POST-NATAL HELL? THIS ONE IS FOR YOU

I was reading the news today on my journey to work and I suddenly stumbled this very sad story about this woman who killed herself because post-natal depression made her psychotic, and even though she asked for help multiple times, everyone dismissed her or treated her like a lunatic nuisance. She worried social services would have taken her daughter away from her, and even though her family rallied to help her and kept asking her doctor for help, she didn’t see a way out from her hell but by committing suicide. I knew I should have steered clear from that article as soon as my eyes read the title, but… I just had to read it. It hits very, very close to home.
My heart breaks for this woman, for her family and for her daughter. I’m sitting here writing this and crying, for her, for me, for all us women who have been ignored, dismissed like stupid hoes trying to get attention, mistreated and made to fear for our children’s wellbeing because of the actions of doctors and health providers.

I know what it feels to be in her shoes.
I have been in her shoes.
For three good years.
Fair to say I have quite the experience learned directly on the field.
I know how painful it is to be badly brushed off like you are a stupid idiot wasting doctor’s time with your stupid, irrational fears; didn’t you read the books? Weren’t you paying attention to antenatal classes? It’s baby blues for fuck sake, get a grip! Bloody first-time mum…
I know what damage a badly-mannered health visitor can do to you: I was a very fragile woman, caring 24/7 for my son with my mind spinning and my body aching, and I got treated like the worst mother in the world, I got made to feel guilty for stuff that wasn’t even under my control: for example, my son developed jaundice soon after birth; the midwife who came round told me off in a badly manner for not taking my son out enough for him to benefit from the sunshine to ease his condition; however, since I came out of the hospital, the weather had been rainy or dull and grey nonstop for weeks. Bitch, I ain’t no Storm from X-Men OK? The fact that I’m in my pyjama has nothing to do with my depression but all to do with the stupid shitty weather that is almost the norm in this bloody country of yours, and I can’t do anything about it or else I would have made the UK as hot as a Caribbean island all year round, you dumb twat. I’m Italian, I like sun, I hate freezing my ass, I’m not stripping my son naked when outside is barely 10 degrees Celsius.
I got told everything I was doing was wrong, I got yelled at and treated like a I was the dumbest person on planet earth. I got threatened with social services paying a visit to my house when I dared to mentioned I kind of was feeling a bit suicidal.
I wish the person I am now could go back in time and be present in the same room where the old me was being treated like scum by these midwives and health visitors because I’m telling you, shit would hit the fan at the first word uttered by those witches from hell. I would slap the shit out them and boot their sorry asses out of my house. No way I would have let them treat the old me like they did. Heck, I’d even ring the police and then we see who’s the bad bitch in here, you prick. You watch me.
Then, I’d make the old me a lovely cup of tea, give my old self a massive hug and tell myself “bitch, you will go through shit, I’m telling you, it’s going to get worse from now on, but hold on tight princess, you will get through this. You’ll be stronger, you’ll become a strong a fierce Queen, but before that happens, you need to see how deep the hell inside you is… and believe me, it is almost bottomless. But you will win, because you don’t know it now, but you are so, so strong, and that strength will keep you alive. By the way, you are doing, and you will do, a great job, don’t let these shitheads make you believe otherwise”.

I don’t want to read these news ever again. I don’t want other women to go through the same shit I did. I’m tired of hearing stuff like “The NHS is stretched already as it is and be grateful you get what you get”. Fuck off. Myself, that poor woman, all other women going through this hell, we need HELP. We need to be taken seriously. We need to be made to feel like we are not idiots. We need someone to truly listen to what we are going through, to care for us in those delicate moments, to hold our hands and reassure us, not to fucking being threatened with social services. What the hell! We are not bad mums, if anything, we want to be great mums.

I’m furious. This news brought up feelings I kept bottled up for years. I’m crying, I’m shaking and I’m raging. Oh my gosh I’m furious. FURIOUS.

If you are a new mum, and you are going through something that it is not exactly adding up in your brain, if you are a mum going through this hell, please, please, please, listen, because these words are for you:
I know you are scared.
I know you can’t seem to think straight.
I know you have this gut feeling that something is getting worse by the minute.
I know you feel like you are not supposed to feel the way you do: after all, everyone has filled your head with this impossible idyllic maternity ideas such as that you should be feeling happy, blessed, serene and peaceful, and that is all but anything you are feeling right now.
Oh, forget to compare yourself with those impeccable, incredible, super yummy mummies who knows it all, who make you feel inferior because your baby should be sleeping eight hours a night like an angel, you should snap back in shape like a model two weeks after birth, you should be breastfeeding, eat organic shit, go to yoga “mum & baby” classes, but the only thing you can barely manage to do on a daily basis is getting out of bed.
You are doing you.
You are going through an extremely delicate and difficult time of your life right now. You need help. Don’t hide, speak up. There are people who will listen to you. I would listen to you because I’ve been there, and it is a very lonely place to be when you are on your own fighting that monster who is eating you inside.
Please, listen to me: don’t surrender. I know the temptation is there. I know at times it is so strong, so… so seductive, that it seems the only way to go. It is not. There is an end to your hell and it is not necessarily the end of you. There is help out there. Scream if you have to, don’t keep it bottled up inside you. If you don’t have the strength, make your friends, your family, whoever you trust, make them fight that corner for you.
If your doctor is not listening go and find another one. If that doctor is not listening too, go and find another one, and another, and another. If only I managed to meet my current therapist years ago, my life would have been so much more different. I am sure there are amazing midwives and doctors out there, unfortunately the rotten apples cause damages which put everyone under a bad light.

