Somewhere over the rainbow….PND sadly still exists

I’m not sure where you even start with a post such as this; it’s hard to know whether there even is a beginning, and I certainly haven’t reached the end yet, so I guess it’s a case of starting from where I am now.

 

I have been experiencing postnatal depression.

 

If I’m honest, these are the most challenging, the most shaming and gut wrenching words I have written since Orla died.  They are possibly more riddled with shame because I feel terrified of being judged, blamed and seen as selfish, weak and inferior.  When your baby dies, you know that many people will feel sad for you.  Of course, you fear that there will be a multitude of other thoughts and emotions, but overall, you know that people will feel sadness and regret.  When it comes to mental health however, you can never be so sure.

 

And when this occurs in the context of parenting a rainbow, the fear of being viewed as ungrateful and unworthy is paralysing.  Which in itself becomes a self-perpetuating cycle of self-loathing and inadequacy.

 

After Orla died, I became a ‘doer’.  I got up every day, I showered, I cleaned the house – I even cooked (damn you Gusto for signing up a vulnerable heavily pregnant woman who thought she’d spend the first weeks of maternity leave cooking nutritious meals!).  I made keepsakes to treasure memories of Orla, I wrote and set up a blog and we planned our fundraising trip to America.  Three months after Orla died, we flew to Canada.  Two weeks later I feel pregnant.  We spent the first trimester of my pregnancy travelling down the East Coast of the US and then Canada, and when we returned to the UK three months later, I went back to work for five months.  I did yoga, I completed a mindfulness course, I saw friends.  I was coping so well.

 

But was I?  I was busy.  I was productive.  I was helping field awkward conversations left, right and centre from people at work who didn’t know that my baby had died.  I was blogging about pregnancy after loss and navigating a whole year of firsts: Christmas, New Year, anniversaries of finding out I was pregnant, first scans etc.  Overall, I was nailing this grieving malarkey.

 

And of course I wasn’t, but I started to believe I was.  People would comment on how well I was doing; how strong I was.  Social media is a wonderful place, but sometimes you can start to believe the picture that you carefully curate.  Comments that are absolutely heartfelt and well-meant become part of your inner dialogue; they reinforce the strategies you are using and encourage you to do more of the same.  ‘Being busy and productive is good’; ‘Not falling apart and returning to the real world with no help is inspirational’.

 

Yet, more of the same wasn’t actually helping me and I was setting myself up for the biggest crash of my life.

 

The strategy of ‘doing’, of trying to control my environment and have everything ‘just so’ is ingrained deeply in my personality.  Nothing brings me quite the same rush of joy as clearing, organising and ticking things off my to do list.  I have always been this way ever since I can remember: tidying and reorganising my bedroom was a familiar pastime, making lists that included ‘get up’, ‘brush teeth’ were a regular feature.  It was a way of retaining order and control when maybe internally I wasn’t quite able to do the same.

 

And this strategy has helped me no end in my life.  I have achieved a lot in my career as a result and feel proud of where I am professionally and personally.  But tolerating ‘just being’ and sitting with difficult emotions has always been very hard, as I have always wanted to get on and fix them.  I can sit with the emotions of others; I can hold them emotionally and psychologically with ease.  But it has almost been impossible with my own.  And I do not allow others to do it for me.  Yet grief, control and avoidance do not mix in the long term.  And control certainly does not work when you have a live baby to care for.

 

So, with full hearts, last year we welcomed Esme into the world and suddenly my armour of strategies was thrown out of the window.  I could no longer control everything; I couldn’t keep my physical environment in the way that subsided my anxiety.  I couldn’t control when I could do yoga, practice mindfulness, or even have a shower, which without a doubt always helps to lift my mood.  The piles of washing (which grew and grew with a baby with reflux) would leave me agitated and with a sense of failure.  Once Andy went back to work, I was alone all day with a baby that would only nap on me.  A baby that, at night, would need to be held upright for at least thirty minutes after each feed to prevent vomiting and full outfit and bedding changes.  And when your baby is feeding every two to three hours and taking at least twenty minutes to feed, this leaves very, very little time for sleep in between.

 

I was exhausted.  But this is normal isn’t it?  All parents feel like this.  And, as you know, you are so, so lucky to be in this position with a baby in your arms.

