Things I Would Tell Myself, Aged Almost 28

Hey, you! You over there with the giant belly. Ready to go into labour any day. This is the you who has a baby about to turn one. I'm here to tell you, things are going to be just fine.

1. You are more resourceful than you know. 
2. You are more resilient than you can imagine.
3. You are braver than you hope.
4. You are bold.
5. You persevere.
6. You're ok.

Thinking of You

Today, I return to fertility and rejoin the fellowship of women engaging with the circle of life and death; a fellowship so strong, so resilient, so brave.

I see your strength, you women three; the strength that shines like a golden cloak.

I think of you there, clothed in grief. I think of you and those arms that should be holding a baby boy. I think of you and your man and that empty space beside you. I hold you, we hold you, he holds you, but know that it can only fall far short of that which your body aches for. I think of you, entering the tunnel through which there is only one way, a lonely way. I think of you reaching out for that first hidden stepping stone, blind as we all are to the road ahead but suddenly more aware, more alive than we. I think of you gritting your teeth, steeling yourself to keep going, to keep fighting, to keep searching for that next stepping stone.

I think of us, standing with you. Wishing we could journey with you. Cheering you on. Holding your hand. Wiping away tears. Feeling so lost and so privileged to share this time with you, sacred time, time on the edge, the loss of a baby. I think of us, all around the world, united in grief with you. I think of our countless thoughts and prayers for you, and hope that together they might bring about a small shift in the atmosphere; in the cloud surrounding you.

I think of angels, surrounding you. I think of a radiant glow around your bed as you sleep at night. I think of unseen hands stroking cheeks late at night. I think of a beautiful song, that which no man can hear, forming a mist around you; a mist protecting against the darkness that is sure to come.

I think of you there, announcing with joy. I see the courage that took. I see the pain you feel, the losses carried deep within your heart, the pain of the journey carried all around. I see the strength your choice brings. I see people around you, desperate to share your joy.

I see you, and I applaud. I see your bump, so ripe and proud. I see your belly, growing in completion of it's mission. I see your baby, arriving with shouts so triumphant. I see you there, choosing hope and faith. I see you there, choosing joy after loss. I see you there, appreciating beauty.

I think of you there, with that baby in your belly. I think of you there, with arms still aching. I think of you there, mama to three. I think of you there. I see you stepping forward every day. I see the road you travelled. I see the person you have become, the motherhood you have grown into, the destiny you fulfill. I see your boys, lying in your arms as they always have. I see them, you see them, we see them. Others may not see them. That's ok, they are still there.

I see your circle of joyful cheerleaders, willing you onwards with every breath, not towards forgetting, but towards the motherhood of three.

I see you there, you women three. Bravely engaging with this most painful of dances. And I salute.

Where We Are: 12 Months

It was your birthday last week! What a super special week it has been. Love you little man.

What we've been up to: This past week we have been so busy with birthday events. I took you to the farm with some little friends. On your birthday, our doula and her daughters came over and spent the day. On Saturday, we had family over for a party, you were given some great toys. Your favourite is definitely the zebra walker/trike/scooter Nana & Grandad bought you. On Sunday, we had one year pics taken and it made me feel very emotional to think you have been alive a whole year. Very emotional indeed! I feel so lucky. You are so great. Then yesterday we went to Leicester for a joint birthday picnic with a little pal of yours who's birthday it was yesterday.

Your teeth are really bothering you & your sleep has been really disturbed the past couple of days, so you are having a well earned nap right now. This morning we took Charlie for a long walk with our friend Emma and a dog she is looking after called Guinness, who is a dog mountain. Hoping for some better sleep tonight little man! You were supposed to have your injections today, but I have rearranged them for a couple of weeks time due to the teeth - your temperature is also running a little high.

My favourite moment of today: Snuggling up with you in bed after you drifted off for your nap peacefully. Those moments really are perfection.

What you are up to at the moment: You are taking a few steps on your own (for about a month now, and getting more confident), and standing for short periods on your own more confidently. At the farm trip you walked between a rabbit hutch and Oliver's pushchair, I was so proud. You also took some steps for the photographer so we have it on camera finally!!!

Tricky moment this week: Your lack of sleep over the past couple of nights (I think Daddy would agree!). Much Calpol utilised. Last night you were unsettled between me coming to bed and about 1:30am. Then woke again at 4, wide awake and unsettled. After 2.5 hours sleep (and about 2 hours sleep total the night before) I couldn't handle it, called daddy in and went to sleep myself in our bed while Daddy lay with you. That was very tricky for me and I imagine for Daddy too. I was struggling to keep my cool when giving you Calpol at about 1:30am as you wouldn't take it and I was so so tired.

