I may fail on a day by day basis, but I hold this to be my goal.  I aim to act compassionately and with empathy to all within a given situation.  This doesn’t mean I tolerate all, I will not ever tolerate hate speech, or stereotyping, or intolerance.  I will still speak up.

That’s the backbone, that’s the bit that is without cowardice.  But when you do it, do it with compassion.  Do it with love.  For you do not know what journey the other person has been on, or is going on.
You do not know what has happened to that person, in their head, in the last hour, day, week.  You might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.  You simply might be at the wrong place, at the wrong time.  So, above all compassion.  Speak up, with love and truly be the change you wish to see in the world, and hold that door open, even if just a little bit.

 

Dear Wilton

Dear Wilton,

I have a dilemma, and it’s one that I really want you to listen to and understand.  You need to listen for two reasons.  Firstly, because I am a cake decorator, I have purchased things from your range, and want to in the future.   Look, here are a couple of cakes I have decorated – I even happen to think I’m quite good at it… yes, that’s all my own work, with a little help from some of your products.

 

The second reason I need you to listen, and frankly this one is far more important, is because you are a big company, and you need to do the right thing.

 

Why am I writing to you?  Why am I seriously considering not buying your products again?  Well, I was seriously disturbed today to discover that on your:

 

“Wilton Natural Colors Fondant, Multi Pack”

 

You specifically have written “Skin Tone” under the “Pink” listing and not placed it under any of the other colours.   I’m supplying a handy link here for those people who need to see it for their own eyes.  Yes, it’s hard to see, but it’s there.  Hover over the packet with your mouse and you will see it.  Light Brown, Dark Brown, Pink (skin tone) and Black.

Fortunately the good folks at Jezebel have already talked about this issue here and taken a close up picture of it so you don’t have to strain your eyes (like I did):

Image Credit: http://jezebel.com/5700202/oddly-racist-fondant-pack-will-make-your-cake-unforgettable

 

What I find odd however is that despite Jezebel reporting this in 2010, you are still selling this item… come on?  Really?

 

I’d like to point out, that by making a list like this, and including all those other colours, and stating that Pink = skin and the others do not, well, it’s like saying that there’s only one type of skin colour.  Something I am sure you will agree is blatantly false.  It also upsets me.  As the mother of children who definitely don’t fit that kind of skin tone, I’m appalled on their behalf.  What do you think it tells people when you are (even if accidentally) telling them that there is only one shade of skin colour?   It’s a sign of privilege, that only one (white) skin colour is recognized, it renders all others invisible.  A similar dilemma can be seen with “skin coloured” plasters.  This is an issue which Deborah Gabriel eloquently dissects in this blog post.

Let me show you an example of where a company has got it right.  See, Crayola understands that “skin tone” can mean a veritable rainbow of colours, and they did this after years of having only one “flesh” toned crayon.   Well done to Crayola – a big multi coloured thumbs up!

Image Credit: http://www.amazon.com/Crayola®-Multicultural-Crayons-Large-Colors/dp/B001HA6IOE

Now I appreciate that this might be an oversight, in which case I am sure you will remove it and update all of your future packaging.  In the meantime, until I hear further from you, I won’t be buying any Wilton products.

Yours Sincerely,

A disgruntled Wilton customer.

P.S. for all those of you who are equally appalled at this, feel free to sign the online petition to encourage Wilton to change their packaging.  You can also go and comment on their Facebook page here, you can contact them direct using this link here, and you can tweet them, here.  And finally, if you’re reading this, and agree (I mean why wouldn’t you) then please share this widely, words matter, and careless use of words is indeed, careless.

A Crafty Christmas Present to Treasure

Both our children love craft activities, and they love little treasures, and storing them.  So, we decided that we would foster their love of crafts and treasures with a unique Christmas present for them both.

We have decided to put a heap of treasure type things together in a traditional bead box as a way to stimulate their creativity.  We have stuffed the boxes with things found from the bargain bin of our local craft store, and from raiding my own craft supplies.  Aided with a wee glue stick as well, we are both convinced that these will go down a treat on Christmas Day.  There is everything from rubber bands to cute little paperclips, stamps, glitter, old buttons and some feathers.

 

As we were putting it together it struck me that you could do a lot with this concept.  If your budget was tight or you wanted a more natural Steiner type box then you could fill the boxes with shells, stones, some interesting leaves, wood shavings etc.  Or you could add some rainbow rice, maybe even some small balls of play dough.
With this as a present you can really tailor it to your child’s loves whilst allowing them to have free rein with it once they get their little hands on it.  And as supplies run down you can either refill it as you need to, or you can encourage your child to use it as a treasure box for all those little things they find. I can’t wait to see their eyes on Christmas Day, I get the feeling that this will be one of those presents that they remember for a while!