 

A few weeks in, I found a way to get back some control.  I purchased a new sling that gave me more confidence.  I used nap times to sit still and write.  I went to postnatal yoga and baby massage.  I even went out for coffee and lunch with some of the other mums.  I could sit and smile and share stories.  In fleeting moments, I felt like a normal mum.  I was doing great.  Wasn’t I?

 

Yet when out of the house, I started to notice that I was experiencing a tight knot developing in my stomach that would only dissipate when I was back at home.  And although never fully relaxed, I certainly felt safer within my own four walls.  I became focussed on the need for routine and ensuring that Esme got enough sleep in the day, so that we wouldn’t be grappling with an overtired baby at night.  So, I did what I could to meet her needs; rocking, walking, sitting still.  But never with any downtime.

 

I read online forums and blogs that talked about motherhood being hard; that it can be a lonely and challenging place and that you can’t ever expect to enjoy every minute.  This narrative helped me to feel normal, that what I was feeling was something that many other people did.  But did everyone feel so heavy and wake each morning saturated with anxiety of what the day may hold?  Did everyone feel like every step was as though they were walking through treacle?  Was everyone fielding an overwhelming sense of ineptness?  Maybe everyone is just putting on a brave face, and I just needed to buck my ideas up and stop being so useless and ungrateful.

 

People visited and commented on how well I was doing.  How clean the house was for someone with a new baby.  How well I looked and how at ease I seemed with parenting and meeting Esme’s needs.  How happy and content she was.  Why could they see something that I couldn’t?  Esme’s rainbow status of course makes her l that bit more precious, that bit more special, and the relief and happiness I could see and feel from those who met her was palpable.  It reinforced how lucky I was; how much I should treasure every moment and how happy I should be.

 

And I was happy.  I felt incredibly lucky and honoured that she was here, and I have always had an overwhelming love for her.  But more often than not, this was completely overshadowed by my sense of failure and of feeling utterly overwhelmed by her needs.  I became emotionally detached.  Numb.  Unable to allow myself to connect and feel the joy that we both deserved.  I wanted so desperately to be able to enjoy her and our time together, but there was something stopping me: Fear of losing her too?  Fear of failing her?  I honestly couldn’t identify it then.  With her being physically attached from 4am to 10pm, I literally could not distinguish where she ended and I began.  Her needs were paramount, and mine, along with my identity, evaporated.  And in any moment that there was space for me, grief started to leak its way back in.

 

My grief has been, and I imagine always will be, intertwined with trauma, guilt, shame and responsibility.  Orla died before she was born, inside of me, and I did not save her.  The trauma of seeing the still ultrasound screen, hearing the words ‘I’m so sorry’, giving birth to her lifeless body and completing the ultimate walk of shame through the postnatal ward, heading home holding nothing more a memory box, head hung in complete despair and fear of making eye contact with anyone else.  These memories and their associated emotions and thoughts were allowed to seep through the cracks in my ever-deteriorating armour.

 

And yet no one seemed to be able to see.  I was completely falling apart and my ‘strong, get up and on with it attitude’ kept everyone at bay.  As a psychologist, I know so many tricks of the trade: strategies and skills for managing your mood, from behavioural activation to graded exposure, to recognising and challenging unhelpful thinking patterns.  The practical strategies prevented me from slipping into a much deeper and darker place.  The cognitive strategies made sense in my head.  But the disconnect between what I could rationalise in my mind and how I felt in my heart was vast.  A chasm of epic proportions.

 

My inner judge would say that I hadn’t tried hard enough, that I hadn’t focussed enough on positive affirmations or engaged in things that I knew would help me to feel better.  But where was the time?  Where was the mental space?  I was barely separated from my baby long enough to express enough milk so that I could actually even have a break.

 

However, ultimately, I truly did not believe that I was worthy of the care and nurturance that I so desperately needed.

 

I started to believe that my detachment was further confirmation that I was not cut out to be a mother.  The universe had already warned me twice by taking two babies away: why did I not listen then?  I should have known that I was going to make a complete mess of it and that I wasn’t worthy of the honour of parenting a live baby.  There were so many more worthy candidates, friends included.  I was failing at the thing that I believed other people deserved more than me.

