Monday 31 December 2018

Two Thousand and Eighteen

2018 was the year that I...

got a label for my particular brand of crazy,

started group therapy,

spent three months being technically homeless,

was largely skint, and

got a bit fat.


2018 was also the year that I...

discovered I like working in a warehouse,

became a vaguely competent barmaid,

completed my fourth (and fastest ever) Great North Run, and

moved in to my own little flat.


In 2018 I met...

Radio royalty, Chris Moyles,

his gorgeous, funny cousin and Dubland legend, Suzanne Kane,

Radio X breakfast show producer, James Robinson,

comedian, actor and the other half of the Dubland dream team, PJ Gallagher,

and the utter hammer legends that are, Elis James and John Robins.


When I look back on this year, I will remember all of the above. I will also remember...

a perfect day spent with Jenny and her beautiful children in a sunny Whitley Bay,

drinking Estrella with Claire in the caravan awning in a not-so-sunny Appleby,

watching Eva and Hal run round Tahlas's garden in their pants having a water fight,

seeing England win a World Cup penalty shoot-out, and

having breakfast with a very old (but super young looking) friend overlooking Long Sands on my 37th birthday.



This has been the year where my uncles have taken care of me in my dad's absence, and where two people who share no blood with me have loved me like their own daughter. It's been the year where my sisters (all three of them) have looked after me in their own way and where a small army of incredible friends have held me together when I was falling apart. I could list them all but they know who they are.



So here's to 2019... Here's to more therapy, to being more mindful, to losing some weight and to being the best Mamoo I can be. Here's to Living My Best Life and not being a self-centred hammock too much of the time. Here's to holidays and gigs and adventures and to sometimes just wearing pyjamas all day. Here's to not giving myself a hard time when it all goes to shit because statistically, that WILL happen no matter how hard I try not to let it. Here's to just riding that vibe train all the way to Legendsville!


And maybe, just maybe... here's to love...?












Wednesday 14 November 2018

Home

Home. I've had that word and all the things associated with it rattling round my head all year long. It's just four letters but like another four letter word (I meant 'love' not the other one!) it encompasses so much. Even now, poised to get it all out on to the virtual page, I'm still not sure which angle I'm coming at it from. Maybe I'll just type and see what happens! Let's face it, that's usually how this process goes...

I suppose the main catalyst for finally writing this oft drafted blog post is the fact that I've finally moved in to a place of my own. The variety of places I've lived this year is frankly ridiculous and I feel like I need to reflect on it in order to make peace with it all. 

2018 began with me still residing at Churchill Way. Pete and I had called it quits in December but I wasn't in a position to move out. I was on a sabbatical from my role as a Slimming World consultant and as a result was earning next to nothing. In February I started working at the Primark Distribution Centre on rotating shifts and initially this worked well as it meant Pete and I had little interaction. By the end of March however, it was clear that we weren't able to continue living under the same roof. An ex is an ex for a reason (many, many reasons in the case of Pete and I) and cohabiting post break up is far from ideal. 

It was around mid-March that a friend threw me a lifeline. Her sister had her own place and was happy to rent me a room. At the end of March, I moved some (though certainly not all) of my worldly goods in to a lovely little new build in Burton Latimer and embraced life as Tahla's housemate. I spent four happy months living there and I will forever be grateful to the amazingly kind and generous Tahls for sharing her home, not only with me but for half of the week, with my children too. Sleeping on an air bed as I had to when the children were with me wasn't the funnest but we managed. I loved kitchen chats with Tahla about our love lives while we waited for the kettle to boil so we could make our umpteenth cup of tea. Is tea not life, after all?! We certainly thought so. 

All good things must come to an end however and so, at the end of July, I packed up my room and moved on. Just picture me like a cartoon character with with one of those spotted handkerchiefs on a stick, holding all my most prized possessions... The reality was a 56 plate Renault Clio, stuffed to the roof and several trips to Pete's garage to unload but the spotty hanky visual is better somehow, don't you think? 

A much-needed holiday to the North East and Cumbria followed my departure from Casa Tahls. This was most definitely one of the many times this year when I've pondered the concept of home. Being back in the North East is always simultaneously wonderful and painful for me. It is home and it is familiar but also alien. I belong there but I don't. I love any time I spend there and the day we shared with my wonderful friend Jenny and her glorious children, Lila and Dylan, in the beautiful summer sunshine is one I hope never to forget. It was and is so hard not to dwell on how joyous it would be to have days like those more often. I didn't manage to catch up with as many family members as I'd have liked and then I'd find myself 'what if-ing' about living nearer to those I love. 

Back to Northamptonshire and the reality of the fact that I was technically now homeless. Of course I wasn't sleeping rough in a doorway but I was 'of no fixed abode' which surely puts me income weird subcategory of homelessness? If you'd put a form in front of me any time from early August this year up to a few weeks ago and asked me to fill in my address I wouldn't have been able to. I can't tell you how scary that is. 

I'd applied to go on the social housing register all the way back in February when I was still living with Pete. Due to a spectacular balls up by Kettering Borough Council, I wasn't actually on the list until late August. I provided all the information and evidence I was asked for as soon as it was requested. I paid my GP to write a letter confirming that I suffer from a chronic mental illness. Every week, I'd 'bid' on houses and every week I'd be unsuccessful. 

Resourceful (and indeed, cheeky) sort that I am, I arranged house sitting gigs all through the month of August. Plenty of my friends were going away on holiday and they had pets that needed looking after. Not a bother, said I, let me stay in your gaff and I'll mind your pets for free. I treated it like an adventure for the children's sake but also for mine too. If I'd really thought about it, it was a little depressing that I didn't have a home of my own but I pushed that feeling aside. Week one I looked after a Yorkie Poo in a two bed flat and the week after, I was in a four bed house caring for a greyhound! Week three was three bedrooms, two budgies and two bunnies. I certainly can't say that my summer wasn't varied! But every time I had to pack up and move on, every time I loaded my car up I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness and failure.

As friends returned from their holidays, I once again found myself with nowhere to go. This time it was my surrogate parents who stepped in. My love for Karen and Paul could fill a whole blog post. They really are the best kind of humans and the way they treat me, loving me like one of their own, tells you all you need to know about them. I stayed for a few nights, cooking dinner in the evening to repay them for their kindness. 

A series of very fortunate events banked me a seven week house-sitting gig that lasted from mid-September until early November. Staying in one place for so long was a relief after six weeks on the move. I had time to catch my breath but the reality of my situation niggled at me the whole time. It all came to a head when I realised that I had two weeks to find somewhere to live or I really was going to be actually homeless. Countless, well-intentioned, friends suggested I turn up at the KBC offices with a bin bag and declare myself homeless forcing their hand. I discussed this with a member of the Housing Options team who confirmed that yes, if I was to make myself homeless they would have to provide "appropriate temporary accommodation" for me but they couldn't tell me beforehand where it would be. Best case scenario would be a house or flat in Kettering... Worse case? They could send me to Bedford, Leicester or even Luton. No thanks!

After using Facebook live to appeal to any local friends who might know of affordable rentals in Kettering, it was actually my big sister Clare who found the flat I'm now calling home. I hadn't even considered one bed flats or places above shops but Clare spotted one within my price range and urged me to investigate. I viewed it later that same day and the following day dropped off my forms and registration fee. A week or so later, they confirmed I'd been accepted miraculously passing the credit check.

Getting out of the long term house-sitting job in time for the owner to return was a little stressful to say the least. I couldn't get all my crap in my car in one trip plus I had to clean the house from top to bottom. It was yet another one of those "I don't actually know how I'm gonna do this!" moments that I've had all too many of in 2018 and I only got four hours sleep on my last night there but somehow it all fell in to place.

I spent my first night in the flat on Friday 2 November. I was on an airbed surrounded by bags and boxes of my stuff but I slept like a log. The following night I went to sleep tucked up in my brand new (to me) bed, donated by my fabulous friend, Tracey and banked nine hours kip. Yes please!

Special mention to one amazing woman who I couldn't have managed without that weekend. My beautiful birthday twin Sam came over on the Friday night to organise me, even getting her lovely husband Chris to bring me the air bed which he also inflated for me. What a gent! On the Saturday morning she was back to keep me on task and stayed with me right through until teatime. I really do have some utter smashers in my life.

Although I've still got bits to sort, I'm happy to report that the flat already feels like home. Certainly it's not ideal - one adult and two children (albeit it part time) in a one bed flat - but we're making the best we can of it.

Home is where my babies are and so, for the next twelves years or so, that's Ket'rin, Northants. In future, who knows? Perhaps when Hal is 18 and I'm forty-fucking-nine, I'll return to my beloved homeland. I'll be back for visits in between of course, as many as I can mange, but maybe this little magpie will fly home to roost in 2030? Who knows..? Right now, after this year's magical mystery tour of friend's homes I'm happy just to be in one place for the foreseeable future. Time to make some memories with my small humans in our teeny, tiny shoe box flat.