Best moment this week: You wanting to play in the garden with Emma's daughters (6 & 12), like a big boy. That was a good one.

What I am looking forward to: Going for lunch with Auntie Helena on Friday and seeing Rachel, James, Albert and Edith on Sunday.

My Inspiration: I am still thinking about my voice. It is hard. I used to not post on facebook for fear of rejection. Now I feel more confident and post more, but sometimes the fear of rejection gets me so hard. Last night I posted about the need for religious tolerance, just a little short post, but I couldn't sleep because I was tormenting myself thinking I shouldn't have posted it and that it's only my narcissistic tendencies that lead me to (thinking that believing I have something to say equals narcissism), & I was overanalysing what I had said. This is such bullshit and I am looking forward to moving past it and glad I am engaging with it. I wish I was less narcissistic and hope it will die away a little as I heal more and get more confident. Painful, challenging times.

I wrote about your conception story - as a comment on somebody's post in the BT group yesterday. It encouraged a couple of people to believe in signs and wonders and that was very inspiring. Reminded me how powerful and capable God is. I forget to believe so often.

My Jagged Edges

Where to start talking about the things that give me the jagged edges? 



Do I start from birth? How many episodes do I include? Good writing is concise and direct. There is definitely no waffle. So how little do you need to know? 


I was always sensitive, always a feeler, always vulnerable. I always said the wrong thing. When I was a tiny, I remember my dad saying I had the biggest heart of anyone he knew. There was too much space in my heart for his pain.


When I was eight, he left. My mum left too, one day she just wasn't there any more. There was a grey husk instead. I snuggled up to that husk in bed at night, desperate for warmth, but I didn't feel any. 


We left. I started a new school. None of the kids there had such big hearts. I shut mine down. I became a husk too.


I spent break time running up and down the grassy bank, thinking about my hairy legs, my unpierced ears, and how I still slept with my mum. I was ten.


Life stopped having colour. A hole grew inside.


The bigger the hole, the less people wanted me.


I was too much.


At home, I became a fiery red ball. I consumed everything around me. When I was with my father, I was alive. He saw me. He told me about how the world is ending. About how little time there was to save it. About how it was his mission and purpose. About how damaging my mother-husk was. He was very angry when I didn't do as I was told. Why was I always so lazy? 


I didn't see much of school.


When I was seventeen, I left. 


I found a home.


My edges got a little smoother. People spoke to me. They liked me. I went out for drinks. A lot of drinks. I kissed boys. A lot of boys. I fell in love. I gave everything. There was nothing left inside, no empty space. No time alone. There couldn't be any time alone. Empty spaces were full of fear, of possibility, of uncertainty, of the future. There was no future. 


I loved.


Why wasn't I doing my school work? Why must I self-sabotage? Why was I pushing self-destruct?


I cut myself off.


Keep going. Keep going Kitty. Never be alone. Never slow down.


Live live live.


Feel feel feel.


I lived alone, but I was never alone. I slept in beds all over. Never alone. Never stop talking. Never let them see.


I saw Ruth. In a small, safe space, we talked. She was so beautiful. She believed. I met her with last night's sperm in my vagina.


I went to university. Why was I so disappointing? Why did I need to be liked, to be accepted? How weak. An ex poly. A total disappointment. He was better. He was smarter, funnier, more acceptable. Smoother. No sharp edges. He had it all.


I met her. I met them. My family. I saw Jesus, but I didn't know Him.


Run run run. Fast as you can. You can't catch me. Never be alone.


Bed hop bed hop bed hop. Waking up with funny smell all over. Vomit down the toilet. Keep going. Don't let it in.


Stop.


I met him.


We loved. He was full of jagged edges too. We knew each other. He never stopped either. His hair was thick, dark and curly. He had the joker's smile, and such sparkling eyes. We loved. And loved. He was all of me. I was all of him. I became less, to be more for him. Must. Keep. Hold. Never. Be. Alone.


Stop.


Suddenly, I might die, I went to the doctor with a neck pain, and I came out with a brain tumour and urgent specialist appointment. The husk was frantic. The appointment. The anxiety. The anxiety. The MRI. The all clear.


Where was the relief?


The depression. The depression. The depression. Same four walls. All the fucking time. Lying. So. Still. Ghosts. Want me dead. 


He is there, he's with me, but he doesn't know how to be with me. What does he do? How can his jagged edges cope with this? He drinks. He smokes. He spends.