 

But one day I actually realised I was broken.  That I was slowly but surely spinning out of control.  That other people probably didn’t feel this heavy and burdened with guilt, anxiety, self-loathing and defectiveness.  That maybe this wasn’t normal.  That feeling trapped in a prison of my emotions (or lack thereof), that seemed to have a life sentence, wasn’t actually mandatory.  That maybe, with help and someone being able to hold my emotions for me, I could possibly feel better.  That I could feel happiness that I knew was hidden underneath the weight of grief and trauma.

 

On that day I made a GP appointment for later in the week.  Maybe it was the relief that I had committed to asking for help, or maybe just coincidence, but I already felt lighter by the day of the appointment.  I even considered not going, because ‘I can’t be that bad, can I?’  But I did and I am so, so glad that I did.  The walk there was heavy; I was weighted down by the deep-felt humiliation that I was unable to fix myself and that I had somehow failed as a mother and a psychologist.  Of course, mental health professionals are no less likely to experience emotional and mental health difficulties than the next person.  But my strong internal critic said otherwise.

 

And so, I went in and said I thought I needed help.  That I didn’t think I was coping or that how I felt was normal.  That I wasn’t sure where to turn but that I also didn’t know who could help.  My default position of helping myself switched on, and in true work mode, I started talking about whether I would meet service thresholds, as if that was my decision or responsibility.  But the GP took that responsibility and burden away from me.  I cried and she allowed me to.  She made me feel worthy of help and as though I mattered.  That my wellbeing mattered as much as my baby’s.  And I cried even more, because for the first time since Orla died, I allowed myself to recognise my own needs above anyone else’s.  I didn’t need to protect her from my pain.

 

And here I am, four months later and only just feeling brave enough to tell my truth.  It is only now, within the safe and containing therapy relationship that I feel able to break down and feel everything that I have been working so hard to avoid.  I have read countless accounts of others grief that talks about falling apart, crying, screaming, needing to be scooped up from the bathroom floor and yet I could relate to not one of them.  Because I didn’t allow anyone to hold me emotionally.  Because I felt that I needed to hold myself.  I believed that I had burdened people enough by inflicting pain on them through Orla’s death, that I didn’t think that I deserved to be looked after.  And maybe I didn’t trust that anyone could handle it, because I wasn’t sure if even I could.

 

Maybe I only feel safe to do this now that Esme is here?  Maybe I just didn’t have the time to allow myself to grieve between babies?  Who knows.  But what matters is that I have recognised it and I am getting help.  And maybe someone else reading this will be able to say ‘me too’, so that I feel less alone.  Maybe part of my story will resonate, whether you have been through loss or not.  But experiencing PND is an incredibly lonely and dark place and I hope that anyone feeling that way will be able to see that asking for help can turn things around.  That slowly, day by day, life can become lighter and brighter again.

34 thoughts on “Somewhere over the rainbow….PND sadly still exists

  1. An incredible post Michelle, thank you so much for sharing. So much of this resonates with me, particularly the overwhelming need to be in control (in both grief & PAL) and ‘hold it together’.

    After Findlay died, I felt like a complete and utter failure – I didn’t save him, I didn’t even try – and so I constantly felt, and if I’m honest at times still do, that I needed to prove I deserved to have Leo here with me. That I had to prove to him, the world, myself that I had earned the right to parent a living child.

    The first year of grief is so all consuming; add to that the turbulent emotions of PAL and it’s a wonder anyone reaches the birth of a rainbow baby with even a shred on their wellbeing in place. It’s only really been since Leo turned one that I have been able to reflect on our time together, both during pregnancy and the first 12 months, and see just how much I struggled.

    You are so strong Michelle, not in the way you seem to be coping, although I completely get this idea of (perhaps unintentionally) constructing a version of your reality for the outside world, but because of your honesty & bravery. You are able to find the words to vocalise what I (& no doubt many others) are too afraid, or unable to say.

    I am so grateful to you for sharing yourself with us, and I have no doubt this post will be of immense comfort to many a broken heart.

    All my love xxxx

    1. Thank you so much Laura – it is such an intense first year, and with so many people getting pregnant again in this time (they estimate around 70%), its a travesty that more isn’t done to monitor women in the postnatal period. I have found so much comfort in reading your posts and watching your videos on instagram and seeing the ups and downs of parenting after loss xxx

  2. Michelle you are so brave to open up about this and to ask for help when you needed it. I am sure speaking out like this will help others to feel that they too can get the help that they need. Xx

  3. Oh michelle
    Thank you for sharing. I don’t think you deserve anything but positive feedback for this.
    Your words: “However, ultimately, I truly did not believe that I was worthy of the care and nurturance that I so desperately needed” is a sentence that resonates so deeply with me. I’m so glad that you were able to recognise that you needed help and sought it. I’m in that process of recognition now.

