Who’s Watching You?

Who’s Watching You?

Hi folks. I don’t know if anyone even reads this anymore, it’s been such a long time since I wrote anything on here. Serious health decline is my excuse, but that’s not the real reason. The real reason is somewhat more personal.

You see I started getting comments on blog posts. Personal ones. Talking about my life and saying I’m faking my illness. They even commented on how often we got take away delivered to my house! This continued to escalate. So called friends and family who never actually see me as they live at a distance started with similar diatribe. How I’m always moaning but theirs clearly little wrong with me. I need to try harder. Push further. Put up and shut up.

I felt like judgement and accusations were coming at me from all angles. That I couldn’t talk about any aspect of my life anymore. If I have a good day and do something, I’m a faker. If I have a bad day and talk about it, I’m an attention seeker. I couldn’t win.. everyone was forcing down my throat that I’m a loser.

This culminated in someone reporting me for benefits fraud. Why? Because I was taken to Florida with my family and my daughter went on a slide that apparently had 216 steps. (Ironically this was on one of the days I was in and out of sleep in the hotel. Crying about the fact that even with a scooter I couldn’t keep up with the rest of the family and I was letting the kids down. Upset that I was spoiling the holiday for everyone and believing I should have stayed home. I forget which of those days she went to that water park, there were a few where my body gave out on me.) They must have overheard her talking about it and assumed I went up them too seeing as the exact number of steps were reported.

I was completely truthful. I told the lady I had been to Florida. I hoped to save up over the years and go again, at my own pace rather than trying to keep up with everyone else. So my kids don’t see me left behind. So we can do all the things we missed. So they can actually get to see the fireworks. I told her about my scooter and the lifts to any ride I did manage to go on. How my neck issues are a new development and I haven’t even reported them as I would be entitled to higher carers and that would mean they’d use the opportunity to swap me to PIP. Stress I don’t need right now. With POTS and my other problems I’m allowed on rollercoasters!

I told her how I felt watched. How I have to try my best not to wear my collar and I’m judged if I leave the house without it. I told her that if I’m having a good day I will continue to go to the park with my kids. If I can manage it I’ll take my son down the slide. I’m going to grab every opportunity to do everything I can with my children when I can, because too much of my life is either in bed or in hospital. Do you know what she said?

She said ‘Good for you!’ She told me it was clearly a malicious report and they see it a lot when people have unseen disabilities. She told me I have to ‘stuff the lot of them’ and live my life as best as I can. If I want to save and go on holidays (Not that I actually can right now, but the hope is there) do it. If I want to go to the park. Do it. Live my life as best I can and don’t apologise for it.

So this is me saying a big fat F YOU to all the people who have tried to drag me down this year; the hardest year of my life. I will keep fighting for my health, I will keep resting when I need, I will also keep going out and enjoying precious moments with my family when I can. I’m not just disabled, I’m a mother, wife, lover, friend, woman.

I’m disabled, not dead and I have as much right to living my best life as any of you! I will not apologise. I will not explain. I will continue to paint a smile on my face whenever I can. Myself, my Doctors and my husband and kids know I’m no liar. That’s enough for me.

PS. Comments will be switched off on this page from now on due to people hiding behind anonymous comments on here to give me abuse. If you would like to comment on this piece please feel free to do so on Facebook where I shall be posting it on my page: This Little Life of Mine

My Stoma Story… Surgery Day, Part One. 

My Stoma Story… Surgery Day, Part One. 

Mornings are always early in hospital. No matter how terribly you sleep the noise and light always seep into your dreams and rouse you from the tiny abandon you’re clinging to. The morning of my surgery was no different. Even though it was well past four when I eventually switched off and drifted into oblivion, I was awake and anxious before the hour hand was barely scraping by six. Today was shaping up to be one of the longest of my life. 