Sunday 14 October 2018

The Last Goodbye

Sunday 11 October, 2015. I woke, surprisingly hangover free, in the guest bedroom of one of my oldest friends. The night before me, my host Gemma and a bunch of other smashers had gathered in The Town Wall pub in Newcastle for a mini school reunion. It wasn't supposed to be a mini one, I was hoping for a much better turn out if I'm honest but those who did show up made sure it was a belter of a night.

The trip was significant in many ways...  For starters, I drove myself home for the first time ever and while this may not seem like a big deal, it's worth noting that this was October 2015 and I'd only been driving since May 2014. It was the first time I'd seen some of my old school friends since 2000 and it was also my first night out on the Toon since 2007. Being able to wander round Newcastle city centre with Gemma during the day and then just decide to go to Santana's for dinner was wonderful. As a parent, you don't always get that kind of freedom and I loved every minute of it.

On the Sunday however it was time to break the spell and head back to Kettering and my babies. First though, I had a few more people to see. I drove from Longbenton to Whitley Bay to meet one of my closest friends, an absolute diamond of a woman named Christina. We walked to The View which overlooks Longsands Beach and shared a cheese scone that was roughly the same size as my head! I was reluctant to say goodbye to Chrissy as it's so rare that we get to spend any time together and before she moved from Kettering where we met back to the North East where we both hail from we were pretty much joined at the hip! I was due to visit my Dad and step-mam next and even though we hadn't set a time, I still had my Dad texting to chase me up. Was I still coming? Had I left yet? Was I on my way? What was my ETA?!

I headed away from the coast towards Denton Burn and my childhood home. We moved to Earls Drive in early 1989 when I was just seven years old. I'd left for university in September 2000 and apart from a short stay in the summer of 2001, I've never lived there since. Driving myself to that house was completely surreal. I parked round the side and headed in. My Dad and Marion greeted me warmly, as did Lola, the Labradoodle. I sat in my dad's battered leather armchair in the front room, catching up with Maz while my dad buzzed in and out, ever the fidget! He made me a cup of tea and some toast with butter and jam. I can't remember if the bread was homemade but the jam definitely was. I told them about my night out and my dad was disappointed that more ex Sacred Heart and St Cuthbert's pupils hadn't attended. I agreed that more could have made the effort but told him we'd had a grand old time anyway and I wasn't feeling rough which was a huge plus! He asked me how many syns my toast and jam would be as my role as a Slimming World consultant delighted and amused him in equal measure. I replied that in that moment - sat in the front room of that house, eating toast my dad had made for me with his own homemade jam - I didn't give a monkeys how many syns it was!

I had promised to visit my Nana (my dad's mam) before heading back to Kettering so I got ready to say my goodbyes to my parents. On the table in the dining area was a hat belonging to my dad. It was a trilby style with a wider brim and I popped it on my head to try it out for size. My dad was a lover of hats, wearing baseball caps before they were chavvy and sporting a beret at a jaunty angle embracing his inner Frenchman. It was one of so many quirks that separated him out from all the other Dads I knew.

The parents followed me out to see my car. The notion of me as a driver was still a bit of a novelty as I hadn't passed until I was 32. I proudly showed them my adorable silver 57 plate Twingo... and less proudly added "... and here's the dent from where I wedged it up against a concrete pillar in the Newlands Centre car park!" My dad laughed and showed me a scrape on his C4 Picasso "... and this is where I damaged my car putting it back on the drive after too much red wine on a Sunday!" Like father, like daughter.

After hugs and kisses and promises to let them know when I made it safely back to Northamptonshire, I got in and buzzed down my window. I beeped the horn and as I pulled away I heard my dad chuckle "Eeeh Marion, look! There's our Kati driving a car!"

I visited my Nana, drank yet more tea then hit the road for the long drive back to the East Midlands. Every visit home to Newcastle always leads to a bout of depression. My heart breaks a little every time I have to leave behind my hometown for my adopted home in Kettering. I moped about all week, promising myself that I would make more of an effort to visit. I'd now proved to myself that I was capable of the journey and I vowed to do it more often.

Sunday 18 October, 2015. I'm sitting at the dining table of our home on Churchill Way. I am at my laptop, catching up on my SW admin and the children are playing happily around me. We're all still in our pyjamas. Pete is awake but still in bed upstairs. As I'd been off gallivanting the weekend before, he was enjoying a lazy morning in bed while I manned our small humans. My phone rang. Clare. We'd FaceTimed the day before as we often did (and still do) on a Saturday morning but it wasn't unusual for her to call again! All those years in childhood where we were at odds have been replaced by an ability to talk at length on consecutive days, never running out of things to say. I answered, blissfully unaware that she was making the most difficult phone call of her life, uttering words that changed my world forever.

"Dad's died"

I think that's what she said. I can't be sure. In that moment I was consumed by a primal feeling, the like of which I've never experienced before or since. I wailed like a wounded beast and fell to the floor. I so wish the children hadn't been in such close proximity when I answered but how was I to know that Clare was ringing to deliver the most awful news imaginable? Our Dad... our funny, kind, mischievous, flamboyant dad... was gone.

Eva ran to fetch her own dad, calling out "Daddy, mummy's crying and she won't stop!" There was panic and fear in her voice. Pete was there in an instant, taking the phone and speaking to Clare.

Within hours I was on a train to Newcastle. I have no memory of packing a bag, getting dressed or the journey to Peterborough to put me on the train. I arrived at the Central Station and my step-brother was waiting for me. Once we'd collected Clare from Newcastle Airport, the three of us headed to Earls Drive.

A week before I'd kissed my dad goodbye and driven away... And seven days later I was back and he was gone. The hat I'd taken a shine to was still there on the table, I put it on my head again and claimed it as my own. I wore it to his funeral a few weeks later and even as I've moved around what feels like a million times this year, it's never been far from me.

Almost three years have passed and I still have days where I can't quite believe he's really gone. Only twice have I genuinely forgotten and the pain that followed in the moment after where the truth hit me like a truck all over again is astonishing. To say I miss him doesn't seem to cover it. I am acutely aware of his absence every single day because the world just feels different without him in it. There was Life with Dad and now there is Life without Dad... but there is still Life. Sometimes I am secretly glad he's not here to see what an absolute shambles my life is at the moment, but then part of me knows he'd be proud of me for surviving the lowest lows. He'd be delighted to see me striking out on my own and trying to do what's best for me and the children.

Our Clare shared a quote that I think sums up beautifully how we both strive to live... "When I am at my best, I am my father's daughter" 



Monday 8 October 2018

An open letter to myself

Dearest Kati,

We need to talk. There are some things I need to tell you and I really hope you'll listen...

I know you've had a rough year, possibly your roughest yet and that's saying something!

Getting a diagnosis back in January after decades of being baffled by your own actions was huge. In many ways it was a relief but in other ways, it became another burden. You won't like me saying this but you are a little guilty of hiding behind it or using it as an excuse.

Okay, so you have a Personality Disorder... Don't let it define you. And while we're on the subject, not everyone needs to know. You think you're being funny when you tell people within five minutes of meeting them, that you're "legitimately bat shit crazy" but it's unnecessary. It hurts you and it makes them feel uncomfortable. STOP. I'm not having a go, really I'm not but just let people meet you and get to know you. The whole 'make the joke before they do' thing... It's not really working for you, is it?

What else...? Oh yeah. Men! You deserve a good one but you are never going to find one looking in all the wrong places. You go for men that you can't have or that will make you miserable because that's what you think you deserve. Kati, you're wrong. Someone, somewhere will love you for all that you are and they won't care about all that you're not... but first, sweet girl, you need to learn to love yourself. I know, I know! That expression has you locked in the cringe position but it's not wrong. Make peace with your past relationship decisions then let them go. Learn to enjoy your own company. Work on you. You are worth your own time.

In pursuit of love, you've survived three ridiculous crushes this year. Your poor heart has taken a bit of a kicking but that's because you keep trying to give it to men who don't want it or deserve it. Find a man Dad would've like... One Clare approves of.

Strive to put aside your frustrations on how your life has turned out. They hold you back! So you've got a degree? Good for you. Much like your mental health condition, you don't need to tell everyone you meet. You feel like people are judging you for what you do or for where you're living (or not, as the case may be) but they're almost certainly not. They have their own shit to deal with... And if they are judging you, fuck 'em. Plenty of folks think you're smashing.

Could your life and career be going better? Well, of course. Does it matter that you and your degree work in a warehouse? No, it really doesn't. Expectation versus Reality. Isn't life what happen when you're making other plans? You have not one but two jobs you enjoy. Embrace it and stop worrying about the aesthetics.