    I feel that in someways the grief just gets harder to bear as time goes on: as people ‘expect’ you to recover and you don’t.
    Whether it’s the gift of a rainbow, or simply time: the ‘expected’ healing process doesn’t seem to work the way we’re told it will. That massive big hole in your life, the love that can only express itself as grief, is still there. Every day. Regardless of what has happens to you since. Regardless of what other fortunes you have in your life. You are not alone in this.

    As much as your blog has helped me and many others: you need to do what is best for you right now. And if that means no more posting: don’t. Your words already written continue to help people in this situation, even if you don’t continue to write more.

    Whatever decision you make: please be gentle on yourself. You are obviously a great Mum, and Orla and Esme are so lucky to have you. They will both love you even if/when you find the time and the energy to sometimes put yourself first. And thank you for sharing.

    Go gently

    1. Thank you so much for you kind words Jennie. You’re right that grief gets a little more complex as time goes on – it manifests in different ways that often people struggle to understand. Loss and trauma change over time; sometimes for the better, but sometimes they just make things a little more complicated. All we can do is be kind to ourselves and ask for (and accept!) the help we all need xx

  4. Sending you so much love….your postnatal experience with Esme resonates so much with mine first time round….the feeling of not coping and of feeling safer inside your four walls, the relentlessness of the sleepless nights with a colicky baby, the dread, anxiety… The truth is that not all early motherhood is like that, it can be much “easier” it’s such a lottery, and I think that’s what used to send me into a spin as well, hearing other new mums talking about their newborn who slept all the time etc and allowing myself to feel bitter about how unfair it is with the different experiences. It’s undoubtedly hard for everyone, but it’s definitely harder for some, espeically when things like reflux are involved. And all that for you on top of your freshly fallen layers of grief. I haven’t lost a baby but I lost my best friend suddenly agreed 28 and I know that in the first year after she died I was only just vaguely coming to terms with it an as event that was real and actually happened, let alone actually assimilating it into a coherent grief to move on with. There is so much pressure to move on and be “together”. If you add to that hormones and social media expectations, it’s a proper tornado.
    PND is lonely and hideous and this is an amazing post and I’m reaching through my screen to give you the hugest of hugs xxxx

    1. I’m sorry it has taken me so long to respond to your kind words Anya – it helps to know that sometimes it really is just luck….having a baby that sleeps, who dissent have reflux etc etc – these things aren’t our fault, but they make such a huge difference to an already challenging job! I have to hold that in mind if we ever decide to be brave enough and do it all again! Much love xxx

  5. Thank you for writing this. So beautifully put. I haven’t experienced loss, but I have experienced PND, and a reflux baby. I found the expectation people had (and still do two years on) that a mother will be nothing but joyous and grateful after giving birth such a heavy burden. It’s only since I accepted that I need to do what’s best for me in order to be a better/happier mother than I’ve felt lighter. My wonderful local NHS happened to provide a mental health specialist health visitor, who acted as therapist in my own home, as well as reassuring me that my relationship with my daughter was strong and normal. I feel sad that access to services such as these is not universal, as I’m not sure I would ever have taken the step you have and gone to my GP. Wishing you all the best.

    1. It’s so true….I did take the step to go to my GP and cry and say I wasn’t coping….and my GP told me that I needed some “me time”….now I look back and I’m so appalled at how inadequate his response was and how many women might have crawled back into the darkness after having reached out to him.
      It’s so true that there is no accepted ambiguity to motherhood, and certainly not motherhood after loss or after a difficult fertility journey. And yet, it’s impossible to be fully happy under the conditions that motherhood presents: exhaustion, judgment, hormones, chaos, constant crying. It would be weird, if you took the baby element away from that mix, to be happy and joyous, but this totally normal reaction to circumstance is not accepted yet or adequate support in place xxx

    2. Thank you so much for reading and sharing Claire – the pressure to be overwhelmingly happy and grateful is just counterintuitive sometimes. Of course we have those feelings, but they can also sit alongside some much more challenging and hard ones. I am so glad that you also got the support you needed – these people can make all the difference and I too feel lucky that I live in an area that I was able to receive it. I am so so happy to read today that more money is being pumped into perinatal mental health services. xx