The words of disgust I’d heard the day previously weighed heavy on my mind, whilst the bowel prep still weighed heavy on my digestive system. Despite having nothing to eat since lunch and my drinks stopped in the night, that liquid dynamite was still wreaking havoc on my insides; helped along by my hyperactive nerves. You couldn’t tell by looking at me but I was practically catatonic. Making pathetic small talk one minute and crying the next, seconds ticked by like hours. I swear the sands of time slowed that morning. 


I called my husband to try and take my mind off the sight and smells of breakfast wafting my way. (Food always smells so great when you can’t have any doesn’t it?!) He promised he’d be with me as soon as possible; but with the school run and a toddler to attend to, it would be last eleven when he finally arrived. In the meantime I waited. I worried. I pestered the nurses. I worried some more. 

It was around nine when the anaesthetist arrived at my bedside. He seemed like a nice guy. Down to earth, approachable. He told me how he would numb my pain with nerve blocks and I told him about all the different pain killers and ways of administering them that don’t work on me. He politely dismissed all of what I said, confident that his approach would be nothing like everyone else’s. Desperate to believe him, I nodded and agreed. The surgeon arrived whilst the anaesthetist was still at my bedside, they shared pleasantries as I milked over the similarities between doctors and buses. It’s always the same, you wait forever for one then a whole load turn up at once.. 

Meeting my surgeon was somewhat of a relief, if only a minor one. I had started to believe I’d never lay eyes on the guy! In my imagination he was some eccentric old surgeon with a scalpel and a glint in his eye. In real life he was just an ordinary man. So ordinary his face is hazy from the fog of memory. I probably couldn’t pick him out of a lineup. 

He was the man who would change my life forever and I wouldn’t even recognise him if I bumped into him. 

What I do remember of him was that he listened. He seemed to take in what I said and genuinely try to assuage my worries. I babbled on about my recent struggles, the extreme increase in my pain and the fear that had brought with it and begged him to check over my bowel before closing me up. He assured me he would and I believed him. For a brief moment my fears were sated; until he shook my hand and disappeared from view. My calm disappeared with him, only to return in part when my husband arrived. 

The hours he was there I felt stronger. More able to cope. My husband and I bicker and argue, we are both stubborn and dig our heals in. But we also share a love unlike one I’ve ever known before. He is my best friend, my safe place, my home. With him beside me I feel like I can get through anything. He calms me and gives me strength. We spent our time chatting, holding hands and even both trying to doze. Just being close to him helped. 

All too soon though he had to leave. I’d hoped he would see me off to surgery, but the school run waits for no man and he had a long drive back home. I bawled like a baby after he left. Not for long though, minutes later I was being wheeled down to the operating theatre to meet my fate… 

The surgery before mine had run long, they were still finishing up as I was entering the anaesthetic room. The staff inside were all really cheerful. Each one of them seemed happy and friendly. Of course it could all have been an act for me, but they seemed to be a really great team. They were kind too; within seconds of entering the chilly room I was shivering, seconds later I was handed warm blankets to make me more comfortable. As a bonus, they also halted the annoying chattering coming from my teeth! 

When I’m nervous I tend to babble. Not only that but I fall back on sarcasm and humour. Minutes before surgery to perform an ileostomy in a room full of people who were about to see me butt naked and sliced open on a table I was most definitely nervous! Thanks to that days rota being shuffled I’d somehow ended up with two top anaesthetists and their teams in my surgery, so the room was pretty crowded. My nerves peaked and out of my mouth came what was practically a stand up comedians set. I can’t for the life of me remember what I was saying, but I remember laughter. My own and the six or seven people surrounding me. Fleetingly, as the anaesthetic took hold and my eyes drifted closed I thought to myself… 

If the worst happens and I don’t wake up, at least I went down laughing. 

*Watch out for the next instalment to find out what happened in the aftermath of my surgery and subsequent adjustment to life as a #baglady. 

My Stoma Story.. My First Night in Hospital. 

My Stoma Story.. My First Night in Hospital. 

I had hoped to update regularly whilst in hospital. Unfortunately the signal on the wards where I was staying was absolutely terrible; so that wasn’t possible. I couldn’t even FaceTime my kids regularly. Instead I took lots of pictures to document my stay, now I finally feel up to sharing My Stoma Story with you via a series of blogs; starting with my first night in hospital… 

Day 1: 13.6.17.

