I don't want to talk about it

A couple of people have dropped me a note on this topic, and it happens to be somewhat of a specialism of mine.

What do you do when someone is clearly struggling and sinking but shuts everyone out?

This is different, of course, from the times when someone is clearly struggling and doesn't ask for help but would accept it if offered.  Or indeed, from the times when someone is clearly struggling and is acting out until someone intervenes.

If I could offer an answer to that pain-filled question 'what do I do to help?', then I would.  But I'm not sure I can.  Some things do pop to mind; like be careful of impromptu plans and changes, and don't set a deep and meaningful in motion as this can cause frustration at the sheer lack of words available and a feeling of failure.

But instead of my usual abstract (but oh so helpful) lists, I decided to write to myself (add that to the list of things I may need to seek counselling over...).  I hope it helps;


If only I could crawl into your skin and make you feel less alone.  Those breaths that seem so shallow, they will deepen again.  

And yes, life seems so hard at the moment.  It is.  It's not your imagination or your weakness that makes it so.  It is hard for you.  It is ok that you feel that.  So stop being hard on yourself for what you feel, there is enough to be getting on with.

And if you could just cry, maybe it would make some space for the air to move around and ease the burden of each breath.  There is nothing to be gained in holding back.

You feel unworthy of anyone's help as though everyone else has 'proper' problems to deal with.  But what would you say to someone who had been ill like you have - would you honestly think they'd used up all their support quota?  Would you get fed up of them?  Well as you already think everyone else is better than you; follow that thought through and assume they're more patient and more loving and let them show you their kindness.

There will be a time soon when the words of others will no longer crash into your splintering head with such overwhelming potency that you feel you might fall apart at your already strained seams.  Don't dwell in the silence too long, go and find the songs around you even if they sting at first.

You're right, no one can say anything that might help and you can't yet describe what you feel.  If you can't face talking to anyone, write to them.  Ask them to write to you.  Send up the silent flare and let them know you don't know what you need but you're feeling empty.  Just them knowing will help.  

Accept the gifts people leave on your doorstep, metaphorically and otherwise.  You will find strength to be on the other side - being the one giving - another day.  

You're going to feel out of control for a little while.  There isn't enough time in the world for you to get yourself together to face the surprises and spontaneous changes launched at you, so dwell in the chaos and mess.  Let it swirl around you until you're ready to join the pace again.  You must not hide for long.  

You will not feel like this for much longer.  See it through.  Keep doing the small things, they're big enough for now.  Save the world another time.  

And Lau, it'll all be ok.  You're doing ok.

Twice as much

We're back to the day to day.  No mad trips to plan or challenges to feel guilty about not training for or bags to pack.

I find the hum drum of the ordinary to be the most threatening rhythm in which to function.  Give me pressure and distraction and variety anytime - I may have my ups and downs but I prefer the multicolour to the uniform beige.

And this fear of being dragged into the fog is possibly what led me to accidentally get another puppy...

Druna was too irresistible.  I went to a meeting, I came back with a Springerdoradoodle (Springer/Labrador x Mini Poodle).  Mabel is warming to the idea of being a big sister now she's over the shock.

Clearly I'm both turning into a crazy dog lady and consciously letting myself in for a few months of more poop, training and twice as much canine loopiness.  So why?

I find it easier to look after myself if there's something I need to look after myself for.  Owning dogs obviously is a selfish act; they are to enhance my own lifestyle and make me healthier.  I need them as much as they need me, and that is a very positive thing at the moment.

When the hum drum of the daily grind gets to me I have two creatures at different parts of their discovery and dependence to remind me of the joys to be found each day.  I have the innocent vulnerability of a snoring 9 week old to show me that beauty can be found in weakness.  My prancing 2 year old puppy demonstrates the simplicity of loyalty and gratefulness.

The rhythm of the ordinary can be joined by phrases of everyday adventure and notes of humble happiness.

And of course my dogs are pretty cute.

How did I do THAT?

I've been a long way.  And come back again.

It's safe to say that I haven't hidden just how nervous I have been about the cycle challenge my Dad and I took on this year.  It's been quite the palaver and I've been on the verge of backing out on more occasions than I care to admit.

Here's us at the start line:

Here's us at the finish line:


















Four days, three countries, three hundred miles.  And I rode every single one of them.  WHAT?!?!?

So being that I made quite the meal of it all, I wouldn't blame anyone for asking 'how exactly did I manage it?!'

Honestly?  I don't know.

But I have a few ideas;

- I didn't want to let my dad down.  That was worse than the thought of hating it.

- I didn't want to have to tell everyone I backed out or gave up.

- The more I did, the more I surprised myself.  The more I achieved, the more I wanted to know how much further I could go.  The further I got, the more I could do...

- It was rarefied air; all I had to do each day was get on a bike.  That's it.  Just keep said bike moving forward.  And that seemed a lot more manageable than normal life.

They say that people get to the end of these challenges and feel sad that it's over and I confess that sounded like utter tosh a week ago.  But come Saturday and the final 10 miles and I got it.  Partly because of the high of making it, the beauty of the scenery and the uplifting support from home.  But for me, I wanted to stay in the bubble, where all I needed to do was get on a bike.