Now the next bit is really important so I need you to pay attention... Your wonderful, kind, beautiful friend Jenny sent you a postcard the other day and on the front it said "You're the best mum your kids have ever had" and that is so true. Eva and Hal don't care what you do for a living as long as they get to see you. They don't care care about what you drive or about your living situation. They don't care that you take them on holiday to Cumbria instead of Spain. They don't look at you and see a warehouse colleague or a BPD diagnosis... they see their Mamoo. And they think you're wonderful! Yes, you're short-tempered, impatient, skint and perpetually tired but you are their Mummy Person and they love you endlessly. Love them, be there for them, try really very hard not to be a shouty, angry Mamoo... but when you do inevitably lose your shit, apologise. Cuddle them tight and promise to try harder.

One more thing... Back in your days as a Slimming World consultant, you're biggest 'thing', the catchphrase you used most of all was Be Kind to Yourself. You even had a hashtag... #BKTY. When members would tear themselves apart, you'd stop them dead and say "If you wouldn't say it to your mate, don't say it to yourself!" It's time, Katherine Emily to show yourself that kindness that you always urged your members to show themselves and each other. It's time to heed your own advice.

No more moping over unsuitable men. No more telling everyone you meet that you're crackers. No more telling people that you're "technically homeless" and "slightly fat". And if 'no more' is too ambitious, maybe just aim for 'less of' that and 'more of' kindness, positivity and giving yourself a fucking break, man. You're not a bad sort really.

With love,

You x

Sunday 16 September 2018

Musings

September 16, 2018. In my last update I was staggered to find that August had arrived and we're now officially in mid-September. Wha' happened? [This is a reference to a splendid film called A Mighty Wind, just FYI. Bit of an obscure one, I'll admit.]

Long, long ago (okay, it was January) I wrote a post called 'Honesty is the Best Policy' in which I pondered the most socially acceptable way to answer the question "How are you?" or the more casual version "You alright?". Ever the over thinker, I picked it the idea like a crusty scab, worrying if my approach of actually telling the truth was right or not! Of course, back in January only a month on from my December meltdown, my answer to that question was NOT a positive one. In short, I was in a bad way and I told people so when they enquired deciding, as the title of the post suggested, that it was best to be honest.

So how am I now? I was asked this question just last week by my mate, Jacqui, who I haven't seen in yonks but I'll get to that in a moment.

A deeply organised friend from uni has recently invited me to his 40th birthday party in... wait for it... January. Now this may seem ludicrous but parents of small humans like myself will appreciate the need to have as much notice as possible for social gatherings. It's even more important when you are separated from your children's father as you have to choose exactly the right moment to spring "Btw, I'm going away for the weekend! Thanks, bu-bye!" on your ex.

Upon receipt of said invitation (he posted it and everything, #oldschool) I immediately contacted my mate who I knew would definitely also be invited and as a mother of a nearly two year old would most definitely be up for a shindig. She asked how I am - her message read, and I quote "Geordie Kati, how the fookin eck are you??" reminding me instantly of how much I bloody love her and reinforcing the idea that she is 100% the right wingwoman for this event. My response was "In a nutshell, I'm homeless, mental and a tiny bit fat", all technically true. Jacqui replied with "That all sounds like the making of a great TV show... you should write a script!"

And so once again I find myself musing over a writing career. I was considered quite the literary genius in High School (yes, really) but it was most definitely a big fish, small pond scenario. I dare say there were more talented writers within my school but my talent coupled with my massive gob and gift for self-promotion meant I was the best known author in Scared Heart in the late 90s. My English teachers, who were of course my favourite teachers, wanted me to do an English degree. They were absolutely correct but someone, somewhere put it on my radar that you could actually study FILM at university... or filim as I would've pronounced it back then as a much more Geordier Kati... and my mind was made up. I often wonder how different my life would be if I had indeed studied English but there is of course no way to know.

This blog is the most writing I've done in years and I do love it. It doesn't reach the masses like I dreamed it would... I have not become the latest blogging sensation making my fortune from my musings on life, parenthood and shitey mental health but it is cathartic and good for my head space and right now, that's more valuable to me than fame and notoriety. Only just, mind you.

I have all manner of ideas floating around my noggin for novels - both adult and young adult fiction - but nothing I can pin down and start working on. I don't even know the process of writing a novel! I dare say this can be learned but again, where do you start? I push ideas to one side, telling myself that for now I'm just focusing on getting mentally stronger and oh yeah, finding somewhere to fookin live but I know for a fact that there is no perfect time to do anything.

My therapy is now underway and so far, it's going well I think. The others in the group are warm and interesting. Needless to say, we are quite a mismatched crew as crappy Mental Health does not see age, colour or religion and will happily bring anyone it fancies to their knees (bastard!) but we're getting along quite well. It's certainly fascinating. As to whether or not it's 'working', I think it's far too early to tell. I don't even believe that this group will 'fix' me and to be honest, I'm not interested in being fixed. For me, it's about learning coping strategies and gaining a better understanding of my illness so it's hold over me is not quite so strong. I am a work in progress - cookie dough to use a Buffy analogy which I'm inclined to do wherever possible - and I feel I always will be. And I'm cool with that.

I still don't have a home of my own but I am happy to report that I am settled in one place until the beginning of November which, after being on the move since the end of July, is an absolute joy. I have a plan of attack which I intend to launch this coming week to move along the whole process of me being allocated somewhere to live. I can't sit around and wait for the council to sort it. I want to put pictures on the walls and buy Harry Potter cushions from Primark that will delight me and my children but infuriate my big sister. I want to make a little home for me and my small humans.

When I sit down in front of my laptop to write a blog post, I'm often unsure of where I will be by the end of it. Well, I'll still be sitting in front of the computer obviously but what will have flowed from me through my fingers and on to the screen in the past hour? That is not always quite so clear.

I think I expected to write about how I am and oddly, despite being "homeless, mental and a tiny bit fat", I think I'm okay. I think I'm better than I was. But the blog has also ended up being about my writing. Typical me with my need for validation and attention, still suffering a case of Wannabeitis that has followed me round since my teens, I tend to picture myself at book signings and literary prize givings more than I think about plot structure and target audience for my novels. No please, do roll your eyes, be my guest! I know I'm quite ridiculous at times.

Over all, yes, I am okay. I think! I completed my fourth (and fastest ever) Great North Run last Sunday and I am immensely proud of myself for this. And for the first time ever, I'm still running post-GNR. Unheard of, I tells ya! I did a recovery run on Monday, went for a five mile walk on Wednesday (admittedly I only walked that far coz I got lost) and then ran again on Friday. I'm also 99% sure I'm going to do the Great South Run next month despite the fact that I did it last year and hated every second of it... So much so, that I gave up running altogether after it. I'm glad I don't stick to all the decisions I make!

Will 2019 be the year I write my first novel? Will I be sat on the sofa with Phillip and Holly, talking about how my breakdown and my poor mental health was the catalyst for me turning my life around and being the writer I'd always dreamed of being...? Should I perhaps focus on writing for the love of words, language and storytelling rather than on it being a path to the 'This Morning' studio?! I don't need you to answer that.

It's a Sunday. A new week begins tomorrow. My Headspacing is teaching me that I can't change the past and the future hasn't happened yet so maybe I'll just focus on today. Sounds like a plan, yes?

Thursday 2 August 2018

Pinch Punch!


[Started this last night in the caravan and finished it tonight back in Whitey Bay... just FYI.]

And all of a sudden, it’s August! I mean really it’s not that sudden… Having lived through January to July 2018, the arrival of August is inevitable but I still find myself feeling a little shocked that we are at the start of the eighth month of the year. My, my how time flies…

I’m in quite the reflective mood on this day, Wednesday 1 August. Since Monday teatime I’ve officially been “on holiday” at Wild Rose caravan park in Appleby in Cumbria. Being able to poke my head out of the van and see ridiculous, majestic hills all around me is really quite something and it’s brought me a sense of peace. Not that there’s been much peace and quiet on the holiday thus far but then when you’ve got two mams and four bairns, what can you expect but noise, fun, chaos and the occasional meltdown?

Eva, Hal and I were invited by my step sister in law (she’s married to but separated from my step brother) to join her and my two nephews, Charlie and William at her parent’s caravan. Our children don’t see a huge amount of each other owing to the fact that I don’t come up to the North East anywhere near as much as I should… Not only should but that I want to! The wonderful thing about children though is that time apart doesn’t really matter. Within half an hour of us arriving at Claire’s house in Whitley Bay on Sunday, everyone was best buddies. For the most part this has continued through the holiday with the odd, inevitable falling out.

This is my first holiday of the year and Lord knows, I bloody needed it. I love my job at Primark and my bar job at the Community Centre but I haven’t had any time off since February. Of course, I had visions of me meditating quietly at some picturesque spot on the campsite and really connecting with nature and that absolutely has not happened! But there’s been beer, ice cream, board games, gin, giggling fits and mini adventures. Every night I say I need to get to bed early and every night Claire and I sit up until midnight, putting the world to rights. I needed that for my soul as much as I need to get my mindfulness on!