Rather than turning up the morning of my operation, as I did with my hysterectomy, it was decided at my pre op I should arrive at hospital the day before my surgery. Due to my health issues my surgeon and I thought it best I do a bowel prep in order to clear me out ready for life with a stoma. As horrible as that was, I’m so glad I did it and I’d recommend anyone else take the same approach. Clearing out meant I could concentrate on getting used to my new stoma without having the pain and difficulty of getting any remaining stool out of my colon. It was this clearout, and my need to remain hydrated throughout (thank you POTS) that landed me in hospital a day early. 

I’m not going to lie, I arrived at the hospital completely terrified. But that calmed as soon as I was on the ward and settled. The nurses were friendly and the other ladies in my room seemed really nice. There was four of us and we chatted most of the afternoon away. My husband and son stayed to settle me in before leaving for the school run, it was then the serious business of preparing for my operation began. 


First off the stoma nurse arrived, she drew two ominous black dots on my bloated stomach. One of these would become my new stoma, we wouldn’t know which until after surgery. It suddenly dawned on me that after the surgery my stomach would never be the same again. It’s strange to look down on your stomach and know that in less than 24 hours your entire anatomy will work in a completely different way. That this relatively ‘simple’ surgery would change your life drastically. I looked down at those dots for a long time, contemplating the journey ahead. Little did I realise quite how much things would change. 

Marks are put on both sides of the abdomen in case internal scarring prevents the bowel from being pulled through to the surface in one particular spot. The same part of the bowel will be pulled through regardless of which side it comes out at. 

Even though these marks just look quite haphazard, they’re actually pretty carefully placed. The nurse had me sat down and stood up, I also wore my favourite jeans in order to try and avoid their wasteband. The nurse will try her best to mark the surgery site so it is easy to access whilst being comfortable with your usual wardrobe. Obviously placement can never be guaranteed though, it all depends on what the doctor finds inside. 


To try and take my mind off the daunting task ahead of me I arrived at hospital with a bundle of goodies. My friend had kindly bought me a colouring book and pencils, I’d also filled my iPad with all the remotely interesting free books I could find. But most importantly I had a plastic cup which had been lovingly decorated by my daughter. Not only the cup, but the box too. Love hearts, kisses and words of love adorned each side of the box. I read them over and over, reminding myself constantly of the people who I was truly doing this for. 

Of course I wanted to feel better in myself. But it was my need to be more involved and present for my little family that really drove me to have this operation. My husband and children are my world and I want to be as well as possible for them. 


Lunch arrived at around twelve thirty. My nerves were running riot and the meal they offered me did not appeal. I couldn’t even force down this soggy short bread and ice cream. Luckily I still had a pastry left over from breakfast which was just tasty enough to be worth feeling nauseous for. If only I’d known that within minutes of my meal I’d have my cannula placed and be told I was no longer allowed anything solid; I may have thought differently about my lunch! 



Two hours later and it was time to start the dreaded Picolax. For anyone who hasn’t tried it, this stuff is basically liquid dynamite! Created to clear out the bowel quickly and efficiently, most people choose to sit as close to a toilet as possible when they take it! The nurses on the ward, and some of the patients, looked at me with pity as I struggled to gulp down the putrid mix. To me there is little on this planet that tastes worse than Picolax, I literally feel it hitting my stomach and starting to pummel its way through my bowel. Keeping this stuff down is definitely not the easiest task for me! 

Soon those looks of pity turned into confusion. Why wasn’t I running to the toilet? An hour passed. Then two. Three. Four. It was almost five hours before the Picolax had ANY effect. Even then it was not the bowl shattering poonami they were expecting. ‘Luckily’ they had more Picolax for me to drink.  By round two I was exhausted and looking nine months pregnant. My POTS meds had worn off and I was walking like a weird chicken zombie hybrid. This was turning into a long night. 