I stop. Eating. I start. Exercising. I go. I go. I go. So thin. So beautiful. So alive. Spend. Spend. Spend. South Africa. Warm and sunny. Acceptance.


Death. Everywhere I fucking look. Where's she gone? Why has she left me? I didn't know. Nobody told me. I'm a grown up.


You're going to kill your children. Your eggs are diseased. There's nothing you can do about it. No future. 


Got to give up. Can't keep going. But wait. Now he's hurting. His dad is gone. He's a grown up. Two grown ups together, with their jagged edges, bumping alongside each other. Where did the curvy sex go? I'm so thin now. I think I'm dying all the time.


I cry on the GP. He sends me to another safe room, with Wendy. I breathe. In that room, I breathe. She hears me. 


Seroxat.


Screaming screaming screaming. Pulling out my hair. Scratching at my face. Can't get away from the fucking pain. Everywhere. It all hurts. He doesn't know what to do. Everything about him hurts too. I exercise. And I hurt. And I have sex. And sex. And sex. I can't study, I work. I love work. 8 hours a day of normal. Of busy. Of being good.


I go to church.


It saves me.


I miscarry.


It kills me.


Screaming. The trees are trying to get me. Why is everything trying to fucking get me? He doesn't know what to do, he laughs at me, I can't walk. I crawl. Hands and knees. The space is scary. The ghosts are trying to get me. I look so good. How can I feel so bad.


Now his mum. Hooked up to a ventilator. She's gone. She smoked. She was forty nine.


What are we to do.


He's angry. He doesn't have time for my childish games. I'm just messing around. He punches someone. We go to a and e. He drinks. He drinks. I don't eat. I don't eat. We have sex. I exercise. Keep it all contained. Keep it all in.


I sleep with women. I cheat. No one can stop me. It's all about sex. Need me. Some one fucking need me. This isn't fun any more. I didn't sign up for this. He says it's ok. We meet a couple for a four way. It doesn't happen. Thank God.


I'm broken. I can't stop.


I leave him. I have to. But I love him so much. He's all of me, I'm all of him. We're too much, together. I'm alone. Shit, I thought I could do this, but the world is so frickin big. It's going to end. I'm never safe.


He preys on me. Sex sex sex. It's all I know. Spend spend spend. Exercise. Don't eat. Chaos.


When we're together, we're alright. I love him. Why can't I love him? When I'm with him, it's terrible, he's awful, why am I with him? I end them both. Can't be alone for a second.


Church, peace.


I meet him. 


He's mine.


He fixes me.


Slowly. Peace by peace. He puts me back together. He's gentle. He has no jagged edges, he's smooth inside. He's kind. I don't know why he loves me. Hosea. He shows me Jesus.


I stop spending. I start eating. I walk. I walk. I walk. I think.


Every day I think. It's exhausting. Every day I'm alone. It's good. There's no drink any more. No more spending. 


I have a home.


It heals me. 


He heals me.


Jesus, my husband. They heal me.


I look at my wrists. I see how close I came to death, every day. I'm so lucky. I'm so grateful. I'm so glad to be alive. I'm twenty four.


Borderline.personality.disorder.

Hope and Change

When I first met my husband, about 5.5 years ago, I had no idea who I was. Life was a chaotic, terrifying mess. Because I didn't have a sense of self, I couldn't spend time alone. The walls would seem to crush in on me. For the previous 7 years I had filled my time with anything and everything I could. And I mean anything - I made some extremely risky choices that could have led at any time to me not being here today. I needed these exhilarating, risky experiences to remind me that I was alive, that I felt, that I was a person. I lived for the moment, spending all I had, drinking without thought for the responsibilities of the following day, sleeping with whoever was around, regardless of whether I liked them or not. All the time trying to escape spending a moment alone and being forced to hang out with the monsters inside.


As a child, I loved to read. I read almost constantly. But now I couldn't read, because I couldn't spend that much time alone. I couldn't complete university assignments. Everything I turned my hand to fell apart, because I didn't have any focus or internal motivation.


And then, I met Pete. And he was the opposite of me in so many ways. Such a stable, secure sense of self. I wanted what he had.


Over the next few years, he supported me unconditionally as I fumbled my way forwards. I spent a lot of time alone. I knew I needed to, in order to move forward. A lot of stuff came up, and it was extremely painful. I joke that I cried for the entire first year of our relationship. I grieved for the childhood that had led me to where I was; for the bullying, for the loneliness, for the self-loathing. I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder, and that diagnosis took me one step further towards self-acceptance.