Heading up to the North East last Sunday coincided with me moving out of the house I’ve been calling home since the end of March. It was wonderful while it lasted but it was only ever a temporary measure. Technically, I am now… well, homeless. I realise this sounds dramatic but I am of ‘no fixed abode’. Upon my return from my hols I will be staying with friends for a week as their guest and then my house sitting career begins. Living out of a suitcase might become tedious after a while but I’m oddly excited about my nomadic August. I’m treating it as an adventure! Here's hoping that I manage to get on the Keyways register by the autumn or I really will be screwed. Friends are kind but I can't 'sofa surf' forever... Not with two children. 

I finally got a start date for my therapy. My referral was completed in April and I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever get a space. Medication helps, there’s no denying that, but I need practical tools to cope with my condition. Now that my start date is only weeks away, suddenly I’m terrified. It’s going to be hard going, I know that. It was made clear to me when I was referred that I would have homework to do each week. It is not a sit round in a circle discussing your feelings type of group, I’m told, more of a classroom setting with practical advice and strategies to cope with a Personality Disorder.

I so badly want to get better but sometimes when I think of the work that will need to go in to it, I just feel exhausted. I do not want to stay broken, repeating the same mistakes and destructive behavioural patterns that have plagued me for so much of my life but it’s hard to muster the energy to work hard on yourself when you’re not entirely sure you deserve to be fixed. My children deserve a happier, healthier (less shouty and crazy outbursty) mumma for sure but I know I have to do this for me. Eva and Hal will reap the benefits if I find a way to focus on me.

On a more basic level, there’s so much I can be doing to help myself. I found out from reading Fearne Cotton’s Happy book that the lovely Tom Fletcher has Bipolar Disorder. I had no clue this was the case! He calls it his ‘wonky brain’. When asked what he does to manage his disorder he said he really tries hard to eat well and trains as often as possible. I’ve seen pictures on Instagram of him doing push ups with Buzz and Buddy on his back so I’d say he’s reasonably fit! I’m unlikely to ever be able to do decent push ups full stop let alone with my children on board but I can run… slowly. Back in January I was walking at least a mile a day with podcasts for company – why can’t I do that again? Well I can! And I shall… Wanna know what else I can do? Stop eating like an unsupervised toddler at a birthday party (not my joke but I do love it). My food choices of late have been mindbogglingly dreadful and my weight has increased as a result. I’m embracing the “I’m on holiday!” excuse with every fibre of my being right now but once I’m back in Ket’rin, it stops. I want a stone off and I think I might actually be ready to do it. I fucking hope so! Watch this space blog fans.

Five months left of 2018, let’s see what they’ve got in store for me, eh? The DBT group will take me right through in to early 2019. I have a new role to train for at Primark. I want to find a place to call home and make it somewhere I can be me in all my ridiculous, noisy, slightly crazy glory. This year has been bastard hard so far but oddly, despite everything I've been through and the low lows I've had to endure I refuse to see this year as a bad one. Let's be having you August! 

Saturday 14 July 2018

An analysis of Russia 2018... from someone who knows nowt about football

A funny thing happened in England this summer... Two funny things actually. The sun shone A LOT and the England squad played really rather smashing football. 

June 14 and Russia 2018 kicks off. I'll be honest, I wasn't paying a huge amount of attention. I heard the England team being discussed and the word that was used more than any other was 'young'. No shit. I'd find out later in the tournament that of twenty three lads in the squad, seventeen of the little whippersnappers weren't bloody born in the summer of 1990 when Italy hosted the World Cup!! Foetus's in footballs kits! But I'm getting ahead of myself... 

As I don't follow Premiership football closely (or really, at all) the players were unknown to me. I heard names like Stirling, Kane, Dier, Henderson... and they meant nothing. The last time I really paid real attention to an England line up the names on the shirts were Shearer, Sheringham, Pearce, Redknapp and Owen. And of course I remember Beckham and Rooney too. This new lot, these babies, I didn't know who they played for or if indeed they were any good. 

England kick off their World Cup campaign on June 18 with a 2-1 win over Tunisia. At this point, I'm still a bit like your nan when you tell her a football result and she reacts with "That's nice, dear". 

The second game falls on a Sunday. It's a beautiful day (which is presently the norm in the UK) and my friend Jo has been told unequivocally by her husband Stuart that she is to go out, take their beautiful 18 month daughter Phoebe with her and leave him in peace to watch the match. I'm at a loose end so me, Jo and P pile in to Jo's car and head to a country park. 

We arrive and decide to have lunch. Jo's in the cafe getting food for her and P when I think to myself "I'll just check the score..." Quick check of the BBC Sport page... "HOLY SHIT JO! We're 3-0 up already!" Had the score stayed at that, well that would have been a wonderful result... But it didn't. The England/ Panama game ended with a score line of six goals to one. Now in fairness, Panama aren't exactly Brazil (although in this World Cup Brazil weren't really Brazil either...) but a 6-1 win is a 6-1 win, thanks ever so much. 

A 1-0 defeat to Belgium followed but our spirits were not dampened as we were already guaranteed a place in the last sixteen. England were definitely getting out of the group stages. Guess who didn't..? Current World Cup holders Germany. Auf Wiedersehn, Pets! 

The defeat against Belgium means we face Colombia in the next round. Pundits say this will be a trickier match. By now, I'm invested. It's Tuesday 3 July and the children are staying over with me. Hal goes to bed as usual and Eva stays up. I want to watch the match so I do her a deal. She can watch Netflix on the laptop with headphones if I can watch the first half. She agrees. At half time she says she wants to watch something with me (our current fave is Gortimer Gibbons' Life on Normal Street on Amazon!) so we watch that with the telly on mute and me keeping half an eye on the match. 

In true dramatic style, England concede a goal right at the end of added time. It's particularly infuriating that the only reason there was so much time added was because the Colombians were playing dirty, getting booked and arguing with the ref left, right and centre. So we go to extra time. I tell Eva she must go to bed - it's a school night after all - but she begs me to let her stay up. I'm convinced it's a ruse to stay up later and that she has no real interest in the game but she proves me wrong. I took a wonderful picture of her lying on the sofa, propped up on her elbows, glued to the TV. 

No goals in extra time which of course means the one thing England fans dread more than anything... A frigging penalty shoot out. Well that's it, isn't it? I'm tempted to order Eva to bed to spare her the heartache that I've suffered myself in the past but I also want a hand to squeeze while it happens so I keep her up. 

When Jordan Pickford (he's from Washington, y'know) saved Bacca's attempt Eva squealed in delight. It was a magnificent save but I knew we still needed one more penalty to win. Up steps Eric Dier... Me and my little girl are on the edge of our seats. England holds its breath. Is this it? Is this the moment when a 24 year old from Cheltenam re-writes England penalty shoot history? Or is it the moment where we inevitably crash out of another major tournament...? BANG. It's in. We're through to the next round. I pick Eva up and somehow manage to jump up and down with her in my arms. She's nine and a half years old and weighs around four stone but England just won a World Cup penalty shoot out and apparently that gives me superhuman strength! Who knew? 

Without a shadow of a doubt, I will never forget that moment. It is my personal highlight of Russia 2018. Me and my first born, whooping and laughing and hugging. Giddy with joy. 

I was behind the bar at work for England's 2-0 win over Sweden, pulling pints with an eye on the big screen. It was glorious when the final whistle blew and what we'd only dared to dream about had come true: a place in the semi-final. At the start of the tournament fans were just hoping we'd make it out of the group stages (Germany didn't, did I mention that?) and now we were semi-finalists. The last time that happened - Italia 90 - I was eight years old.

Of course, we know now that the semi-final was as far as we got, bested by Croatia. I was back at the Community Centre where I work but this time on the other side of the bar, drinking Bud bought for me by a fella from Walker. 

It's sad of course but the team brought us so much joy this summer. One of the main reasons I wanted to write about the World Cup was just to try and capture the mood of the country. Here are a few things I will remember: 

Alan Shearer singing 'All Night Long' by Lionel Ritchie in to a bread stick

Three Lions breaking records and getting back to Number 1 

The Alan Shearer and Ian Wright videos that did the rounds on social media

Twitter. Honestly, it's been glorious throughout the tournament

Waistcoat Wednesday

#GarethSouthgateWould 

Mini Roundabouts painted with the England flag

I've probably missed out loads but these are the ones that stand out. Of course there were negatives... Many shared articles and stats about a rise in domestic violence during major tournaments and there were reports of vandalism as moronic fans celebrated England's defeat over Sweden by trashing Ikea but over all, it's been a rather lovely time for our country. 

Today England will face Belgium again in the third place play-off. Big Al Shearer says it's pointless and the lads should just have been allowed to come home. I agree with him... mainly because he knows way more about football than I do! Whatever happens this afternoon, our boys can hold their heads high. They made us believe that football can and will come home one day. Roll on Euro 2020 and Qatar 2022.