As I speed shudder shuffled to the loo for the umpteenth time the lady from the bed opposite me chimed up, ‘You know I couldn’t understand why you called your husband your carer when you arrived. But looking at you know I completely get it.’ Thanks. For anyone thinking of pointing out my inadequacies in future, regardless of motive, please don’t. 

The night wore on; even with my earplugs, cushion and sleep mask, I was in no way able to sleep. Yet it wasn’t my stomach tying  itself in knots or the possibility of a river of molten lava spewing forth from my nether regions without warning that was the issue; unfortunately I’m pretty used to those symptoms. No, the issue was my nerves over my impending operation, aggravated by a series of conversations I had had throughout the evening with my bedfellows. 

You see, the lady opposite me had stomas. Stomas which she didn’t exactly love. In fact, she believes many of her current health issues relate back to her previous stoma surgeries. (Due to my preoccupation with my own problems, hunger and exhaustion, I didn’t fully understand the timeline of her declining health. However, it did seem to me that her main issues pre dated the stomas.) Though I felt sad for her that she held so much resentment and mistrust towards doctors, I tried hard not to let her experiences colour my own. 

What I did find upsetting was when she bragged about chastising another patient for having her ostomy bag on show. Telling all of us in earshot how disgusting it was and how she feels the new movement to try and normalise stomas just encourages people to stare. Which they will, because it’s weird and disgusting. 

Her words really shook me. To the point I closed my curtains and sobbed silently to myself. Totally oblivious the woman carried on talking about how gross it was of anyone to see a bag, even with a cover on. We should all respect others and keep it hidden! Another patient popped her head around the curtain and sat with me a while. She had seen my upset, and even though she wasn’t quite sure what a stoma was, she wanted to help. ‘Ignore her’, she said. ‘It’s her age, she’s a prude, people won’t really think like that.’ I nodded in agreement. Wiped my tears and told her I was fine. 

But I wasn’t fine. 

The very next day I’d be having surgery to have one of those ‘disgusting’ bags. I knew that thanks to my issues with pain relief I wouldn’t be able to stand anything over my tummy, my bag would be on show. My see through bag that was surely much worse than a regular fabric covered one. Would she be on my ward then? Would she chastise me too, at a time I’m most vulnerable? My mind wandered further into the future. To my holidays and summertime. Should I hide my bag? Would a cover not be enough? Would people really stop and stare like the woman had said? She had lived it. So surely she knew? Or was she just paranoid thanks to already hating her extra appendiges? 

Question after question swirled through my mind. Worry after worry. Too tired to colour I attempted to take my mind off things with mindless games on my phone. I tried to block out the worries that crept in and gnawed at me. I tried, and I failed. 


Like with all other difficult nights I’ve lived through, the darkness eventually passed. As the sun rose I finally closed my eyes and managed to catch a few precious hours of sleep. It was then, as I closed my eyes to try and make the hours pass faster, that I vowed to myself I wouldn’t let anyone’s issues define me. Nobody else’s opinion will affect what I wear and how I live my life. In a matter of hours I would be getting operated on. An operation I was sure would improve my life. No way would I let anyone else’s negativity impact me. Yes, my nerves were still there. But now my determination had returned, for that I was stronger. 

To anyone else facing surgery and going through similar emotions as me, I say this: Fear is not a sign of weakness. To find something terrifying to the point of sobbing your heart out yet still go ahead with it is a sign of true strength, not weakness. Never beat yourself up for being afraid or upset. Just work through it and continue on your path with determination. 

To be continued… 
* Please note that my experiences in hospital may not reflect your own. I am simply documenting my journey in the hopes of spreading awareness and alleviating any fears I may be able to. 

Check back soon to hear all about surgery day and my early recovery. 

The Appointment Arrived… 

If you’re a regular reader of my blog you may have read my Desperate Plea; an email I wrote impeaching a surgeon I’d seen months previously to help me. Basically I have prolapses galore since the birth of my son. That combined with years of bowel problems and slow transit has left me with severe difficulty when defacating, or even passing wind. To the point my bowel becomes incredibly sore and bloated, resembling that of a pregnant woman. This issue is really taking over my life, to the point I literally begged for the doctors help. 