I didn't work for three and a half years. I walked, I prayed, I cried, I felt pain. I spoke with my counsellor. Towards the end of that time, I volunteered with asylum seekers, and that helped renew my vision, to help me to see and understand how lucky I was, and how much was available to me. The pace was slow. Oftentimes, I would wonder whether I had really taken any steps forward. Whether I was really doing anything.


I went back to work. I managed to hold down that job, if only for a short period, in a way that I had never been able to before. Stable. It was only for a short while, because I became pregnant, and gave birth to our son in July 2013. He was such a longed for child. Everything I had done over the previous few years had been in the hope that he would join us one day.


This year I have found myself in uncharted territory. I knew that I had inherited my issues, but when I looked online to find reassurance that I could avoid passing them onto my son, I couldn't find anything. And that's what motivates me to write this. 


So far, my son is thriving. So far, I have coped with parenthood better then I ever dreamt I could. The stable sense of self I have started to build has really paid off, and since Sam was born, I have found I've taken huge leaps forward in learning confident selfhood. He needs me to. Every day, I try and liberate him to be him, and I feel that in doing so, I am using my experiences to help create something of beauty. 


As I see him grow, I understand more about what went wrong for me. This is often painful, and something I am struggling to integrate is how to work through this pain whilst caring for my son and being a wife. But I feel reassured that we will find a way through, when I look back over all that has changed so far.


And I just wanted to share my belief that for the next generation, the best thing we can do is to be the best us that we can be. That change is possible. And that treating and understanding our mental health liberates and empowers our children, whether future, present, or grown.


For anyone struggling with similar issues, I would highly recommend finding a counsellor or therapeutic environment, and to not discount private counselling. I saw my counsellor through a charity called The Haven (based in Ashby de la Zouch) and because our household income was low, they charged me a very affordable rate. The benefits paid dividends as it meant I could see her as long as I needed, rather than being constrained by NHS funding (I feel that having a long term therapeutic relationship, with me controlling the end of the relationship, greatly helped me towards overcoming attachment issues). I had person centred therapy, and found it great for supporting me as I tentatively constructed a positive self image.


For those with children, or hoping to have children, I would really recommend Daniel Siegel's book, 'Parenting from the Inside Out'. It gave me hope when I needed it.


I feel very lucky. I applied for benefits during my time off, but I only received them for a year of the 3.5 I needed to get to a place where I was stable enough to work. So I feel very lucky that we could afford for me to have the rest of the time I needed. I also feel lucky in having found my counsellor. I had great NHS support in Cambridge (where I lived before meeting my husband), but appropriate psychological support was not offered in Loughborough. So I feel very lucky to have had affordable treatment locally, and to have had the time to invest in it.


I wish there were better provisions for people with mental health issues. The right support helps to turn everything around. I was surprised that no help was offered while I was pregnant, and when my son was newborn. What is the point of giving people life altering diagnoses if the support is not in place to help them turn their lives around? Without the support I have received from my husband and counsellor, I would have greatly struggled to care for my son, and his life prospects would have looked very different.


Btw, I still struggle to read. But I believe in change... So who knows? The sky is the limit!

This day

This day I chose. I chose to come to the party. To celebrate the first year of a beautiful little person.

This day I chose. This day I chose to unlock my bike. To strap my wriggly infant in a seat. To fear every car, every junction, every sudden stop. This day I chose to feel the wind in my hair, to expose my child to the elements, to let the sun beat upon our arms. This day I chose to work my legs, my arms, my muscles.

This day I chose. To only bring food that would fit in my backpack. To ask the cashier to refill my water bottle. To pass you my unwanted books.

This day I chose. To stand waiting at the platform with the others. To hear the chug, chug, chug of the wheels beneath my feet. To soothe my fractious babe whilst you watch me at the end of the carriage.

This day I chose to travel an hour thirty for a journey of sixteen miles. To celebrate at the party.

This day you asked. Does anybody fancy swimming. I said yes, me. Is anybody going my way.

She said yes, yes me.

You said, aren't there any buses. Are you really going that way. How much will it add to your journey.

You said, she's inconvenient. You said, don't choose her.

This day I chose. I chose for my babe. I chose for yours. You may not see my choice. It's still mine.

You may not see my choice. It is still mine.

I don't drive

I am not trying to waste your time. Take your money. I am not lazy.

Since I gave birth, I notice more and more the activities I am excluded from participating in. I notice more and more that people don't offer lifts. That I am at an age and a life stage where I am now 'expected' to drive.

The attitude of people that I am in some way being selfish.

Even from my husband.

You know what?

I am trying to be the opposite of selfish. I am trying to help your kids, and mine. I am trying to help the animals, and those in poorer countries. I am trying to help the us who exist in just a few short years time.