"It's coming home, it's coming home, it's coming... FOOTBALL'S COMING HOME!"
 

Thursday 21 June 2018

Just the facts, ma'am

I started a post yesterday and saved it as a draft. Reading it back today it was a world a way from how I'm feeling now so I scrapped it. I find it fascinating that my mood can shift so drastically from one day to the next... Fascinating and a little bit shit, obviously. 

Over the past week or so, I've found myself waking each day unsure of which version of Kati I'll be spending the day with. As I'm not overly keen on most of the potential variations this is not an ideal way to start the day. The fact that three to four mornings a week I also wake up on an airbed certainly doesn't help matters but we'll come to that shortly. 


So my mood has been all over the shop and I was starting to wonder if perhaps my medication needed adjusting. I don't necessarily want to be on a higher dose but after reading a brilliant article on the Blurt Foundation website this week about the stigma surrounding medication and mental health, I decided to just go with it. Appointment is booked for after work tomorrow to see my GP. Today however, I feel better. Massive overshare: my period arrived today. Yay! I mean, not yay because I feel like I've been hit by a bus and I'm roughly the size of a small shed but at least my mood has levelled out and I've got an explanation of sorts for my escalated sugar consumption just lately. 


As my head is the clearest it's been all week, I thought I'd seize the opportunity to bosh out a blog post and get a bit of perspective. The more I add to this little blog o' mine, the more it helps me to understand my own head and thought processes. 


Over the last few days I've described my life as an "utter shit show" in conversation with others. I did it earlier today when talking with my (now ex) accountant. On the one hand, I like the way it sounds and it packs a certain comedic punch but on the other hand, I actually feel like it's a fairly accurate description. 


Let's look at the facts, shall we...? 


I am 36 years old. Single. A mother of two. I am currently living in a friend's spare room. My whole world in one place. Of course I still have a heap of stuff at my ex-partner's house and thankfully he's okay with it staying there for now. When the children stay over with me (three nights a week), they get my bed and I sleep on a single air bed on the floor. When my mood is low (as it has been several times this week), I find myself lying there wondering how the actual F this is my life?! I mean, for reals. I have a degree. I'm reasonably intelligent (but admittedly somewhat lacking in basic common sense). I ran my own business for almost four years. I had a mortgage (albeit briefly) twelve years ago!! And now... Air bed on the floor. 


I must at this point state that I am insanely grateful to my lovely friend for letting me and my small humans invade her home, life and space for a few months. It's a temporary measure and I long for my own home but I will miss living here when I'm gone. Living with your ex is not ideal and she offered me a little bit of space to call my own. I won't ever forget that. 


Back to the facts though... I'm in horrendous debt and my credit score is dog shit. If I'm lucky, I might be debt-free (ish) by the time I'm 40. I haven't left the UK since 2006 and my passport expired in 2009. I won't even bother delving in to the great big bag of unrelenting crazy that is my mental health or the pain I still feel at the loss of my dad.


Shit show, right? Fact. Here's the thing... I'm okay with it. I mean, I'm not really obviously because no sane person would be but here and now, I'm kinda at peace with it all. I won't say "I don't care!" because that would be utter bullshit but I can see things to be grateful for. Sometimes I can't. Sometimes the pit is so friggin deep, I can't see light at all. Right now... I see stars. 


Here are some more facts... I am healthy. Not so much, mentally but physically I'm in reasonable nick, rampant sugar addiction aside of course. I can run and yesterday I did five miles. My children are healthy and clever and funny. I have not one but two jobs I enjoy. Nothing will compare with the honour and the joy of running my SW groups and helping people transform their lives but sometimes it's okay to have a clock in/ clock out job you can walk away from at the end of your shift. I have a roof over my head. It's not my roof but it's a very nice roof over a very nice house that I'm lucky to live in for a spell. Is it a squash and a squeeze trying to fit everything I need in to one room? Of course it is and I'm not the tidiest individual but when I look round my room I see pictures of my daddy (not to mention one of me, Eva and Tom Fletcher!) and cards my awesome friends have sent me. I have amazing friends: Fact! The Holy Trinity of Chrissy, Jenny and Tracey. My birthday twin, Sam. Beth. Caroline. Jo. Katy. Rachael. Amy. My Bosworths. EB. Lynney. Katie. Me Little Gem. And that's just off the top of my head. 


The single thing. That's a sore point, I'm not gonna lie. I know I shouldn't be hung up on it. I know I need to learn to "love myself" first (vom!) before I can let anyone else love me but honestly...? I just miss kisses. I miss coming home to someone. I miss that solid feeling of a proper hug from a bloke that loves me. Even with a reasonably chipper outlook tonight I still struggle to believe that anyone is ever going to look at me and see anything worth loving. I'm chaotic and noisy and insecure... oh yeah, and officially NUTS. Whatsapping with a male friend (who must remain nameless) I listed all the things I want in a partner... He needs to be funny and patient and kind. He must look past all of my ludicrousness and see magic! He must be willing to kiss away my tears, hold me tight and protect me when everything gets too much for me. I poured it all out. Painted a picture of all the things my man must be. The reply? "Christ, that's a really big ad to put in the paper!" I had to laugh. I'm asking a lot, I know. And what does the poor bugger get in return? Me. 


At sports day today one of the other parents told me that my writing is "brilliant". I didn't even mention my blog when we were chatting and I had no clue she'd read it. Between us we mused that I should perhaps write a novel..? YA fiction seemed the right fit. I later Googled "creative writing courses" and found one on Groupon for £19. Until my cheque clears, I've got £3 in my bank account but maybe when I'm done being dirt poor, I'll look in to it further. 


Could things be better? Fuck, yeah. Could they be worse? Abso-frigging-lutely. When faced with an incurable cancer diagnosis, an incredible woman said to her mother "It's the card I have been dealt and I’m going to get on with it. I’ll just put my lipstick on and face the world". Sounds like a pretty solid plan to me. I hope that this is one of these posts I'll look back on and feel inspired. Next time I'm at the bottom of the pit, I'll read this one back and hope that I can maybe see the stars again. 

One more thing while I'm on a positivity roll... My hair is amazing. I mean, seriously. It's the dogs ding dongs #justsayin. Shout out to my hairdresser, Beth Sando for giving me four years of great hair after 30ish years of many a dodgy do. 

Sunday 17 June 2018

Take care, Kati pet!


Note: This post was started (and almost finished) on Friday, early evening. I added the last two paragraphs now - Sunday afternoon - and I'm now gonna hit 'Publish'. The only reason I'm mentioning this is coz I may well write another post shortly about Father's Day. So here, first of all are Friday's musings... a reflection on a very 'mixed bag' week.

I seem to start a lot of posts with an observation about how long it’s been since I last updated the blog. “Why break with tradition then…?” I hear you say. I shan’t. A month. Last post was mid-May and I did two then in fairly quick succession. And then, silence. I just don’t feel like I had much to say. Now however, after a deeply odd week, I am once again ready to empty my brain in to my blog… Not the whole thing, you understand. Blimey, what a terrifying thought. There’s all sorts in there. Film trivia, lines from Shakespeare, the date Wannabe was released in the UK, poetry I memorised when I was seven and Macaulay Culkin’s date of birth to name but a handful of things pinging around my cranium. July 8, 1996 and August 26, 1980 respectively, just FYI.

So what went down this week that’s so blog-worthy? Well, it all started with a night out last Saturday. Fear not, dear reader, I have no tawdry tales to tell of night club snogging or one night stands… But my goodness me, it was a ruddy corker of a night. I’ve been working as part of the Primark Supply Chain at the vast distribution centre in Islip since early February. Initially I wasn’t sure if I’d take to warehouse work or if I’d bond with my co-workers but I am delighted to report that I bloody love it. I’ve made good friends, met people from all across the world and the predictable nature of the work is good for my head. A social gathering was organised for Saturday night and having missed the last one (it snowed so y’know, sod that!) I decided I would attend. It helped that Natalie, a lovely colleague of mine offered me a lift. Ridiculously at the grand old age of 36, I still hate walking in to a pub alone but with Nat as my wing-woman, I felt confident!

I won’t go in to detail on the events of the evening because I was informed by one of the Team Managers that the old “…what goes on tour, stays on tour…” also applies to work nights out but I can report that there was gin, my first (and second) ever Jager Bombs and my first vodka Red Bull in EIGHTEEN years. Yes, really. The highlight for me, as is always the case when I’m out out, was singing and dancing like a mad thing on the light up dance floor in Pop Central. I had the sense to stop drinking at midnight and by the time I climbed in to bed at 2am, I wasn’t feeling too bad at all.