Normal stomach and bloated stomach. This happens daily and you can see my tummy swelling.

Miraculously the surgeon actually read my letter and even responded within a few hours, promising to get me in his clinic. A promise he indeed kept. 

Yesterday was that appointment. The one I’d been simultaneously hoping for and dreading all at once. The one which is been mentally and emotionally preparing for. I’d steeled myself for the very real fact that he may tell me I couldn’t be helped surgically. I also looked into options I thought may be of help. Options which my friends and family believed would never happen. Never even be on the list. They were wrong. 

Yesterday, as I laid everything on the line to the surgeon he looked me dead in the eye and told me I had three options. 

1 – have a tube as small as a biro formed from my skin into my bowel which I would then flush through with saline every day forever. 

2 – have the prolapse repaired and then have the tube inserted if I’m still having problems. (Which I enevitably will have as my issues began as a small child)

3 – a colostomy bag. The option everyone but me thought would never happen.

I asked his advice. What do I do? He couldn’t tell me. Ultimately, this is my decision. It’s my body, my life, my choice to make. 

Whilst I understand that; a huge part of me wishes he had been able to promote one option above the rest. To take the responsibility from my shoulders and ive me someone to blame should it all go wrong. Or even if it goes right and I just have a tough day. 

Right now I’m in shock. I don’t know what to think and my emotions are all over the place. I’ve burst out crying and made many many inappropriate jokes since stepping out of that appointment. I’ve researched, and worried, and researched some more. There’s not been a walking minute where this huge decision hasn’t been nibbiling away at the corner of my psyche. 

People have said to forget about it. To put it to the back of my mind for now. My surgeon is going to discuss my case at the Multi Disciplinary Team Meeting. I will be having a Marker Study on my bowel to see which bits are pulling their weight. Then, in six to eight weeeks I will be back in to see him. Possibly signing up for surgery. It’s not that long to wait, but right now it feels like forever. 

I’ve asked around for people’s opinions. Many think have the prolapse repaired and just see how I go. Or just have the small tube. But, having lived with my problems, I know that neither of those will work without having both done. They cannot be done at the same time. So I’d need at least two operations. My surgeon couldn’t tell me if the flush outs would be painful. Only that they take at least one, maybe two hours and must be performed daily. Or every other day if you’re lucky. So even on days I cannot see straight, I’d have to get my ass on the loo, and stay put. If it’s anything like when movicol explodes through me.. it will be painful. I don’t know if that’s a sustainable option for me. 

So I come to the bag. A huge operation to form a (possibly irreversible) massive change to my body. Scary to say the least. The thought of never having to go through the ordeal of passing a motion through the traditional exit ever again though? That leaves me wanting to cry tears of joy. It’s not that simple though. I know I get a lot of mucous build up. So, if they don’t take my colon I’d still be having to go and evacuate that. If they remove my colon then the op becomes irreversible for life. Which would be the best option? Would I still be able to eat steak?  My body is super sensitive, could I cope with the adhesive of bags on me permanently? Would I still be able to eat steak? Would it be possible to stay hydrated so as to keep my POTS in check? Serously, steak? How would my EDS impact healing? Would it put my husband off me? (Regardless of the fact he claims it won’t.) Could I still sleep on my tummy? For the love of god, could someone just tell me if I could still eat steak???!! 

I have a lot of questions. New ones are popping into my mind by the second. But I’m trying not to focus on this too much. I’ve been called brave. But I’m not. I’m scared. I’m terrified. I’m frightened of having another operation. I’m scared of adjusting to a tube or a bag. Mostly though, I’m scared of having to continue as I have been for the rest of my life. I’m scared of missing out on my kids growing up. It’s that fear that pushes me forward. That stops me hiding in a corner and refusing surgery. I have a family to fight for. A family that needs me present, not locked away in pain. For them, I will do anything. 