My belief is that the actions of the one matters. Our individual actions are the sum of the whole. Together, you and I decide how the world will look, in ten years time, in twenty years time, in one hundred years time.

I don't drive.

I choose not to drive.

For now. I don't think I can keep it up. Why not drive? Everyone else is doing it and nobody (let me repeat, nobody) values my choice. My husband says my choice excludes our son from social activities and will negatively affect him as he grows up.

There are three truths:
1) Not driving is a more environmentally beneficial way of life. Not just in terms of CO2 omissions. Also in terms of making roads safer, for children and cyclists. For runners. For those who choose to use their bodies. For animals.
2) Not driving is healthier way of life, for me. For my son, as he grows up seeing what life is like when you use your body.
3) Not driving is bloody difficult in our society. It is not accepted, not valued as a lifestyle choice, viewed as lesser, and not facilitated in any way. The public transport links do not exist. Car pooling is not a typical transport choice.

What's so wrong with driving anyway?

In My Dream

In my dream, transport is cheap and easy.

No need to wait hours for a bus. No need to travel through twenty villages. Just transport that's affordable and practical to use. In my dream.

In my dream, people would use these buses and trains. Because they're so easy to use. Why would you get the car out... if you can hop on a bus in five minutes, spend less on a return ticket than on parking, and help the world breathe while you're at it.

In my dream, people would be fitter. Using their bodies. In touch with their needs. Because when you use public transport, you walk more. You just do. You get a bus one way, and you think, "Oh, I'll walk back, it's a nice day. Save the fare." You walk to the bus stop. You cycle to the train station.

In my dream, because people would be in buses and on trains, the roads would be clearer. Safer. Parents would worry less about their children playing out. Children would be fitter and having more unsupervised play.

In my dream, people wouldn't be afraid to cycle. The streets would be full of tinkling bells. My son could cycle to see a friend, or to the cinema, no taxi service of mum and dad. Teaching him to use and trust his body, and his instincts.

In my dream, workplaces would pair up co-workers living close by. Friends making plans would ask themselves, "Who lives near my route?" And save themselves a buck at the time. Children talking in the backseat. Workmates swapping numbers.

What I see, is a world choked up. A planet that can't breathe. Children that can't move. Adults at war with their bodies. Cars full of singletons.

In my dream, we'd see creation as it was meant to be.

Where We Are: 11.5 Months

What we've done today: Today is a Saturday, and it's been very wet and rainy. We took Charlie for a rainy walk first thing. You were in your pushchair, it's so hot and the raincover was steaming up. You were chewing on it from the inside which made Daddy and I laugh. Then we drove Charlie to have his hair cut, and popped to the shops. We bought a new mattress for our bed. It was very funny, I lay down to test the mattress out and Daddy popped you down beside me. Every time we did that, you crawled over to me with a cackle asking for milk. I realised that every time I lie down at home, I do give you milk! Funny poppet. When you woke up after your nap the weather was still horrid. I wanted to blog so you watched films with Daddy and played. A lovely rainy day :-)

My favourite moment of today: Walking with you around the bed store. You want to walk everywhere at the moment, holding our hands. It was very quiet in the shop and it was lovely exploring with you. You have such a cheeky smile. I am always so proud to be with you. A shop assistant came over to talk to you and you shyly buried your head in my knee. I love to see you interacting with people, to watch how you change. The shyness is a new thing and it makes sense to me, in evolutionary terms.

What you are up to at the moment: Climbing, climbing, climbing! The stairs are still a hit. Up the slide. You've just learned to scale the steps of your little slide this week, that was a proud moment for you. You fell off the slide once, from the top. It must have been a shock but you just picked yourself up and got straight back on the steps because you were so keen to practise your new skill :-)

Tricky moment this week: Yesterday was a challenge, especially the morning. I had a fuzzy head from the sticky heat, lack of sleep, and general emotional ups and downs in the morning. It was probably one of the most challenging moments I've spent with you. You were clingy & fussy - leaping, the heat, lack of sleep - and I couldn't think straight to get our things together to go out. We were so late leaving the house. At one point I kicked the dog out of frustration, felt so sorry for him afterwards. And I needed space for a moment so I shut myself in the utility room. You screamed for me in the kitchen and I felt like a failure. The amazing thing about parenting is that then we went on our bikes to soft play with M&E, had a great time, & I felt like I was doing ok again. It's so up and down - the low points are low, but they don't last long.

Best moment this week: Yesterday we gave you a climbing frame - your birthday present. You loved it. So much happiness. Fun fun evening watching you explore it. One of those lovely long warm summer evenings. When it was time for bed, you were trying to crawl back downstairs for more playing, even though you were so tired!