You are an amazing human being, I know you are. I know you shouldn’t be feeling the way you do, it is unfair, why you? Why me? One thing is certain: it is NOT your fault. It is not a sign that you did something wrong, it is not because you are a bad mother. It is very bad luck, it is a fucking shitty lottery and you got the (un)lucky winning ticket. As hard as it is to believe it right now, I can assure you it will get better. It will take some time, but you will come out of this.
Stay strong my sister.
You are not alone in this.peony

WELCOME TO MY TE(I)AM

I cannot believe that it’s been just three months since I lost my shit one final time and I decided to embark on a definite, committed journey to personal change and development. I cannot believe all the miles I walked in these shoes so far, the things I have done, the changes I made happen, and all of this has been possible because I finally decided to ditch the “I’m hopeless, nothing can change” attitude, I left behind my “poor me” mentality and I asked for help. Most importantly, I decided to finally believe in me, to give myself a chance, to stop giving all my love, energies, money, and time on others and give it all to me. Selfishness at its best.

It took massive courage and an even bigger leap of faith, for someone like me, to push myself to do it, but I was so desperate that it was either that or death.

I realised that one reason I have never changed in the past, even though I claimed I wanted to (multiple times), is because I never really wanted to. I mean, really. One thing is saying it “I want to change”, but actually working to change is another kettle of fish. There are plenty of excuses in the world that one can use to stop him/herself from pursue his/her goals, and believe me, I was the undisputed Olympic Gold Medallist of excuses. So much mental energy wasted, I know now.

My biggest shift in mentality though has been allowing others to help me. Even better: actively searching for help, and not playing victim in the hope that someone would hear my pleas and be emotionally blackmailed into volunteer to help me. This is “oh, I so wish someone would do this for me (insert whatever you fancy)” are not allowed anymore. No more “hope”, no more “wish”, no more “if only” etc. Every time I want something, I ask myself:
a) can I get it by myself? And if so, what is the most efficient way to get it?
b) if I cannot get it by myself, can someone help me, or guide me?

The revelation came in a weird way; I was studying Accountancy (something I better be back at studying asap, by the way….) and one of the first few things that I read was something along the lines of “companies work better than a single person as they can achieve bigger goals in a shorter timeframe, they can take advantage of a pool of talent, the workload can be divided amongst multiple people that can therefore multitask activities in the pursue of what the company has set as the aim”.
When I read it, it was just “something I had to understand to answer a multiple-answer’s question in a test”; more recently, I came to notice how this rather simply concept is, in fact, the key for someone to reach his/her personal goals – and I was doing exactly the opposite of it (and guess what I got? No way near what I wanted).

It is hard, extremely hard, soul-crushing hard to ask for help when you have always been a rescuer, someone who lives by helping others all the time but never ever dare to help herself, or who never allows others to help her to “not bother them with my shit” (because it is mine and therefore not important at all). It is a mammoth task, when you have that mentality, to put yourself in a position where you recognise you cannot do it alone and you actively ask, “please can you help me do this”.

bucketWhy should it be that way though? What is the shame? Even Spongebob got it! Did anyone give me a medal for going through what I’ve been through with only myself to rely on? Nope. Imagine if everyone would be like this: the world would stop. Even behind every tennis player, every successful CEO, every “rich and famous” single person, there is a team of people who helped him/her getting there at the top. The thing is, you don’t need to train to win Wimbledon to have a team of people helping you reach your goals. You just need to find the right people and “hire” them to help you, whether friends or professional experts, and stick to what they say you should do. It took me a bit, lots of “swallowing my stupid pride”, but in the last three months I’ve come up with an amazing “Team Silvia” and it is working like wonders.

First person recruited in my team? Well, my psychotherapist, of course. Yes, self-help books, yes, meditating and shit, yes yes yes to think positive, motivational speakers, motivational posters, motivation everything but: if you struggled with your mental health and other issues all your life, and no amount of self-work took you to a better place, maybe, just maybe, you need to hire help. End of. Stop with excuses. You can read in a previous entry the story of how I got my head around doing therapy. Only in my wildest dream I thought I’d be the person who faces her present with a positive attitude and who looks forward to a bright future. ME. I could have barely managed to think of myself alive to live another hour just three years ago, let alone “the future”.