** NB. The surgeon said my frank openness has been a great help in treating me. He wishes more patients would leave their modesty at the door and just tell him like it is. That’s perhaps something to consider at future appointments. 

There is another way…

There is another way…

In the last few months my levels of pain and exhaustion have hit a whole new high. This has left me pretty much bedbound most days. Then awake and restless at night. Alongside all that, my Gastroparesis has flared, meaning I’m nauseous almost all the time. My stomach feels full and bloated and eating, or even drinking, causes severe pain. When everything piles up like this it’s hard to cope. I found myself breaking down and sobbing on an all too regular basis. 

I’m already taking slow release Tramadol, Paracetamol and Codeine for my pain. I also have Gabapentin for nerve pain and other issues. 

Please note, it is not generally advisable to take Tramadol and Codeine together. I have special permission from the pain clinic and have been given clear instructions on safe dosage. Please don’t ever take medication that is not prescribed to you, or at a higher dose than prescribed by your GP. 

I cannot take anything Ibuprofen based due to my IBD, nor can I take many of the anti nausea medications that are on the market. During my last Gastroparesis flare my GP tried me on many of these medications, they either didn’t work, upset my bowel, or worse. What could be worse? Giving me the symptoms of a brain tumour, that’s what. My body reacts to things in very weird and wonderful ways. Waiting for my test results to come back after I’d been told I was displaying all the signs of a prolactinoma was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life, one which I do not intend to repeat. 

So, as you can imagine, my options are now pretty limited. Basically there’s only one thing to move up to. Morphine. Be it tablet or patch form, it doesn’t matter. That’s the only thing left. I discussed this with my husband. Yes, I want to feel better. Yes, I want to be up and about more. But Morphine? I’m thirty years old.  Do I really want to put my, already dysfunctional body, through that? I know that Morphine is a strong pain relieving option. But I also know that any pain relief doesn’t seem as effective on me as it is on others, this could be down to my dodgy collagen. Even in hospital when I’ve been given Morphine intravenously, it’s not had a major effect. I never ever get spaced out or super relaxed. It just doesn’t affect me that strongly. So I’d be putting my body through all that stress, for a minimal effect. I don’t think it’s worth it. 

But what other choice did I have? None. Or so I thought. Soon after our conversation my husband saw an article about the Medipen which he sent over to me. Basically the Medipen is a vape machine which uses extracts from the Cannabis plant, combined with coconut oil. The extracts are completely devoid of any of the chemicals which cause the feeling of being ‘high’. They purely contain the chemical which has the most benefits, CBD. I’m not going to lie, I was wary. Very wary. Cannabis has a lot of stigma around it. Then add to this the fact that you inhale it in a vape machine, meaning you look like you’re smoking. That was too much. 

I’m not anti Cannabis. I don’t believe it’s a big evil drug that is bringing it to its knees. Honestly I don’t. Used in the correct way, I can see why it could be popular. However I am anti smoking. I do not smoke, have never smoked, and have no desire to. I’m not going to lecture people about their life choices, but in my opinion my body has enough wrong with it without me adding to the list. When you think of Cannabis that’s what comes to mind. Smoke. Lots and lots of smoke. Spliffs, bongs, hash briwnies. But mostly dingy rooms full of pungent acrid smoke. That’s the stereotype. The stereotype that is widely spread and etched into people’s minds. But that’s not me. I’m a mother. A none smoker. A disabled member of the community just trying to make the best of my life. 

My initial reaction to the Medipen wasn’t great. But I read the article. I researched. I looked on their website. Mostly I checked out the reviews. Page after page after page of people thanking the company. People with Cancer, MS, Chronic Pain, Chronic Fatigue, Insomnia and bowel complaints, all were seeing results! They were gushing about their great experiences. Better sleep, less pain, more energy. The reviews were astounding. Many even called it life changing. My viewpoint started to shift. Reluctantly I discussed it with my doctor. Terrified by his reaction. What if he thought I was a pot head? I couldn’t believe my ears when he told me to go for it! Recently another patient of his had tried a similar product and had excellent results. He agreed it was time I started thinking outside the box in order to improve my day to day life. Wow! The (unofficial) go ahead from my doctor! 