Remarkably, I dodged a hangover and by 9am Sunday morning I was showered, dressed and receiving the children from Pete. So far, so good. In the afternoon, I attended a… wait for it, Yin Yoga and Gong Bath workshop at an amazing local studio, LW Dance and Fitness. My gorgeous friend (and birthday twin) Sam paid for me to go as a gift and what a gift it was. An hour of deep stretching followed by a sound bath which, if you’re unfamiliar, is lying under a quilt on your mat while the instructor (in this case, gorgeous Kanti) plays gongs and bowls and all manner of other wonderful things around you. It is essentially a very fabulous public nap with a great soundtrack and I loved every minute of it.

A sensible soul would have thanked the gods for the lack of hangover and popped off to bed at 8pm on Sunday night but not I. No, at 8pm I was arriving at a mate’s flat for a horror movie double bill. Another night out meant another missed dose of Quetiapine. While I don’t need to take it every day, I was soon about to find out what would happen when I mixed a boozy night, missed medication and not enough sleep. Let me assure you, it wasn’t pretty.

Monday morning arrived as it inevitably does and when I woke around 7am I found myself completely incapable of getting out of bed. Of course, I wasn’t physically paralysed but the notion of leaving the safety of my bed and having to interact with other humans was just too much for me to cope with. Sitting here now, it seems even to me like I must be exaggerating but I know in that moment and indeed for most of Monday, I just couldn’t. Couldn’t what? Couldn’t anything. I felt broken.

Since my diagnosis earlier this year, I’m starting to realise the impact that my disorder has on me and also, I’m coming to understand the consequences of straying from my routine, such as it is. I do not have OCD or a similar condition that enslaves me to doing certain things a certain way each day but if I do not take care of myself adequately (sleep, food, meds) then my body and my brain will go on strike. My ability to function like a normal (ish) human being will desert me.

A good sleep on Monday night meant I was able to return to work on Tuesday but I still couldn’t ‘people’. I was very much in my head. I have days like that where I power down and keep social interactions to an absolute minimum. Luckily for me, the nature of my job means that I can actually get away with being a bit of a moody witch without it affecting anyone else’s day! When I want to be sociable at work, there is scope for that but when I just want to get on with things and do some thinking (and inevitably some over-thinking too) I can. Another reason why the job is so ideal for me in my current mental state.

By Wednesday I was feeling a bit more ‘me’, whatever that looks like but I did something very un-Kati when I got in from work. There is never a time when I don’t have ‘stuff’ I could and should be getting on with but I made a spur of the moment decision to ignore all of it and start ‘The Staircase’ on Netflix. Cuppa, blanket, TV show. Boom! It’s my understanding that normal folks do this sort of thing quite often. Of course I felt a bit guilty and twitchy about it but the world continued to turn so I figured I hadn’t done too much damage to the balance of the universe.

On Thursday I had a bit of an epiphany so took to Instagram’s live feature to share it. Quite simply put, this is what occurred to me: doing nothing is good for you. I’ve been so focused this year on doing things to get better (meditating, exercising, writing etc) that I’ve completely overlooked the very necessary and simple practise of sitting the fuck down and just watching something. It was only after I posted a pic of me on Wednesday doing my relaxing with a caption about “there are thing I should be doing…” and my lush friend, Katie commented “This is what you SHOULD be doing” that I realised she was right. I really hardly ever just sit down and watch a TV show or a film… Or if I do, I’m always doing something else as well. The most common thing would be twatting about on my phone but I could also be writing or making lists or just actively fretting about all the jobs I’m neglecting by having the audacity to sit down!! No more. Just being is as important as all the doing in the world and I intend to do much more of it.

Self-care is important. Eat right, sleep well, create some Headspace, exercise… and occasionally (or maybe even semi-frequently), just do absolutely SOD ALL!

[If you're local to Kettering and you're interested in the Yin Yoga experience or in the other fantastic and varied classes on offer at Louise's amazing studio, check out www.lwdanceandfitness.co.uk]

Wednesday 16 May 2018

The Fog

It's almost 5pm on a Wednesday. I've been home from work over two hours and what I haven't achieved in that time is frankly staggering. Oh, wait! I tell a lie... I've managed a fair bit of unnecessary and unprovoked emotional eating. Dear me... I've been in a weird mood all day and rather than let it continue I thought I'd try and write my way out of it.

Ever had one of those days when you just can't seem to wake up properly? I don't just mean a day when you're particularly tired but more when you feel foggy, like you're going in slo-mo. It isn't my medication doing it as I deliberately take my Quetiapine at 8pm so it doesn't slow me down the next day. I just feel a bit off today.

I shouldn't have even been at work today. It's my rest day as I have to work this coming Saturday. Part of the deal when the 9-2 shift became a permanent thing was working one in every six Saturdays. This will be my first. When there's plenty of work on, you're permitted to work your rest day as overtime so I did just that. I took my running gear with grand plans of driving to Pitsford to do a long run after work. After sleepwalking through a five hour shift, that plan got shelved but I toyed with the idea of popping upstairs to the gym. Yes, we have a staff gym at work! Free to use and open 24/7. All I had to do was go upstairs and I'd be there... Next thing I know, I'm swiping out of the building and walking to my car.

Within seconds of walking through the door at home, the kettle was on and I was rummaging in the cupboards. One Soreen bar was followed by a bag of salted popcorn then came half a roll with ham and a packet of crisps. Why stop there? Devour some left over Easter Eggs why dontcha? (Sorry kids!) I feel sick now... Didn't stop me having a cinnamon and raisin bagel with another cuppa just now. I Googled 'emotional eating' and read up on it. Diagnosed myself there and then. Yup! That's me. The website was very informative but offered no solution or ideas to combat the problem. Great! Thanks for that...

Part of the reason I wanted to write now was to help me understand what's going on right at this moment. I found when I looked back at posts from earlier in the year, it was comforting to see that I have made progress since then. What I'm feeling now is very familiar and also unpleasant. It's a feeling of "I have so much to do... I don't know where to start. There's too much to do... I might as well not try." I genuinely don't see myself as a lazy person but I get easily overwhelmed and I guess that's part of what I'm feeling now.

Faced with the rest of the day to myself (the children are with their dad) rather than feel excited at the prospect, I felt faintly panicked so I ate.

AHA!!! Fucking hell! I didn't even realise that's what was going on until now. Wowsers! A genuine light bulb moment. What else can I learn from this exercise? Let's backtrack and see...

I got home and thought "Well I have grown up crap to do... Or I could go and see Infinity War again... Or maybe I'll start season 2 of The Newsroom? What's on Netflix at the mo..? I've got more ironing to do. I need to call Center Parcs and where's that bit of paper with that thing to do with my tax that I need..." OVERLOAD!! Solution: foodfoodfoodfood. Eat the food and don't think. Eat the food and don't think. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. What a bloody revelation and all because I decided to avoid my life admin and blog instead.

Back when I first started counselling at the age of 14, I used to find that I'd say things to the psychologist that I didn't even know I was thinking or feeling. I believe so absolutely in the power of talking about your problems which is why I'm desperate to start my therapy. The waiting list is long however and all I can do is just that: wait.

For now, I guess I just proved that this blogging malarkey is helpful. I know some see it as a vanity project and I can't deny that it's fuels that part of my (unstable) personality (disorder) but it can get so cluttered inside my head. This is my way of filtering through the noise and the chaos and at least trying to understand it.

So what do I do now...? I'm actually feeling slightly better than when I started. I still feel a bit sick from overeating and the associated shame will niggle at me for the rest of the day. A To Do list would seem a good place to start. I learned a tip from a pithy little book called Eat That Frog. It's about how to manage your time better in business but the skills are certainly transferable to every day life. You make your list and then rank each task, making sure you do the most heinous job on there FIRST. I mean... If you have to eat a frog (do an undesirable thing) then you don't want it staring at you for hours, do you? You'll never eat it if you have hours to mull it over. So just fucking do it, eh? Makes sense! Another book (perhaps the same one?) suggested allocating time to each item on the list as, Grade A avoiderers like me will make a five minute job last an hour if it means I'll run out of time and not get round to the worst job/ ugliest frog.

A list of tasks. A time in which to complete said task assigned to each item on the list. No faffing. No more procrastinating (I've done at least a week's worth already today!). The fog has lifted (just about), time to get shit done, Katherine Emily.


Saturday 12 May 2018

Third Time Lucky

This is the third time since Monday that I've attempted to post an update. Often an idea will roll round inside my head for a few days before it makes it on to here. Sometimes ideas come and go. The post I attempted to write this week was to be entitled 'Breakthrough' and the gist was the notion that "Hey, I might actually win this battle against my crappy mental health!" While I still believe that to be true, a few instances in the last few days have served to remind me of just how fragile and fleeting a positive mindset can be.

My last proper post was all about a magnificent Saturday I'd spent in London town in the company of Christopher Moyles and Team Dubland. It was most certainly not an average Saturday. Last Saturday was equally wonderful but in a completely different way. It certainly wasn't a run-of-the-mill Saturday by any stretch of the imagination but it was a little lighter on celebs!