What I am looking forward to: The main event - your birthday, baby boy! 11 days and counting :-)

My Inspiration: God has been speaking about finding my voice. Posted about being diagnosed with BPD and the importance of attachment on FB on Tuesday (my 29th birthday!). While I have yet to decide if this was sensible, it feels good, and empowering. Less to fear. And I'm passionate. I can be half-arsed passionate, trying to squash it so I can fit in, or I can embrace it. And in doing so, empower you. I don't want you to question whether it's right to speak out. So this is where I'm at right now:

I love you little boy.

Your mama x

Dear Husband: Please Take Pictures of Me Nursing

Dear Heart,

I asked you to take pictures of me that time, remember? Pictures of me nursing?

Then I asked you that other time, remember?

And again?

And it hasn't happened.

I am prouder of nursing than I am of anything else I have ever done, ever.

Not everyone gets to breastfeed. Some people don't have the necessary appendage. Some people don't have children. Of those that do and are female, many hope to breastfeed and can't. Many give up for cultural reasons before they have reached the point Sam and I are at. Many choose to feed their babies differently.

But I, I chose to feed my baby like this, and then I hoped and prayed. I hoped and prayed that I would be one of the chosen, one of the few who is both able and wants to. I hoped and prayed for this bond with my child. I hoped and prayed to nurture and comfort him with my own body. In the way I have dreamed of for years. 

I wonder if the request disquiets you. Whether you feel the moments are too intimate to intrude upon, or uncomfortable with seeing the breasts that you have enjoyed engaged in baby feeding.

This is a moment in time I won't get back again. Nurturing and growing a baby was what I most longed to be able to do. The pregnancy is over. And now I am half way to weaning him, something I want to do about as much as I want to give up chocolate. I have read a lot, and I have thought a lot, and I believe that we are meant to feed for much, much longer than is culturally acceptable in our society. However, we will still have had these two years; I will always have these two years feeding him, no matter how the future turns out. He will always be my first nurseling. I will always be so proud of what my body was able to give him, of the health benefits I have given him, but especially of the psychological benefits I have given him. I am so nervous to wean him and take away his only means of comfort. It's not fair on him, and I feel selfish.

I have got half way to weaning him, and I don't have a single picture with which to remember the thing I am most proud of doing.

I don't accomplish much, you know that. My list of accomplishments doesn't look like much to the world in comparison to yours. But this thing, this I accomplished. This I can do, and do well. This I give to our son.

And weaning him will be a gift to you, for our family. A chance to grow our family. 

So please do this for me. Please photograph me, so that I can look back and remember our time together. Remember the period we spent, easing his transition to the world and away from my body. 

To you, this might still seem a little repulsive. Maybe you think he is old enough to wean, I don't know. Or maybe the whole thing is a non-event. Whatever. To me, this is the whole world. I am so proud. And to Sam, this is the whole world. He doesn't know that breasts are breasts; to him they are milk and cuddles.

Please photograph us. I want to have a whole host of photos to remember our last year of nursing. (It might see me through the heartbreak!)

Manifesto of Humanity

I have never yet written about my breastfeeding experiences. I have wanted to many times, but every time I think about doing so, I think about all the people I don't want to feel bad - for not being able to, or for choosing not to. I think about coming across as superior, or know it all, and that pride comes before a fall.

I am not a perfect parent or a super mummy. I have been successful at breastfeeding entirely by accident. Had we stumbled in our journey, I'm not sure whether we would or could have continued. I am well aware that I did not choose to breastfeed. I come from a middle-class, breastfeeding background. Breastfeeding was my instinctive desire, and I was more likely to succeed at it than those from different backgrounds. We were also very lucky in not encountering physical impediments to feeding. Had I not breastfed, would my son have been any less healthy? That I don't know. Would I have been a lesser mother? The answer to that I know. I look at the mothers I know - who feed their babies in differing combinations of methods - and the differing ways they feed their infants has no impact that I can see on the quality of the overall parenting that their children receive. Yes, some mothers are 'better' at mothering than other mothers. This cannot be disputed. However, in my experience that has little to do with the individual choices women make and entirely much more to do with the overall quality of love and care shown to the child.

And yet my feelings are mixed and complex.