That night I contacted the company and arranged for my sample. I’ve been anxiously waiting for it ever since. Desperate to try it, but afraid the hype was too much to be true. Honestly, I was afraid to even hope. As for the stigma? I put it out of my mind. I told myself, who cares what other people think?! I need an improvement in my life. I cannot keep going like this, and I don’t want to take opiates. Besides, as with stigma about anything, we just need to raise our voices and educate. Show people they’re wrong. Highlight the true facts of the matter. 

My Medipen arrived this morning. I’m looking forward to seeing how I go with it, and updating you all on my experiences; from my initial reactions (including reactions to it from those around me) to the results of longer term use. Here’s hoping it’s all positive!! I’m just happy I actually have something to place my hope in for once. 

Its arrived!!

A jealous person is a horrible person, right?! 

A jealous person is a horrible person, right?! 

I’m a jealous wife. I’m a jealous friend. I’m jealous of the stranger on the street, the put together mums on the school run, and the frantic ones too. Im jealous of stay at home mums, I’m jealous of working mums. I’m jealous of my hairdresser, the lady in the fish and chip shop and the garbage man. In all honesty I’m jealous of pretty much anyone, well no, not anyone. I’m jealous of the healthy. I’m jealous of the able. I’m jealous of those seemingly better equipped to cope with chronic illness or disability than me. 

To admit to being jealous is a scary thing for me to do. People assume that if you’re jealous of someone you automatically harbour resentment for them. You wish them to fail, be ‘brought down a peg or two’, for them to be miserable. A jealous person is a horrible person, right?  For me I hope, that is not the case. That’s not how I roll. 

Just because I’m jealous of you doesn’t mean I wish bad things upon you. Honestly I am the biggest cheerleader when my friends and family achieve something, I’m always incredibly proud. I just wish I was able to live like ‘normal people’ do. 

It’s hard not to hate yourself when you have a trickle of jealousy running through every adult relationship you hold. Particularly on days that trickle becomes a raging torrent, sweeping away your sensibilities and spewing forth over whomever unwittingly triggered it. Usually this happens on a hard day, a day full of pain and exhaustion, but that’s no excuse. 

I think I find dealing with the jealousy I hold towards my husband the hardest to deal with. My husband is my carer. He does so much for me, and our children. To the point he’s given up work to keep me safe and as well as possible, losing his social life somewhere along the way too. So what do I have to be jealous of? Well, I will tell you…

I’m jealous of the fact he is the main carer now, not just of the kids but of me too. I’m jealous that he can get up on a morning and function, he can do the school run and shopping and anything else needed. I’m jealous that he can run around with our children and make them squeal with sheer delight. I’m jealous that I’m often stuck in my bed and missing the children growing up whilst he’s in the thick of it. I could go on, but you get the idea. What makes things worse is on top of the jealousy, there’s the thought that to be jealous of someone who does so much for you, you MUST be a bad person. 

So I’m letting it go. Not the jealousy, I know from years of experience (and counselling) that whilst ever I’m this ill jealousy will factor in my life. I’m giving up feeling bad about it. 

My jealousy is my own. It’s my cross to bare. I’ve come to realise I’m not jealous so much of what you can do, more because of what I can’t. If I have to choose, I would rather deal with feelings of jealousy than feelings of self loathing. I’ve been there, it’s no fun. So I’ve accepted my jealousy and I’m not going to feel bad over it. As long as it remains a trickle most of the time, and I can still live and be happy for those around me, then I can live with that. On those bad days, well I’ll do my best and I’m not above apologising if I’m in the wrong. As for my husband, he knows me well enough to realise how much I truly love and appreciate him. 

Besides, whilst ever I’m jealous I have the extra impetus to keep trying. Pushing forward. Moving on. Living MY life to the best of my ability.