Looking for joy

Five years ago today, I didn’t die.

Four years ago, I was between houses, newly pregnant with the twins we thought had come to redeem the year of sadness we had just experienced, and we were on holiday in beautiful Italy.

Three years ago, I started feeling terrible in the middle of May. When I realised that my body had remembered significant dates even when I didn’t, I wrote this, which then became the first post in my new blog.

Two years ago, once again I realised in May that I was struggling with depression and grief. I wrote about my experience in hospital, the night that changed my life, and about the night thirteen months later that cemented the changes.

Last year, for the first time, I took notice of the fact that this day was coming, and I made a specific effort to celebrate my life. I coloured one of my favourite Bible verses, and posted about the day on Facebook. It was a valuable and empowering thing to do and it definitely helped me feel better.

So this year, I’m paying attention again. I didn’t die. There’s got to be a reason for that. Not everyone gets another chance.

But the thing is… because I almost died, I am not the person I was five years and one day ago. Many people talk about how becoming a parent changed their life. Becoming a parent changed my lifestyle, yes. It wasn’t easy (it rarely is). I had mild post natal depression for the first few months, and like several other people I know, I carefully answered the health visitor’s questions to avoid diagnosis. (Don’t do this, it isn’t a good idea and they are there to help you. If the situation ever arises again, I intend to be truthful.)

But it was on 12th May 2016, when we found out that our much wanted second child had died in my womb, that I began to change. It was on May 16th, when I haemmorraged and almost died, that I became a different person. My experience in hospital that night left me with PTSD, and the months and years ahead compounded the trauma and increased the depths of the grief and depression.

It took a while, but it was out of that grief and despair, trauma and sadness, that I began to seek joy. When I was in the depths for months on end, I began to focus on small things.

(The smell of sunlight on warm cat fur, the vibration of her purrs when she leans against my leg, the delight with which she runs to me, tail straight up in the air, when I ask if she wants me to brush her. )

To begin with, the tiny things were the only joy I could find.

(The rumbling of the kettle coming to the boil, the smell of hot water hitting the tea in the cup or pot, the pattern of the steam rising from my drink.)

I’m sure you remember being irritated, as a child, when adults told you that “practice makes perfect”. But it turns out that it’s true.

(Fresh bread, still warm from the oven, spread with butter and honey… crisp-skinned oven baked potato with cheese and coleslaw… crunchy, sharply sweet green apples… bright raspberries bursting with flavour…)

The more you practice celebrating the small joys, the more small joys you find to enjoy. It gets easier to find them and easier to appreciate them.

This isn’t a magic solution for banishing depressive thoughts, and it doesn’t remove anxiety. But it does make it easier to cope on the bad days, and it makes the good days better. It’s possible that it is also reducing the length of some of my depressive episodes, but that’s hard to measure.

(When my child flings her arms around me, and when she strokes my hair, and even when she pushes her dad over every evening after brushing her teeth.)

And sometimes it’s hard, really hard, to find any joy. Sometimes the small things seem so small compared to the big things that the energy needed to look for a small joy seems like too much effort. Those are the days when I try to remember to be kind to myself and patient with myself.

I try to bring joy to other people, too. Sometimes I send things in the post to people who are having a rough time. Sometimes I even let them know it’s from me (and sometimes it’s anonymous). Now that the cafés are open again, I’m meeting someone for a cuppa every week, which is a huge boost to my mental health (and hopefully isn’t too bad for theirs). I react and comment on social media (try not to underestimate what a difference that can make).

I’ve coloured a Bible verse again this year. It’s the same verse. Not only is it one of my favourites, it also seems particularly appropriate for today. This day, in particular, is the day the Lord has made. This is the day to celebrate living. I got another chance, and my life changed forever.

I’m also going to frame this as a gift. I’ve been praying for the people it’s for whilst I was colouring it, as well as praying for myself.

Spring and early summer are hard these days, and perhaps they always will be. But there is always something good, however small it is.