As a feminist - and since my son's birth, I am very aware of being passionately feminist - I feel angry about the ways that womens' breasts are treated by society. I am angry that men have appropriated their use for something which is much less practical and beneficial than their intended use. (I am a Christian, and I believe that breasts as all things were created and intended for use.) I am angry that society has appropriated this and uses it so suppress the right of women to use their bodies as they choose. In a way that is more healthful for them (breastfeeding past six months - and past six months only, increasing with every month fed past six months - delays the onset of female cancers by around ten years). In a way that is more healthful for the environment, producing less waste. In a way that needs no artificial manufacture. In a way that promotes a financially sustainable lifestyle. I am angry that poor women, who need the added income most, are least likely to breastfeed. I am angry that people blame immigrants for economic burden, and yet nobody is thinking that supporting breastfeeding is a way of reducing economic burden - to the NHS, and in benefits (women need higher benefits to pay for formula). I feel angry that women feel guilty if they don't breastfeed, given that they are trying to breastfeed against such opposition and with very little practical support. I am angry that it is seen as ok by women to judge each other in the choices they make in mothering. I am angry that we are told where, and for how long, it is acceptable to use our bodies - in the way that they were designed to be used.

I am angry that we discuss babyfeeding in terms of 'bottle/formula feeding' and 'breastfeeding' - as if there is an opposition between the two, instead of women raising their babies well using the tools available to them. If breasts were more highly valued, and women trusted to make decisions, such language would become totally redundant. The only reason these terms are so emotive is the authority we believe we have to judge the decisions of mothers and weigh their efforts.

I grew up with this. I am guilty of this. I can remember my father critiquing the attempts of various mothers raising their children around him (each closely connected to him). I have personally judged the mothering efforts of those nearest and dearest to me and I often notice myself doing it even since bearing my son and experiencing such judgement myself. My husband judges mothers.

My personal experience is testament to the liberating power of trust. Every decision I made as a child was questioned and I became full of self doubt. I wasn't allowed to choose whether I wanted to wear a top without sleeves into the city at age fifteen; an issue my brother didn't have to contend with, and endowing me with guilt, shame and responsibility surrounding my body. Instilling me with the notion that my body is a limitation and a curse; something to be hidden away and condemned. I still struggle to make even the smallest decisions. However, I was lucky enough to meet someone who supported me to make huge, life-changing choices, and who respected my experiences and instincts. The years of our relationship have liberated and empowered me in ways I didn't anticipate and have healed me in ways I didn't know I needed, although the healing is not done yet, for either of us.

Trust empowers.

My husband struggles with food. It is a challenge every day to trust him and God with that issue. I often fail, because I don't know the ways to support him to make changes and I deeply desire that he makes changes for the well-being of our son. But mostly I fail because deep down I do not respect his desire to autonomy. And this lack of respect within me is destructive and painful, to him and to me. The conversations we have about this issue do not end well.

It is only once the weight of this judgement is lifted away from women that they can be empowered to reach their full potential in life - whether that be in baby feeding choices or other decisions.

This is a plea. This needs to end. Women deserve to live their lives fully and without judgement. In a way which empowers rather than limits them.

Let's live intentionally and set women free from the burden of shame and guilt.

Reflections on a year of babyfeeding

*N.B. - I have only support for women who choose to not use their breasts to feed their babies, and also for women who cannot breastfeed, and I feel that the amazing health benefits clearly allow formula fed babies to enjoy great quality of life. However, this does not negate the need for this discourse. This does not negate the need for women to be able to use their bodies and make choices as they see fit. Such a change would only benefit mothers everywhere, in all their feeding choices and otherwise.* 

I harbour a deep, dark secret: one that I don't share often within my natural parenting circles. I avoid breastfeeding in 'public' unless I am with fellow breastfeeders or with my husband. 

Before I gave birth, my anticipations of breastfeeding were entirely skew whiff. I expected that it would be physically hard. I didn't imagine any emotional discomfort. My friends breastfed, seemingly comfortably, in public. I didn't give the act of breastfeeding in public a second thought. Breastfeeding was a normal act for me, before I gave birth.

Breastfeeding has been physically fairly easy for us. Emotionally it has been a rollercoaster. Early on - until my son was about three months old - I experienced D-MER (dysphoric milk ejection reflex, or negative feelings on let down). That was a surprise. I expected breastfeeding to be so rosy and lovey dovey. Before I gave birth, I dreamed of the cuddles, and the intimacy.

Less definable is the discomfort I felt around using my breasts for infant feeding. I desperately wanted to breastfeed. I had had a print of Picasso's 'Maternity' on my bedroom wall for almost seven years before I gave birth. I longed for it every day. To nurture and nourish my own tiny human. 

When he arrived, I found it disgusting. And that is not an exaggeration. The act of him feeding repulsed me. We persevered. Now I find it lovely. He has always found it lovely and comforting, and he is very vocal about that. It is so very endearing, but in the early days, the need he had for it greatly discomforted me.