My trusty steed.

In my last post I mentioned that carrying baggage is part of life.  I took mine all the way to Brussels.  And I wasn't the only one.  It was clear that we'd all been carrying some hefty weight with us for the trip.  Yet no one was shouting about theirs or opening it up for show and tell.  Trips like these are utter escapism and in the bubble you get to focus on something far easier than what you're carrying.

It was a privilege to travel with the weary and the burdened, quietly and positively.  The father raising money for the Teenage Cancer Trust because his son has cancer.  The gentle man going through a divorce.  The funny northerner who had a suspected heart attack a few weeks ago.  I only caught glimpses of the baggage we each held to our chests but it was a breath of fresh air to both silently acknowledge and overcome it all if only for a few days.

I want to keep cycling if only to keep up some fitness and balance out my biscuit habit.  And I also want to seek out some rarefied air occasionally.  I think it might help to readjust the load and look at the scenery for a few moments.  I need days where all I need to do is get on a bike, so that when I step back out of the bubble I can be that little bit fitter.

p.s. you can still sponsor us

Fear and padded shorts.

On Sunday I preached on Matthew 16:21-28.  If you've not picked it up from my previous blogs, it's worth knowing that I'm not feeling much at the moment, it's a numb trudging through treacle type time.

When I first approached this text my heart sunk - here we go again, another passage that is interpreted in a number of ways; not all of which are particularly helpful.  There it was ready to thwack me about the head; pick up your cross and carry your burdens.  Some people add 'these things are sent to try us' or 'give everything up because then you'll be rich in heaven'.

Here's what I saw.

Jesus lived a life, and it can't have passed him by that most humans picked up a fair bit of baggage on the way.  Surely Jesus was inviting us burdened folk to pick it all up and come on the journey with him.  Maybe Jesus was essentially saying 'your baggage doesn't exclude you, bring it with you, you can use it, we can find hope within it.'

Blessed are the cracked; for they will let in the light.

I feel like I'm carrying a heavy load at the moment and it makes me want to give up, a lot.  I'm often like a child silently whimpering 'please don't make me go.'  But that load doesn't exclude me from moving forward and interacting with the world around me - not despite the brokenness but through it.

Tomorrow I travel to my childhood home for the last time before my parents leave that side of the country, and embark on simply the hardest thing I've ever attempted.  It sounds so silly in a world of serious stories and conflict, but my 300 mile charity cycle ride is a big deal at this moment in my life.

If I make it to the start line, I will have overcome the anxiety that makes it hard to leave my flat.  If I manage to ride most of the route each day I will have overcome my lack of fitness.  If I do the whole challenge I will be exceeding my own expectations.  But pulling out or giving up is not an option - I won't deal well with letting anyone down or having another failure on my books.

Whatever happens I will be carrying my burdens and my brokenness with me, all the way to Brussels, because they are part of my journey and there is hope within them.

Sinking, Standing, Speaking

There are certain moments in life where you think 'I just need to get through this somehow'.  These are the moments that if you fall, you fall irretrievably - or so it feels.

I had the privilege last weekend of leading four evening sessions at the Greenbelt festival as part of the worship programme.  I had done something similar last year but used a lot of content I had already tried and tested and a team I knew I could change things on.  This year we had no projection facility, a new venue and well, I'm far from the high last year's festival put me on.

I chose to take a whole new approach to it all and actually plan the sessions, write them out and have them printed ready if someone else needed to step in (always wary of a migraine, falling into a hole or some-such).  As I played out the sessions on the safety of my laptop I wrote freely and included some of the poems I've churned out over the past year.  Just lots of words on the page, as I prepared I knew I had plenty to read.

Only a flipping double rainbow

Before I knew it, set up was done and the first session was fast approaching.  I felt nothing.  Ready to go through the motions for the weekend.  The musician I was relying on to make the whole thing wonderful couldn't make it until the Saturday, so it was just me and my pre-written content.

The details aren't important really. The whole weekend went well, several people even asked for copies of my poems.  I was pretty astounded. What I will remember is the lack of nerves, the overwhelming feeling that I just had to get through it.  And being really surprised that no one found me out...

Always a little bit exciting to see
something you designed being
carried by thousands of people

As if to push the point entirely, on the final evening I went up to the venue without my notes.  I'm not sure why.  None of my colleagues could make it and my wonderful musician had gone home.  I assumed it would just be me sitting in the rain for an hour...  But the people came and huddled in under the canvas.  I stared at the mic with a few minutes to go.  There was nothing going on in my mind, no nerves, no excitement, nothing.  In that moment I could sum up what I had been feeling; 'I feel so worthless, such lack of self esteem that I don't even care if these people hate what I have to offer.  There is no ego to bruise, nothing to lose.'

For the following 40 minutes I completely made it up.  Drew from the depths of my memory and wrote poems on the hoof.  I led prayers from my heart and told a couple of old faithful stories.  It was improv worship and pretty darned stupid.

