I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome about 9 months ago. Officially. Funnily enough, an ultrasound nurse told me this when I was 14, and yet my doctors at the time disregarded this and basically told me to come back when I wanted to have children. It all started when I was 12. I went through puberty even though I was told that my Crohns may interfere. I had my first period (bloody hell literally) and I remember being super excited (even though I was in stupid pain). I remember getting the obligatory joke(?) text from my friend saying ‘WOOHOO you’re officially a woman!’, and I remember being somewhat proud of the whole debacle. I wasn’t worried when I didn’t have one the next month, or the month after that, because it’s often stressed to you that you’re never regular at the beginning.
Two years later I admitted to my mum that I hadn’t had a period since. I asked if it was normal. She booked me an appointment at the GPs. We went together and explained what had happened and they originally told me that some people don’t start to late. I didn’t pique their interest until I told them I had started two years ago, and just never…carried on. Continue reading
I am trying to take care of myself, in the same way that I take care of others. I am trying to love myself, in the same way that I love others. I am trying to believe in, and be be proud of myself, in the same way that I believe in and am proud of others.
It is so easy for me to applaud another, or soothe another, or comfort another. It is so easy for me to look at another person and understand every reason why they are how they are. It is so easy for me to raise my hand to stem their worries, fears, and doubts.
But when I look at myself, I find it difficult. It can be so hard to function. Sometimes it’s cos I’m ill. Sometimes it’s cos I’m depressed. And sometimes I just really don’t have time to care for myself. I can be for other people what they cannot be for themselves, but I cannot be what I need. I spend my days caring and loving others, and yet, when I come home, I have none left for myself. Continue reading
Depression sucks. Like really sucks. And when you hit a low spot it can feel like the whole world is crashing in around you, flying unerringly towards the void that is opening up in your chest. I was pretty good for a while. Probably a little while too long. And as the old saying goes ‘what goes up must come down’. No, I don’t go through my okay periods constantly thinking ‘when is this going to end’ (not every time anyway), but I can’t help but always feel like there is some sort of inevitability whenever I do end up crashing head first down the rabbit hole. It reaches a point when you start to become aware of every tiny little thing, every little flux in thought and feeling, and you begin to wonder if this is the one that finally pushes you over that edge. Sometimes I describe it as a cartoon cliff, where you run out and you don’t realise you’re over that cliff until you look down, and it’s too late by then. Other times you can see it getting closer and you’re doing everything in your power to stop the impending edge but there’s always something that sidelines you and you almost willingly take that final step off the precipice. I don’t know which one is worse to be honest. Continue reading