Tuesday, 26 November 2013

A letter to fill you in

I have spent my time in bed,  crocheting, watching for drug o'clock, dreading that time when my arse cheek falls asleep and I have to roll to face yet another wall. Watching my belly swell with the life blossoming inside, poking to try and guess what is head and what is feet, begging for the pain to let up for just a little while.

Yes. This post is miserable,  today, quite frankly,  I am miserable. My words are not beautiful and I feel all smoggy inside. My countdown til baby evacuation is stretching ever longer and choking down painkillers has grown tiresome. Today. Quite frankly. I have had enough.

But, tomorrow I will be woken by my biggest boy, I will help him dress and talk about dinosaurs. My littlest will watch episode after episode of Fireman Sam and I will do my best to not hate Norman Price. Tomorrow, my resolve will strengthen and I'll tell the grump to go.

Today, I'm stuck in a misery rut.

Tomorrow, I'll find my fight.

Monday, 11 November 2013

Funk of misery

I'm writing this not knowing where it's going, what message, if any will be found in the words dribbling from my fingertips. But today my painkillers haven't stolen my words, today I'm going to write, drivel maybe, but letters to shape my current present.

For the last 4 weeks I have been on bed rest. The can't get myself a drink, can't look after my children, can barely roll over unattended type of bed rest. For those who don't know, my current pregnancy has been blighted by a condition knows as SPD. It basically means your pelvis goes all wonky and is very, very painful, a lot of women get a mild form, but, of course, I have to go the extra mile. After ignoring my pain for weeks I eventually got stuck in a chair at church (ironically during a sermon about letting go of control) and wound up in the sorry state I'm in now. Laying down crocheting teeny tiny baby hats and praying, actual real prayers, that I don't end up with an RSI in my hand. My boys pop in and out my bedroom, roaring at me and asking to read the same lion book over and over again, my Mum shepherds said boys whilst bringing me drinks and making sure I'm fed and well. She dims the lights and tries to keep peace to let me nap, she teaches my eldest about bees knees and chickens eyebrows, she reads the lion book when I simply can't roar any more.

That's the funny thing about this whole situation. I'm in pain, and I'm not going to lie, the pain is crap. But I should be a lot more miserable than I am. Today was a bad day, I was fed up, grumpy and hormonal. I cried at surviving the next few weeks and lost any inspiration for worship music, sermons and crochet. I desperately wanted to go to sleep to make it all just go away. Just as my eyes were finally closing the kids burst in, proudly showing me autumn pictures they painted at playgroup. With glitter on their faces and paint splodges on their clothes they told me about cars and slides and how they weren't playing with a boy called Thomas, just playing next to him. Whilst my youngest napped my eldest snuggled up and watched Dumbo, proudly telling me about every animal and how Dumbo was an elephantplane and that that was a real thing. My Mum sat, enjoying the rest. I slouched, still in my fug of gloominess, fighting back the tears.

The husband arrived home. Still grumpy. The boys went to bed. Still grumpy. I ate my dinner. Still grumpy. Then something, somewhere, switched. I apologised for my mood, even though I secretly felt justified, and was starting to realise it wasn't all about me. My husband has been working his arse off, my Mum likewise. My friends sending concerned texts, popping in to hang out on my bed, posting chocolate fingers through my door, just because.

Through all this doom and gloom and pain and misery, God is working. I literally cannot be the strong, indestructible me right now. If I didn't accept help...well, I couldn't not accept help. I am, after all, helpless. But those well timed phone calls when I don't think I can carry on anymore? Those messages, popping up here there and everywhere asking if 'there's anything I can do?' People I barely know asking if they could please bring a meal round, or a cake, or even just to say they're praying for me. Messages of reassurance, of sympathy, of the overwhelming sense that I am not in this alone.

And I'm not, the time will tick past and this baby will be born. We will celebrate, I will mend, this brief period will soon be forgotten. But my friends, my family and the love and care they have given me never will. It feels like a hard shell I never realised I had is gone, going, which maybe is just what God wanted all along.  

Tuesday, 24 September 2013


Last night I wrote a blog about being far less than perfect. This morning, I woke up, still flawed, still battered, still in pain.

My perception of Christianity has skewed, Satan whispers, drilling rules and regulations into my head, rules I can never live up to, lists of behaviours that I don't conform to. How being a Christian is all the things I will never be.

A lengthy conversation with a dear friend has helped.

Throwing insults around is not bad, but neither is it nice. I don't loose 'God points' for being miserable, I don't need to win back His love because I haven't read my Bible for a few days. He loves me. End of. And really, I should live in the way He wants me too. I should love my neighbour (even when she has 3am arguments) and when I think bitter, angry thoughts I should try, really try, and pray instead. Not because I should. Not because I think it'll win me my place in heaven. But because I want to, because I love God and I want to be closer too Him, because that's what Christianity is about.