And I was somebody who desperately wanted to breastfeed. Before I gave birth.

While I was in this early, vulnerable state, my in laws made it very clear that they do not find breastfeeding normal. This was a total shock. I honestly and naively thought that all women wanted to breastfeed, that society was supportive of it, and that women who bottle feed couldn't breastfeed, or at least believed they couldn't breastfeed. I wasn't enjoying breastfeeding. And my in laws weren't enjoying me breastfeeding. All such a shock. Somehow, we established a narrative whereby feeding is disgusting and I do it in a separate room. And nowadays, when I am with them (which by necessity I try to be as little as possible, although I like them a lot and enjoy their company), I distract my son as much as possible or offer him solid food and water instead of milk. 

I really despise myself for it. I make the call to do it for all sorts of reasons - namely because I want us to have good relations with my in laws, and especially because I want my son to have good relations with them, or at least that's what I tell myself. But it's also because I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. I had a very angry childhood. I was bullied. I didn't feel heard, and I was taught that my body was shaming and disgusting. That it was fat, and unnatural, and that it needed to be hidden from the world. This led me to literally shout to feel heard. Except that I wasn't heard. And nowadays I don't like to force my opinion on people. It brings back those memories. And now I do feel heard, largely, so I don't have the same unmet need I did then. I'm embarrassed that I used to shout so much. I prefer to be quiet and placid, and to encourage peace within my life.

But I feel really angry about this issue. I feel angry that my mother - who breastfed my brother for two years - buys into this rhetoric and taught it to me. I feel angry that she thinks breastfeeding should be conducted in private. When my son was four months old, I fed him beside her on the sofa, and I noticed her disgust. I noticed that she left. I felt disgusting, and now I try to avoid feeding around her. 

I feel angry that women are being lied to about their bodies. I feel angry that we do not have the same rights as men. I feel angry that babies do not have the same rights as men. I feel angry that patriarchal ownership of women is dictating the physical and emotional well-being of mothers and babies. (Breastfeeding: reduces the risk of postnatal depression, increases maternal sleep, reduces the risk of female cancers - if continued for over six months and reducing with every month it continues after that, increases the chance for mental well-being in babies, increases the likelihood that a baby will be well, decreases the chance for sudden infant death. Google it.) First and foremost, I feel angry that the ones who shoulder the blame for not breastfeeding are women. Go spend some time in our culture, and see if you want to breastfeed.

I see my body in a whole new way because I breastfeed. The early repulsion has died away, and I now see my breasts in a whole new way: as vehicles for baby feeding. And that happening has exposed the false way our culture views breasts. I see that breastfeeding is owning them for myself, for all womankind, and for the well-being of future generations. I see that we have as much right to use our body in any time or place as any man, and I see that the survival of the method of babyfeeding that is most beneficial for humanity - physically, sustainably, emotionally - depends upon it, entirely. 

Before I gave birth, I employed so much judgement and shaming of women. I shamed those who fed beyond a year. I shamed those who bed share. I shamed those methods of parenting that are most conducive to breastfeeding and to maternal health and well-being.

Seeing my breasts in what I believe to be their true light - and as my son sees them - leads any need for parent-led weaning to melt away. My adventures in baby feeding have truly emancipated my body and my mind. If breasts are primarily intended for and respected for feeding, then child-led weaning is the norm. If children are believed to have needs equal to those of other human beings, then child-led weaning is the norm.

I tell myself that I am weak for not challenging the forces preventing me using my body in the way it is intended, but perhaps I should be proud. For continuing to feed my son through these challenges. For researching and reading and contemplating and allowing my mindset to change. For picking my own path through life. For overcoming the BPD. For choosing to live freely in spite of the bullying. For fighting for women everywhere, in the way that I am called to do. And I should not limit God. Just because I do not choose to feed in public now, does not mean that a time will not come when I can feed my child in front of my father-in-law without fear. As an equal.

Before I gave birth, I had never heard of the term 'mother-shaming'. Now I am aware of it, I see it employed everywhere: in discourse surrounding women who formula feed, breast feed, sleep train, don't sleep train, traditionally wean, baby led wean, return to work, stay at home, bed share, use a cot. And I notice the freedom that men have to make choices, free from judgment. To walk around topless. To pee at the side of the road. I notice how shameful women's bodies are seen to be.

(I love my father in law. He is a kind, shy and gentle man. Any advice on how to broach this subject with him (bearing in mind that I am also shy and gentle) is welcomed :-) )