Emma’s Story of Postnatal Depression

Introducing a beautiful and deeply moving guest post from Emma Fahy Davis:

Eight years ago, with our daughter about to turn two, we decided it might be nice to have another baby. When I look back at that time, I can hardly believe how naive and innocent we were.

13 months later, just as we were beginning to investigate fertility assistance, we finally saw the two little lines we’d been hoping for and dared to hope that we’d soon be welcoming a new child to the family. That hope was crushed just a few weeks later when I began miscarrying our baby on New Year’s Eve.

Crushed and broken, I was desperate to be pregnant, desperate to have a baby in my arms, and worried that it wasn’t going to happen. Yet less than two months after the miscarriage, I once again found myself staring down at those two little lines.

Image courtesy of winnond / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

 

I thought if I could just get through to 12 weeks, I’d be fine, I just had to hold on. Every ache, every cramp, every twinge had me wound up in knots and I was palpably terrified of miscarrying again. At six weeks, we saw our baby’s beating heart for the first time, and I exhaled just a little. At nine weeks, after a small amount of spotting, I went for another ultrasound. The rules of the game were about to change.

I lay there, waiting for the worst, expecting to be told I’d lost the baby, but in fact, I hadn’t lost a baby, I’d gained one – the scan showed two healthy babies. For the briefest of minutes, I was excited, but when a rather blunt and tactless obstetrician pointed out the increased risks associated with a twin pregnancy, the fear returned and though I didn’t know it then, that fear would invade my life, steal my precious first few hours, days, weeks, with my new babies, and cripple my life. My life separated into ‘the before’ and ‘the after’. The person I had been was gone.

The pregnancy was largely uneventful, we had a few minor scares but nothing overly dramatic, yet in my mind I refused to believe that we’d walk away from the whole thing with two live, healthy babies. I shut myself off emotionally – while I went through the motions of preparing a nursery for our baby girls, in my mind I was planning their funerals.

They were born on a Saturday night, three minutes apart after a perfect, textbook labour, and despite being 4 weeks early, required no special care. Sitting in the delivery unit watching my husband cradle our tiny daughters, I went into shock. I was completely numb. He was besotted, and I felt nothing. Not once had I allowed myself to believe that this would happen, and when it did, I had no idea how to respond.

The numbness persisted for weeks. The babies both had reflux and screamed for up to 20 hours a day, I couldn’t breastfeed them so spent hours attached to a machine pumping milk for them, and the whole time I felt as if I was watching someone else’s life pass by. It was literally like watching some other random family’s bad home movie collection. It’s hard to identify rock bottom as there were a lot of wicked lows, but if I had to choose just one, it would be the evening I ended up sitting on the driveway screaming at the top of my lungs because I simply didn’t know how else to vent my frustration, anger and anguish. They were 9 weeks old, tiny, helpless creatures. Why didn’t I love them? Why couldn’t I love them?

It wasn’t until the twins were 8 months old that I saw the first glimmer of hope that maybe I could bond with them after all, maybe it wasn’t too late. It was an ordinary afternoon, I was loading the dishwasher and the girls were sitting on the kitchen floor playing with a bowl of plastic blocks. As I watched them interacting, cheekily passing blocks backwards and forwards to each other, all of a sudden I realised that I was deeply and uncontrollably in love with them. In that moment, I knew I needed to get help.

I was eventually diagnosed with Postnatal Depression, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Through a combination of medication and therapy, I began to find a way to live in my own head, to forgive myself, and to accept that while my experiences frame the person I am, they don’t define me. Most importantly, I began the process of building a relationship with my babies.

It took 18 months of intensive attachment therapy with psychologists who specialise in infant mental health, but gradually piece-by-piece, my precious baby girls and I got to know each other, and to love each other. I learned to let go of the anger and guilt I felt around my inability to bond with them, and learnt that while I can’t erase the past, every day is a new opportunity to move forward in a more positive way.

I’ve since experienced the profoundly healing experience of carrying and birthing two more babies, I’ve learned to parent intuitively and not let the scars of the past weigh my family down. As I snuggle at night with whichever of my girls have crept into our bed to fill the space between my husband and I, I am content.

As the great poet Maya Angelou said, ‘we do what we know how to do, and when we know better, we do better.’

Now I know better.