  6. Such a powerful post Michelle. You are very brave in terms of seeking help and being able to document your thoughts.

  7. What an emotional read. You really are incredible. Thank you for sharing and I hope you continue to feel better. Much love to you xx

  8. Oh Michelle, what you have written and shared gave me goosebumps, I was catapulted straight back to the birth of Jessica after loosing Bethan.
    The age gaps of both of our children has meant I have often read your posts and thought “ Michelle is where I was at 6months ago” this has continued and your post natal depression/anxiety post does not differ either.
    I was a different person after Jessica our rainbow was born, anxious beyond words, u able to function and comprehend what had just happened. I was so focused on getting her here safely I hadn’t for one minute stopped to think we could actually bring our baby home.
    The huge bowl of emotions were too complicated for me to cope with, love, grief, fear, joy, what others thought, what I thought, and having to parent two older children, act “normal” when inside I couldn’t take anymore of life despite being blessed with a much wanted little Jessica ⭐️
    I sought help, and more counselling , medication and time, time was a big thing, everything settled down and we found our groove. Sleeeeeeeppppppp really helped !!! Made my brain work properly and calmed my anxieties and helped me see the wood through the trees.
    Ultimately Jessica was 9months old before I started to feel better. I still have “blurs” of time though if I try to remember months of the early days with her, or the gap in between Bethan and getting pregnant with her. Time is distorted I think because my brain protects me from reliving painful trauma around Bethan, I relived it during 18months of counselling and I don’t need to relive vivid trauma day to day.
    I have learnt to accept these blurs of time and not worry that I can’t remember everything about life or my other kids chronologically !
    I have changed so much as a person over the last 6 years of motherhood. Some of the anxieties and changes in your need to organise/control etc would’ve happened anyway if esme had been your 1st daughter, it’s a transition of the person you were, to now the person you are as a mother, so go easy on yourself.

    Jessica turned 1 last April and I I again accepted that the 1st year of her life had been a blur ! A mixture of sheer exhaustion, high lows and mainly fog. From then on I got stronger, less of those disbelieving “ she’s actually really here” moments and more enjoying the moment and actually living. That’s when I set to work on training for the London to Paris bike ride and found another type of inner strength I never knew I had ! Today I ordered the new cuddle cot for the Rosie hopsotal cambridge after raising £4000.
    Be patient Michelle, your doing all the right things to help yourself feel better and with TIME it will all come together and settle down. That’s my experience anyway, and like I said I’m a little way ahead of you and your family 😘
    Jessica turns 2 this April and Bethan will
    Be 3 in heaven this March ✨
    Much love
    Danni x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

    1. Thank you so much for your lovely words Danni and for helping me to feel normal! Isn’t it sadly comforting to know that there are so many of us following such similar paths. I am just incredibly grateful for this online community xx

  9. Michelle, this is such a thoughtful post and I know it must have been really hard to write. I first found your blog early last year just after losing my daughter Evalyn. I felt that you were so positive in your outlook towards the future that it inspired me to try and be the same. And then through pregnancy after loss, you showed me that I COULD get through it too.

    I experienced PND after my first born, after Evalyn there was just grief and I couldn’t fathom whether I was depressed from her loss or my hormones and now six weeks on from having iola, I do have my days where I just feel so sad and I do wonder if that will develop into anything more . . but that’s ok. These feelings are OK as long as we seek the help that we need and are as open and honest as you have been. You don’t need to feel anything other than brave and strong. You are an amazing mummy to both Orla and Esme. It is the hardest thing to try and parent two children who are in different places but you are doing it so well and amazingly. Never forget what an amazing woman you are. xx

    1. Thank you so so much – and you’re right, all the feelings are okay as long as we seek the help and support we need (and deserve). Thank you for reading and your kind words xx

  10. I’m blown away by your post Michelle. Your honesty and eloquence are admirable. This journey is so hard. Feelings are so upside down and often when we end up feeling differently to what we expected it can really mess with our heads. Go easy on yourself xx