I doubt I impressed everyone in the venue, nor did I fool the crowd that I was reciting carefully crafted material.  But one lady summed it up for me; 'I haven't been to many things because of the kids and I came to this simply because the time worked.  But it was worth several seminars, and it was perfect.  You have the gift of getting out of the way and letting God speak through your heart.'

And so I've been reflecting on this; maybe it is a privilege and a gift to feel so empty sometimes.  To feel there is no pride at stake, no confidence to dent.  Because you offer only what you have, and in a world of fakes and pretence that honesty is well received.  Maybe the gift of depression is that on occasion, you're able to get out of the way.

I'm not advocating lack of preparation and I am fortunate that Greenbelt offers audiences of openness and understanding so that my heart on sleeve, ever so slightly experimental style fits right in.

But at a moment in my journey where I feel so low, having nothing to lose might just be my most precious gift.

What a difference a day makes

It's not that I've had a miraculous healing.  But I have been in a place today to give myself a good talking to.

Being a 'bit of a depressive' means spending a lot of time wishing I had more control over some things and denying I have any say in others.  And then there's all this introvert stuff to contend with (seriously, I thought I was more unique* than this, I'm becoming increasingly common...).

One issue I have to constantly battle is the feeling that I've lost or wasted time.  That the steps backward are more than the steps forward.

Today I decided to finally take my own advice on this matter.  Being that time moves constantly forward, it is impossible to go backward.  Every step is one forward, some might simply be into mud.  Or poop.  Or quicksand.

But all these steps are in the right direction, I can't undo the journey even if I wanted to.  So if it's all forward, with varying degrees of ease and scenery, then it can't be a disaster - right?  The bad days are just ... bad days. So I can chill the hell out.

I decided today to stop dwelling on the days I've lost this week.  If anything can be categorised as 'wasted time' surely it's that.

Today I got up, worked, took Mabel out, went to the shops, went and told the opticians my contact lens prescription was definitely wrong (it was, really wrong) and I did the kind of vacuuming where you have to actually move things.   All things I couldn't have conceived of doing 48 hours ago.  Today feels like I've taken an easier step.

The thing about seeing life as a series of forward and backwards motions, winning or losing, is that you place yourself in a constant war.  And that is simply too tiring.  So is being in conflict with yourself.  As much as it can feel easier to be wrestling with some inner demonic version of me rather than understand the vague otherness of depression, actually I need to work with myself, even the parts of me I blame.  And I probably need to stop giving myself multiple personalities.  Somewhere along the way I might be able to find a peaceful truce with myself and the clouds that come overhead.  Instead of war, some tough peacekeeping.

Today I feel like I'm standing on firm enough ground to assert all this. Tomorrow I may lose sight of it all.  But no more battles.  This war is done.



*yes I know you can't be 'more' unique.  but you get my gist, stop nitpicking and make me a cup of tea.**

**it was worth a try.

Dear me. Come back. Please.

A few months ago, at the height of my bucket list making, I challenged my dad to take on a cycle ride for charity and to up the stakes I said I'd do it with him.  Neither of us have ever been outdoors or sporty people, yes dad had a brief mountain biking period and used to play squash every Friday (which in my earlier years I honestly thought meant seeing how many glasses of squash he could down) and I've had fits and spurts of gym going.  Nevertheless you could confidently assume we were unlikely candidates for a tough cycle escapade.

To my utter astonishment (and his) dad has surpassed all expectations and with less than a month to go has followed the testing training timetable even getting up at 6am to get a ride in before work.  Honestly, he's become quite the cycling geek.  I'm really very proud of him.

I, on the other hand, am a different story.  I already had my spin classes on the go and a bike ready to borrow, routes planned out for the first few weeks at least.  But with work and other commitments, rain and heat... well ... my will power went on holiday without me.  I did go to some spin classes.  Each day I made the determined pledge that tomorrow I will get to the training proper.  I just couldn't seem to face it, motivation to do anything - even things I might enjoy - has been severely lacking.

Someone said to me 'you'll do it; you're the girl that trekked part of the Jurassic coast a week after a hospital stay, you hiked in the Sahara without any training, you're the kind of person who rises to challenges...'

That was certainly the girl that suggested this ride.  But as time has passed and I've found it really hard to get into gear, I've had to concede, that girl's not here right now.  

It is an uphill battle to get up and do normal life at the moment. Adding 100 miles a week on a bike...?

I did do a little bit of 'training' in 40C heat in Vietnam

So this is where I am at:

Last weekend I had a good hit of strength and motivation, got a new bike and went for a long ride with my dad. I felt good; I felt that the challenge was going to be good for me and that I might just do it.

A couple of hours ago I got up from a migraine that started three days ago.

To say that I'm bruised and worn down is an understatement.  'That girl' is no where to be seen.

I don't know how this chapter will end.  Whether it will be a story of triumph over adversity, or another failure.  I don't know if the determined, stubborn me will come back just in the nick of time, or whether she'll remain in hiding.  I don't know whether we'll raise enough money, whether we'll enjoy it or whether I will even be able to get out of bed to get to the start line.

If anyone sees the real me around, tell her I could really do with her help...


p.s. if anyone does want to sponsor us go to www.justgiving.com/mcadamcycle - thank you