Myself and my small humans spent last Saturday hanging out on Baggers & Bling - the narrowboat owned by my lovely friend Sophie and her family. It was a Bank Holiday weekend and for once the weather played ball. I mean it really, really did! Blue skies, glorious sunshine and all the optimism and joy that comes with a sunny UK Bank Holiday. The Smith's boat was moored at Foxton Locks and the whole place was a-buzz. Families and friends enjoying a beer or an ice cream in the sun with no work until Tuesday. Marvellous! It was one of those days that if you'd tried to plan it, it would all have gone to shit but our visit was spontaneous, the stars aligned and everyone had a jolly lovely time.

Driving back from Foxton with two tired, happy children in the car - sun still shining, music on - I had the first flicker of "Maybe, just maybe I could beat this thing..."

Sunday only served to cement the idea. I returned the children to their dad and borrowed his lawn mower while I was there. The grass needed doing and despite the ridiculous heat and the fact that I've never mowed a lawn in all my 36 years, I decided I was just the woman for the job! Once the lawn was cut I tackled the house, cleaning it from top to bottom. Mundane? A waste of a sunny Bank Holiday Sunday? Perhaps but I was so filled with energy, positivity and determination that it seemed like absolute the right thing for me to do.

The biggest achievement of Sunday wasn't the lawn mowing however, it was the fact that I spent pretty much the whole day alone and I coped. Not only did I cope, I actually enjoyed time by myself. Un-fucking-believable. Unheard of! Kati does not enjoy time with Kati. Kati doesn't like Kati! Ah but this Kati is positive and focused and a joy to be around...

Bank Holiday Monday morning I made my first attempt at a blog post, rattling on about how positive I was feeling and how I was maybe, kinda, sorta starting to believe that I was going to be okay... Maybe even better than okay. Saved it as a draft, went to work. My intention was to return to it that evening but Eva and her current allergy to sleeping gave me the evening from hell and the blog remained unfinished. 

[Sidebar - I considered an entirely different blog post while working on Tuesday entitled 'My 9 year old is trying to kill me'. It was a shade dramatic and Daily Mail-esque but felt entirely justified after the umpteenth night of Bedtime Wars with my beloved first born!]

A few days later, I had another stab at getting the post out in to the blogosphere, taking bits I liked from my previous draft but it still never got as far as me hitting publish. I was so determined to record the monumental occurrence of self-belief as so much of my blog has been doom and gloom but it just never felt ready to share.

And then two things happened - my grief roundhouse kicked me in the face and my positivity packed a bag and fucked right off.

In the spirit of honesty and self disclosure, it is partly my fault this happened. I ran out of Sertraline mid-week and while I knew I needed to get myself to the pharmacy to collect my tablets, I didn't prioritise it. Why would I? I was feeling tip top. Until I wasn't. In short, I grossly underestimated just how much my medication helps to keep me functioning as a normal-ish member of society. The tablets help to keep me level so I experience less of the high highs but I'm also spared the lowest lows. Had I been taking my meds daily, I could perhaps of coped better with what happened on Thursday afternoon...

Innocently clearing out my 'other' inbox on Messenger where all the strange messages from foreign men reside (You know the ones "Hello. U luck beeutiful lady. Lets chat") I stumbled across a handful of messages sent in the wake of my dad's death. They'd sat there because they'd been sent by people who I know but aren't Facebook friends of mine. Reading these messages - kind words from kind souls saying wonderful things about my wonderful dad - took me back to the first few days after he died when a wave of similar messages arrived hourly via email, text and Facebook. I miss my dad every day but on Thursday the bear was back and it just crushed me. I cried like I might never stop.

And so to yesterday when I got further proof of just how much I need to be medicated. I arrived at work with my usual happy swagger but as the hours passed I could just feel myself shutting down. I avoided eye contact, not feeling capable of the banter I usually share with my colleagues. I just couldn't face it. I could feel myself getting wound up and, suspecting tears were nigh, I removed myself from the warehouse for a bit.

Alas, the tears came later. Along with a row with Pete. I could hear myself spitting words at him, hating myself for not being able to control my emotions. The added frustration of knowing that all of this could have been avoided if I'd just taken my feckin tablets made the whole situation worse. I eventually got a grip and apologised to Pete but collecting myself felt like trying to squeeze one of those daft pop out snakes back in to the can.

It's Saturday morning now. I collected my prescription yesterday and there's now Sertraline back in my system. I'm tired having worked at my new casual bar job until almost midnight and then waking up at 6am (SAKE!) but I feel like I might just be okay today. One day at a time, right?

I know that everything I was feeling was real. I can get better. I am already getting better! I'm finally losing weight. I've started running again (despite giving it up last year!). I've taken on a second job so I can be less skint. I'll get there. Wherever there is? If I could I'd add the "I dunno!" shrug emoji lady here as she is my current favourite and most used.

Until next time kids...

Sunday 29 April 2018

My mate, Chris

Sunday night and I'm already tucked up in bed. I was going to just read my book until sleepy time but I just made a dash downstairs to grab two things: my laptop and the last bag of mini Party Rings from the cupboard. The first item I needed as I felt the urge to blog was upon me and the second I didn't need at all - I'd just eaten a piece of homemade birthday cake - but I'm a greedy bitch with emotional eating tendencies. Don't judge me!

Many a week has passed since I last threw open the windows and invited you all (all?! who am I kidding?) to peer inside my funny little world and there are a whole host of reasons why I haven't blogged in a while. I shan't go in to them. I'm back now.

While I don't feel it necessary to explain my extended absence from blogsville, I do feel compelled to tell you that my soundtrack to this evening's proceedings is Smooth radio. It's entirely possible that anything played on Smooth on a Sunday night could tip me over the edge and have me weeping openly. I will do my best to keep my shit together.

I had a rather smashing day yesterday and I wanted to reflect on it a bit for a few reasons. First and foremost, I don't want to forget it! It was almost definitely a once in a lifetime kind of a day. Secondly, I'm trying to appreciate moments - both the big and spectacular like yesterday but also the more simple and sweet.

Yesterday's events need a bit of backstory/ build up so just bare with me...

Back in 2012, when DJ Chris Moyles ended his (as yet unbeaten) run as the host of the Radio 1 breakfast show I was gutted. Yes it was just a radio show and he was just a DJ but I'd been listening to Chris on Radio 1 since he'd hosted the afternoon show back in 2001! During his eight and a half year stint on Breakfast I tuned in most days and suddenly not having him there to listen to left me feeling a bit adrift. Silly but true.

I defected briefly to BBC Radio 2 as I've always liked Chris Evans on the radio but the music choices of that station felt too old for me. In the end, I returned to Radio 1 and the shouty nonsense of Nick Grimshaw's presenting style. By now I was in my 30s, a mother of two, and a world away from R1's target audience.

September 2015 and somehow - although I honestly don't remember how - I heard that Chris Moyles was back on the radio. I was familiar with XFM but had never listened to it. Now it was the all-new Radio X and Chris Moyles was their brand new breakfast show host. I tuned in immediately and I haven't tuned out since. I already knew Dominic Byrne from the old place and I quickly warmed to newcomers Pippa and Dave. All was well! I had Chris and Dom back in my morning routine and the sensibilities of Radio X were much better suited to Chris' style. They talked, they joked, they laughed... I laughed, a lot. Marvellous!

October 18, 2015. My beloved dad is gone and the world no longer makes sense. After a few weeks of chaos, back and forth to the North East, I returned home to Kettering and 'normality'. Dad was laid to rest and I was expected to continue living my life. What I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and sleep for as long as was necessary for this nightmare to be over and for my dad to be returned to us. What I had to do was keep going. My children, though sad at the loss of their Geordie Grandad, needed their mummy to keep doing her job. Shutting down was not an option. So every day, I got up and I put the radio on. As long as I had Chris, Dom, Pippa and Dave for company, I could cope. Not only did they help me cope, they made me laugh. Every single day without fail, I would laugh out loud at the show.

Days, weeks and months passed. Monday to Saturday I would listen live to Radio X via my DAB or the app if I was in the car and on a Sunday morning, I'd listen to the Chris Moyles show podcast. Even when I was hearing highlights from the show that I'd actually heard live, I'd still laugh.

A few months back I wrote a letter in to Radio X for Dom's letters feature. In the letter I did my best to explain everything I've written about here - how much the show meant to me and how it helped me function in the mornings after losing my dad. My letter was read out by Dom and Chris thanked me on air saying what a lovely letter it was. Thankfully, I was in the car driving the children to school at the time and we all heard it.