  11. My goodness, what a brave and moving post. I had my first child a year ago, and as a Midwife myself, I felt a huge amount of pressure to get everything right and be the glowing advert of motherhood that I felt everyone expected from me (and I expected from myself). I felt deeply embarrassed that my body had failed me entirely in giving birth “naturally” and that I found breastfeeding so excruciatingly difficult. I constantly played the role of “fellow colleague” rather than “patient” in all the situations postnatally when I really needed help. I was unable to ask for help from professionals because I felt the weight of their expectations on me (“you must know exactly what you’re doing, lucky you”, or versions of the same, were said frequently to me both in pregnancy and postnatally). My reality was that I felt deeply scared of the responsibility of keeping my baby alive and well, my professional experience constantly giving my anxious brain examples of babies who had become unwell or died. My son contracted viral meningitis at 9 days old, which did nothing for my anxiety. Your comment about wading through treacle completely resonates with me.
    A year on, I’m still working on it, but I am trying to be speak honestly about the dark moments, and have received only love and support in return. I would have hated hearing this prior to having a baby myself, but it will certainly make me a better Midwife.
    Thankyou for sharing your experiences, it helped me to read yours and I’m sure many others will feel the same. Wishing you love and light on your journey x

    1. Thank you so much for reading and your supportive comment – why are we health care professionals so terribly hard on ourselves?! I hope that you are surrounded by lots of support now, whether it be personal or professional – I really understand the whole ‘it takes a village’ thing now….we are not made to do this alone xx

  12. Michelle,

    I just followed a link to your blog from a thread on Glow in the Woods, and had to comment after reading this. I am also a mother to a stillborn daughter, also a psychologist, also considered strong (as if that helps), have also been writing about my loss in ways that people find insightful.

    I wanted to share how let down I feel by psychology. My impression (both personal and from observing so many others) is that losing a child like this is a full-blown trauma. But while I can find detailed descriptions of what flashbacks look like for some other traumatized populations, there was nothing at all about the intrusive images of imagined deaths of the people close to me. Nothing about how visceral, overpowering, and long-lasting the anxiety is. Nothing about the constant triggers of a new pregnancy, nothing about reliving the previous pregnancy day in and day out because of it. Nothing about a timeline of reintegration of this event into our lives. All that I found on blogs, as anecdotes, but not in the literature on trauma. In fact, the length of grief described as ‘complicated’ in the latest DSM (persistent grief for 6-12 months after loss) would make you think that your (and my) grief is pathological. Yet I don’t see bereaved mothers shaking it off after half a year. The second year is different from the first one, but just as filled with obstacles.

    So I too was unprepared for the duration of strong, acute grief, and the continuing guilt, anxiety and depression that went along with it. I too crashed very badly about a year in, and it was not prompted by a new baby, it was simply the normal progression of parental grief. Normal, but unrecognized. And I too couldn’t get a grip on it without professional help, despite still writing insightful posts and being seen as strong, coping, holding it together, etc.

    So thank you for sharing. You are adding to a body of knowledge that has been pushed under the carpet way too long. And you are most definitely not alone in needing support, just one year in.

    1. Thank you so much for your comment and taking the time to read – and I am so sorry it has taken me o long to respond. I am completely with you on everything you say – how is the trauma of our loss not understood within our field when it is so incredibly common? I know I am traumatised and yet I do not fit into the category for PTSD. Like you say, we would maybe be classified as having complicated grief, but won’t it always be complicated by virtue of baby loss being completely out of the natural order?! Your blog post is beautiful and I could relate to a lot of it too. x

  13. I’m sorry that you have to go through this. I started writing about my experiences and grief after the birth of our third child after losing the boys. Something inside both of us snapped, I became a manic swirl of thoughts and words and my wife suffered PND during what should have been a happy time with our youngest daughter. The combination of trying to manage that surging, overwhelming, all-consuming grief AND manage day to day tasks and look after a new baby it’s not really surprising looking back that would be the outcome.

    Your writing is helping people feel less alone, like Ana says, all our voices inspire others to join us and speak of our pain and offer comfort to others where we can.

    1. You’re absolutely right – the combination of all of those thoughts and emotions, both positive and horrendously painful are bound to collide and cause some form of suffering. Thank you so much for reading and your kind words – it always helps to know that I’m not alone with these experiences. x

  14. What a brilliant post. So brave to open up but I am sure it has helped. I have been writing about my mental health and I have found it’s cathartic. I can’t imagine what you have gone through but I think you are strong and incredible xxx

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