Depression

Not many people are aware of this because I mostly come across as a cheerful and positive person, but all my life I have battled with the demon that wears the name tag DEPRESSION.

At its mildest, it can manifest as a black fog on the periphery of my vision. At its most severe it is a paralysing, debilitating, all-consuming nightmare.

I could blame the fact that my relationship with my parents as I was growing up was somewhat troubled or the fact that my first marriage was an unhappy one, but I feel that these two things more likely fall under the category of effect rather than cause.

I have never taken any prescribed anti-depressant medication and apart from one complete waste of time counselling session (I never bothered to book a follow up) I have always sought to deal with the problem on my own.

My new husband is very aware of my demon. He doesn't necessarily understand it but he accepts that it is a part of me.  More than any other person in my life, he has been able to lock my demon in chains so that it can't sink its wicked claws into me. However, it frightens me and bewilders him that  a casual throwaway comment can cause those chains to simply melt away.

I will give you an example.

My lovely nephew was visiting. Being a minority meat eater in a mostly vegetarian family, whenever we have these get-togethers we generally tend to go en masse to our local Wetherspoons for a breakfast. He gets his fix of sausage bacon and black pudding and we get to enjoy the rather delicious veggie option. On this particular occasion, the new winter menu had been introduced. One change was that the veggie breakfast was available in a 'large' option which meant an extra sausage and two slices of toast, making it even more of a treat. There were also some new tempting items on the dessert menu. I confessed to my husband that I have been known to go to Wetherpoons just before twelve so as to still qualify for the breakfast menu, then having eaten the breakfast, order a dessert because it felt OK to do so, it now being after 12oclock. This is where the throwaway comment came. He looked me in the eye and said "No wonder you ... ( and I know he meant to say 'are so fat' but he must have realised that this would have been very hurtful so he backtracked and said)... are carrying a few extra pounds".

Simple as that. An evil grin spreads across the demon's face as it  is unleashed.

I don't scream or shout or even try to explain that that wasn't a very kind thing to say - I just sink into a place inside myself. Outwardly, I carry on as usual but everytime my husband talks to me or touches me I sink a little deeper.

I try to tell myself not to be so stupid. I try to focus on all the wonderful things there are in my life and how my husband is such a key part in all that is good. I try to tell myself that this is just my demon and it will lose its power over me.  It doesnt matter what I tell myself. Depression grips and it grips bloody tight.

I don't believe I will ever be completely free of my demon but I am getting better at living with it. I also feel incredibly lucky to have a husband that is not afraid to face up to it. I hate how much it hurts him to see that he has unwittingly hurt me but that is something we both have to deal with together.

Erotic Fiction

My daughter, Liberty, is an aspiring author. Her current work in progress is a teen Sci-Fi novel. Although it is not a genre I would choose, I am thoroughly enjoying reading each chapter as it is written and I am now at a point where I am hungry for the next! She has a lovely writing style and a very clear vision about character, plot and structure. I am absolutely sure that one day her published books will be gracing bookshelves alongside JK Rowling, Stephanie Meyer and the likes.

Nearly twenty years ago, I attended adult classes in Creative Writing. As much as I loved being a stay at home mum, I liked that it got me out of the house one evening a week and away from what was an unfulfilling marriage. I chose creative writing only because the class was at a convenient time and location and a preferred option over Conversational French.

The course did present me with something of a challenge. At school I was always more inclined towards science than the arts. I would find solving a maths problem far more enjoyable than writing an essay. Here I was with a bunch of people who all thought they had the next bestseller waiting to burst forth from their eager writing implements, all just wanting to be nudged in a direction they had already decided upon. I came to the class without any expectations and certainly had no idea for a book of any description. I focussed on short stories which I used mostly as a vehicle to flirt with the teacher. It never felt like serious writing, it was playing, having fun.

Encouraged by my teacher, I did submit one of my flirtatious works to a new women's magazine who were looking for erotic fiction. I received a very positive response  from Isabel Kaprowski, the launch editor, who said that she liked my writing style but needed something longer and with more plot line and if I were to submit such a thing she would be very interested.

I don't know what it was that stopped me. Maybe it was because my unhappy marriage eroded what little confidence I had or maybe it was because I never really felt like a 'writer', an impostor in that class of authorial wannabes. Whatever the reason, I never followed up my invitation to submit a longer story despite writing a couple that fit the remit. Had I done so and achieved any sort of success my life could have taken a very different path. If I had chosen Conversational French over Creative Writing in the first instance, I might never have written a word but enjoyed more holidays abroad. Life is so full of crossroads and choices it doesn't really pay to start considering the 'what ifs'.