My second time in church I came out in tears, I learnt that Gods love never fails. How He holds you, snug in His arms, and, if you pull away, He squeezes that bit tighter. My first time in church I learnt the freedom of forgiveness, and applied it, truly and honestly, into my life. It was amazing.

I haven't gone to church for the last two weeks.

Right now, I'm sat in peace, the only noise coming from the washing machine. Rinsing clothes, dirty with life and living. Right now, I'm praying that He will help rinse me of the paralysing pollution happening in my mind. Right now, I want rekindle the love, burning in my heart.  

Monday, 23 September 2013

Breaking news

I'm a Christian.  And I'm not perfect.  That's right, not even a little bit. I sit in meetings and get distracted by daddy-long-legs gangbangs, I laugh at my 3 year old when he falls off the bed, I whinge, I moan, I throw insults around without knowing what they actually mean. All in all. I am flawed.

Sometimes, I make inappropriate jokes about church halls being hotter than hell, which is ironic (if you think about it). I wonder if God gets overwhelmed when everyone prays all at once. I question whether falling to the floor in a fit of 'Holy Spirit' is actually holy at all.

I wonder what is mental health and what is devil whispers. When that fog of gloom descends I hide in my bear cave until the outside world is a little less challenging,  until I have the strength to say f*** off devil. Then I remember, good Christians don't swear.

Sometimes,  I enjoy sex with my husband. And I mean really enjoy it.

I am flawed.

God knows, He made me this way. I am not perfect. But I am perfect too Him, who knit me together in my Mothers womb. He, who knows every hair on my head. He, who let's me fall, over and over, just to help me back on to my feet, on firmer ground with a stronger heart. He, who listens to my prayers, to my fears, and He, who gave me the joy to laugh at inappropriately sized vegetables. Always.

Tuesday, 17 September 2013

A letter to a younger me

To me.

You are not alone- in this battle in your head, demon whispers and black holes. In the corners where shadows lurk and grey scales blur into a fog of nothing.  Pick up that book, the one sat abandoned on your shelf. Read about God,  about the Lord and your armour and His plan. Fill yourself with the knowledge that He's on your side and it's not your fault. Wear your scars with pride, they're your story, and find peace.

You are not alone.


Linking up with #lettersto at http://indirectrevelation.blogspot.co.uk/2013/09/letters-to-younger-me.html?m=1 go, read, link!

Wednesday, 21 August 2013

A letter to put in your pocket

'Come to me, all you who wearied and burdened, and I will give you rest.'

Rest, that laughable word coveted by Mothers around the globe. The thought of closing your matchstick propped eyes and easing into blissful slumber,  no worries about defrosting meat, no lists about all the chores that need doing, no panicked googling about that mysterious rash on your 18 month olds chest. Just peace. A blank mind. Rest.

I'm still searching for the elusive state, where there's actual silence and no ticking in my mind. Where the vacuum, parked up in the hallway, is not calling me. Where the disney channel is silenced and the dog doesn't need a walk. Life gets in the way of our sleep time but we need the rest to do the living. It's difficult. So very difficult.

My task is to carve out those little snippets of time, where deep baths are acceptable and my skin is allowed to prune. When my phone can be switched off, completely off, and I can unload my worries to Him, heave the anxiety off my shoulders and place it firmly in His hands. For really, what option have I got?

So Lord, please give me rest. Cos God knows I need it.

Linking up with Ruth Povey and Letters To.

Wednesday, 7 August 2013

Letter to... the one who noticed.


We'd been friends for a while, until we wanted more. You came to my house and never left, watching films on my teeny tiny tv, relaxing on a floor bed of duvet and pillows. We ate dinner together. Got some pets. We were happy. Only, you saw me crying, inconsolable, at photo albums of my much loved Gran, you battled into the bathroom and mopped up blood running down my arm, you peeked behind the mask and didn't run. 

You helped me to get help.

That day, sat in the mental health nurses all-too-comfy chair you cried with me. That day, with a thousand thoughts whirling round my head, I knew you would never leave, you'd seen my soul, bared raw, seen me, more vulnerable than a person has any right to be, and you stayed. You visited. You did the housework while I was away and you celebrated me coming home. You built me back up into a person of worth. And even now, years down the line, when I'm struggling and go a bit quiet, when my finger nails dig half moons into the skin on my thigh, you notice, you always notice.

There are no words to say my thanks, to explain my love for you. But for now, just for now.

We'll be forever and always.

Meg x

Linking up with Sabrina at Just Keep Singing. Come link up to!