Chris made references all the time on air to his cousin Suzanne's podcast and in January 2016 I listened to Dubland for the first time. I was hooked. In a nutshell, Dubland is two Dubliners - broadcaster, blogger and mammy, Suzanne Kane (Chris' cousin) and broadcaster, actor and comedian, PJ Gallagher in a room talking about anything and everything for about an hour. It is sweary, honest and fucking hilarious. No topic is off limits - everything from blow jobs from toothless koala bears to how far back men should shave their bollocks gets discussed. Politics, religion, sex, childbirth, food, exercise... you name it, Suzi and PJ have probably talked about it. One story in particular told by PJ made my sister laugh so much while driving that she had to pull over. Clare FaceTimed me with tears streaming down her face. "GET THE HEART MACHINE!" we shouted at each other while both laughing hysterically. Like the breakfast show, Dubland has been such a blessing. A guaranteed laugh every time I listen.

When I heard that Suzi and PJ were planning to come to London to record the podcast with a live audience I knew I had to be there... Not only be there but if possible, get a chance to speak to them both and tell them how much I enjoy what they do. Chris has been plugging the event on his show for weeks and confirmed last week that he would be in attendance.

So there we all were yesterday in The Boogaloo pub in North London. Chris introduced Suzi and PJ and Dubland Live was underway. It was amazing to watch them just chat and swear and do what they do right there in front of me! When Chris vanished briefly I wagered he'd gone for a cig and popped out the back of the pub to find him. I didn't want to miss the show but I also knew I'd probably never get a chance like that again.

Sure enough, he was smoking outside. I admitted to following him but assured him I wasn't crackers. As calmly as I could I explained about the letter, about my dad and told him how much I love what they do on the show every day. He gave me a massive hug and thanked me genuinely. "We're staying for a few drinks after the show finishes," said Chris, "Come and have a drink with us." Erm, yeah okay Chris Moyles, I'll do that.

Once the show ended, PJ, Suzi and Chris were mobbed. I'd already had my moment with Chris so I just watched as he greeted the queue of fans waiting for a selfie. The atmosphere was so relaxed, it just felt like the most normal thing in the world to be stood in a pub with Chris Moyles, his cousin and her mate, the stand up comic.

When the queue finally dwindled and Chris escaped to the smoking area, I unashamedly followed him again. This time we sat on a bench and chatted like old friends. Inside I'd seen him be polite and jovial with all the folks waiting for a handshake and a pic with him but we sat together and discussed Avengers: Infinity War, the show, my dad... I'm not an idiot. I know that we are not friends. I know he will eventually forget me but we had a bit of a moment in that pub's back yard. His lovely friend Megan took pictures for me of Chris and I together. I later got a pic with both Chris and Suzi.

It was a surreal and wonderful experience that I never want to forget. I know many people aren't keen on Chris, presuming that the loutish persona he played up to back in the day is really him. It's not. The man I chatted to yesterday was geeky, kind and funny.

As the time came for Chris, Suzi and Megan to move on to a birthday party they were all going to, I admitted to Suzi that I'd missed my train home. Of course there would be other trains (it wasn't that late) but my ticket was specifically for one at 18.54. She went in to a panic, making me promise to let her know that I'd got home safely! Saying goodbye to Chris I got another hug and a kiss on the hand. "I've missed my train!" I told him. "Will you let Suzi know that you've got home safe?" What a family!

The journey home was eventful to say the least but that's another story for another day. I did as I said and let Suzanne know I was back safe.

This blog post may come across as a little smug and I realise it doesn't pack the emotional punch of some of my other entries. Perhaps it reads a little more like a diary entry but feck it! My blog, my rules. I had a great day yesterday and I wanted to document that. When you have Mental Health problems as I do (did you think I was going to manage a whole blog post without wheeling out my crazy?! No chance!) and the days often seem long and dark, you have to celebrate the moments of joy and nonsense. Yesterday was both glorious and ridiculous in equal measure.


Wednesday 7 March 2018

WARNING: May contain poetry!

Not a single post in the whole of February. Trust me, it's not a bad thing. For the most part, the second month of the year was a bit of a write off for me. I ended January feeling like I hadn't achieved much but on reflection and in contrast with what followed it, January was a massive win.

February was ROUGH. I mean really, really bastard hard. My mood plummeted and, as I tried to get to grips with my new job, all thoughts of walking for my wellbeing fell by the wayside. I didn't blog at all so all the crap in my brain that I usually decant on to here for the whole world to see just stayed in my head. In short, my PMA went AWOL!

I'm happy to report that just this week, I've started to claw it back. I've been for a couple of walks and I've taken control of my food. I even rejoined my beloved Wednesday morning Slimming World group in Corby this morning! 9lbs is all I have to lose but I know I can't do it alone.

Even with my positivity restored, I  myself wondering why it's so hard to establish good habits but so insanely easy to break them? I saw an amazing counsellor through the charity Cruse after I lost my dad [sidebar - I hate that expression! Lost my dad... I didn't misplace him! He's not keys or an umbrella!! I guess we just don't like talking about death and dying... Understandably so I suppose but anyway, I digress] and she told me that it takes three weeks to establish a habit and only three days to break it. True dat!

I actually wanted to blog when I got in from work last night but common sense prevailed. It may be a little after 9pm now but nine at night Kati is a very different beast from the creature that emerges after 10! Oh she's an unpredictable minx that one, quite angsty and a bit woeful. Case in point, she wrote poetry the other night. Poetry!! We haven't done that since the late 90s.

We... She... Sweet Christ, I really do sound utterly mental. Thankfully, I do not suffer from a split personality but I do recognise that there are many different versions of me and which version appears at any given time can vary wildly and change rapidly depending on the wind speed, the time of day and whether or not I have swift and immediate access to Moam Pinballs should I need them, to name but a few factors.

While we're on the subject I've been thinking a lot about my diagnosis just lately. Last night, while wandering the warehouse (and working, obvs!) I got to thinking about what it all means. Initially I was thrilled to have a diagnosis. It felt like a massive relief after years of wondering why I behaved so erratically and often, so destructively. But now the dust has settled and the feeling that's left behind is shame.

We're hearing more and more often now that "It's okay not to be okay" and I love that the message is getting out there. It's okay to struggle, ask for help, you are not alone etc. I myself have hashtagged that very phrase countless times when posting on Instagram about mental health problems but here's the thing... What if I'm not okay with not being okay? What if I'm sick of feeling this way? What if, quite frankly, I do not want a mental illness, thank you very much?!

Since I posted back in January about my assessment by the mental health team at St Mary's, I have seen the team psychiatrist and she was looking more at a diagnosis of Unstable Personality Disorder. Certainly I demonstrate many traits of BPD but there are other behaviours that, thank Christ, I do not present with. Whichever way you slice it, I'm not a mentally well woman and I wonder about the impact on my future happiness.

I've may have sworn off men and relationships this year while I try to fix myself but last night and now (as it's almost 11pm and the woe is creeping in) I see myself standing before a man, holding the broken pieces of who I am and asking him to love me anyway. Take me, all of me, and love me. I am unpredictable and disorganised. I have a temper I sometimes can't control. In many ways, I'm a bit of a nightmare but if you could just overlook all of that, that'd be grand!

Shit man.

A relationship isn't the be all and end all, I get that. I know I must learn to love myself and treat myself with kindness before I can expect anyone to do the same but there's that fear... that malicious voice whispering in my ear "No one will want you. Who would love you? You're a monster!"

I start twenty weeks of group therapy soon once the referral is sorted. I've already started new medication to work alongside my existing anti-depressants. And I must get back to walking. One step at a time, right? Just keep putting one foot in front of the other and I'll get there, wherever the fuck there may be, eventually.

One more thing... I'm going to share the poem I wrote last week. I churned out quite the collection of verse back when I was at school. The majority of it was self absorbed, angsty nonsense BUT I can think of one or two that I wrote that I remain proud of to this day. Here's my first attempt at poetry in about eighteen years. It came about when I was drafting my wedding vows in my head despite not being engaged or indeed in a relationship of any sort. I mean, if that doesn't have the men queuing up at my door, I don't know what will! Jesus, I terrify myself. It doesn't have a title. (Annnnnd, it's probably terrible)


Accept that I am chaos.
Accept that I am noise.

Know that at times I will rage and scream like an angry toddler.
Frustrated, you'll exclaim "It's like having an extra child!"

I know that I am not easy to love.

Please believe me when I say that it's when I am at my least loveable that I need you to love me most.

I do not mean to be this way.
I do not enjoy the loss of control or the temper tantrums.

My emotions are at times a beast, ferocious and wild.
I am asking you to love me when I am tooth and claw, venom and bile.

Love me then.

In return I promise to love you with all that I am. My love for you will burn as fiercely as my temper.

Accept that I am chaos and noise.
Love me as I am, as I was and as I will be.

Just love me please.


I think that's quite enough from me for now. It's late and I need sleep. I may wake up tomorrow and take this down after reading it back and realising it's dreadful or just a little bit too honest but for now, Midnight Kati says "Hit publish! What's the worst that can happen?!" Until next time...