I didn't do much else in the way of writing after that apart from some academic essays for a Foundation Degree Course in Teaching and Learning that I did a few years ago. The course itself didn't excite me much but I found that I did love the essay writing - the satisfaction of placing the final full stop. The desire to commit words to paper (real or electronic) was in part what lead me to blogging.

I have a niece who this year has started a University course in English Literature. She also like to write. The majority of what she writes seems to fall under the category of FanFiction which my daughters have dabbled in but I find mostly annoying (call me boring but I prefer to see characters handled by their original creators). The FanFic sites on the internet do, however,  provide an audience - a readership - and ultimately the aim for the written word is that it be read (a truth that eluded me when I failed to submit my stories for publication). When I was writing, the release of Windows 98 and the internet explosion was still over half a decade away.

I asked my niece if she had any original works for me to read and she sent me a link to a story that she had entered for a writing competition. I know she has a lot of devoted followers of her Fan fiction who are full of praise for her but I am not the sort of person that gives praise lightly. I look for the good in things but I'm not afraid to give my honest opinion. My niece is ambitious, she has a good command of the language and some lovely ideas but I felt that her story, which dealt with a sexual encounter between two women, suffered a bit from a lack of worldly wisdom and maturity and the ideas were never explored quite enough to give you any real insight into the characters. I am hoping that she takes my criticism as positive and comes back with a new story to blow me away.

It was reading this story that made me think about my own dusty manuscripts, and filled with a sense of affection for my youthful incarnation, decided to dig them out. I was only able to lay my hands on the original erotic story I had sent to the women's magazine along with the response. Yellowed, typewritten paper and rusty staples held a little piece of my personal history and connected me to it.

Owing to the fact that my two year old is a little poorly and consequently unusually demanding, it has taken me practically the whole day to write this blog entry. This does not bode well for any fantasies I might have of resurrecting my fiction writing, erotic or otherwise. But you never know....

Veil Between Worlds

31st October - Hallowe'en - the time of year when the veil between worlds is thinnest. A time for spooky fun!!

With Ivy home from Uni, my sister in law and her family visiting, my sister and her family and my eldest daughter and her other half coming over, we made up quite an impressive Hallowe'en party guest list.

I seemed to spend a lot of time cooking but I love that and inspired by my new Lily Vanilli  'Zombie Ate My Cupcake' recipe book, I created some fun spooky themed cakes.

Everybody entered into the spirit of things dressing up as a whole range of creepy characters from traditional vampires, witches, werewolves, and frankenstein's monster to the more off the wall zombie celebrities, sewn together rag doll and mad doctor.

I had won a lovely Hallowe'en Tutu kit from Summerland which I set my girls the challenge of making for my 2 yr old who was flatly refusing to wear any of the fancy dress items I had for her. The tutu turned out beautifully but still was not enough to entice my little one so I ended up wearing it as a rather glamorous bustle. The colours were gorgeous and were a perfect match for my shoes.

I thoroughly enjoy entertaining - making sure everbody is well fed and there are plenty of activities for anyone who might be interested - but the down side of having a house full it is that it can be hard to keep a proper eye on my two young ones. The baby isn't much of a bother. Being only 4months old he stays where I put him and there are usually plenty of volunteers to hold him. The two year old is a slightly different matter.

I was busy in the kitchen when I heard a commotion and realised that a mishap had befallen my rather adventurous little girl. She had been clambering on the leather chairs in my study, slipped off and landed in a heap on her head. The room is carpeted so the landing was not as bad as it could have been in one of my tiled rooms. When I arrived on the scene she was crying in her big sister's arms. I took this as a good sign - at least she wasn't unconscious. I whisked her away from the gathering crowd, into my well lit kitchen to assess any damage. That was when I saw the blood. She must have just caught the edge of the big oak desk in my study as she fell. The wound to her scalp was probably only a 5mm gash but head wounds really know how to bleed. Her very fair hair  accentuated the crimson liquid flowing from the hole and dripping down her face.

I had visions of a long wait in casualty and a frightened child subjected to examination and treatment by unfamiliar people but we were spared this outcome. The cut was horrible but really quite small. The bleeding slowed down then stopped really quite quickly. The tears were forgotten with the offer of a lollypop. The party atmosphere re-established itself.

Our day continued with pumpkin carving, veggie food, fireworks, marshmallow toasting and much jollity but it was hard for me to look at all the fake blood used in the fancy dress without being reminded of my precious little girl and what could have been a horrible accident.

The veil between my world of fun, laughter and my family safe and happy and a world I don't even want to acknowledge was certainly thin this day.