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Yours truly with my Personal Trainer after a very gruelling session. She made me pray for a sudden death

I always wanted a fit body, like those Instagram trainers, all nicely lean and muscly just the right way. I have always had the potential to have that body, but did I ever bother to do the hard work? Of course not! I was a proud couch potato. Unhappy, and secretly jealous, but still bragging about me doing shit nothing. I decided to go to the gym and do exercises by myself: after all, I’ve been a sporty person all my life, I know how shit works, but guess what? Results were not happening. Why? Because I thought I knew my shit, but I was just a deluded fool. I could have surrendered, easily, and say “see? You will never get there”. Instead I decided to hire member number two of Team Silvia: my personal trainer Farrah. I told her “I want my ass to be as fit as Jennifer Lopez’s one”. She tailored my diet and exercises, made me sweat real hard, and with a positive, “I want it and I’ll get it attitude” guess what? two months afterwards I can already see my legs shaping up nicely. Silvia alone 0 – 1 Team Silvia. By the way, my protein shakes are delicious, I should open a “protein shake” shop.

I always struggled with my skin. Hormones have not being kind with my face. Oh, and I’m not that girly-girl, it is not in me, and because of this I struggled in places like spa and aestheticians: I always felt like a fish out of water, I don’t like people I don’t know to touch me, I hate massages, a lot of treatments triggers panic attacks (to give you an idea, a friend once bought me a Spa session with a facial included: I let the voucher expire because just the thought of it triggered a barrage of panic attacks) and, most importantly, I always thought there was no point of doing anything because I’m ugly as fuck, so it is money wasted. When I decided “enough is enough, I can’t do it on my own”, I stumbled upon this small, independent spa in my town, one of those shops you wouldn’t necessarily notice as it is not in a main street and not part of a chain. Reviews were amazing, and I decided to give it a go. The ladies running the spa understood “how to handle me” quite quickly and made me feel at ease from the get-go: I told them it was all new to me, but that I hated how my skin looked and I needed help to get the beauty inside me shine in the outside. The patiently worked with me at my own pace, made me feel comfortable and made me laugh even when they saw I was nervous as fuck from a mile. I went from “I don’t do these places” to “I’m coming here every day even just to wave hello from the window”. Eve & Adam Spa is defo Team Silvia, it is “the team within the team” and I couldn’t imagine my life without those ladies.

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I bought them flowers as a “thank you” for always being on my side. I love them more than words can express!

Funny fact: when I did the Dollhouse photoshoot, and I had to have a manicure and pedicure, I ran in the spa almost crying: I never had a manicure or pedicure in my entire life. I mean, NEVER. The thought of it filled me with dread and horror. I felt anxiety building up just by reading the email saying that I had to have them, let alone at the thought of me being in the salon with my nails painted. My ladies booked me in, “say no more, don’t worry, we got your back”. I had an anxiety attack whilst walking to the spa, and the only reason I went ahead is because I trusted my ladies more than my fears. When I showed my hands, I felt so embarrassed and part of me wanted to die there and then. I felt SO out of my realms, and I had no choice but to have it or fuck the photoshoot the next day. Half an hour (and so much laughing) later, my hands were very lady-like. The next day, my feet were just as perfect. Turns out, it was not only “not too bad”, but I quite liked it. I kept it even after the shoot. As I’m writing, my nails are covered in a very purple shellac, and the more I stare at them, the more I love them.

All my real friends are now part of “team Silvia”. My close friend Marge knows that every time I am negative, or that I dress scruffy “like a chav from Jeremy Kyle”, or if I say bad things about me, she has to immediately tell me off (or slap me hard should I fail to comply). I have colleagues checking up on me constantly about everything and anything I need reminding when I’m too lazy to put the effort by myself. Even my desk is now “Team Silvia”: I tidied it up (everyone though “that’s it, we lost her, the end is nigh”), I put a picture of Britney and some motivational “JLo ass” reminders. I’m not baby-stepping into this new Silvia, I’m cruising in my shiny red Ferrari and I’m not taking any prisoners.

I had it of relying on “hope”; it is a very lazy way to tell yourself to do nothing, and then if you get it you are “lucky”, if you don’t, you stay miserable because “life hates you anyway”. Enough of this shit. ACTION, NOW.

If you are in doubt about changing, about how to do something, if you are in a “Maybe Monday….” Mode (and that Monday is never the right Monday to start), stop with your narrative and just DO. NOW. Write on a piece of paper what you want to achieve and, like me, ask yourself: “can I do it by myself? If not, who can help me?” and plan it. Recruit the help, select your team. Do it right now, because right now is the right moment to start. Text your friends, google the experts, be proactive and MAKE. THINGS. HAPPEN. The universe will reward your efforts, believe me, but if you plan on living out of hopes…. You are going to be massively disappointed.

IT’S BRITNEY B#TCH!

Before anyone says anything: yes, I am a metalhead and proud.
Yes, I grew up with Kreator, Megadeth, Slayer, Testament and the whole lot of thrash metal; I got more band merchandise than what a “normal” person is supposed to own; I probably spent way too much money on heavy metal gig tickets than what I should have done and yes, I even got Slayer tattooed on my left leg.

But.

I have an insane love for Britney Spears.
I love her, I worship her, she is the mighty Britney bitch and I’m a devoted, proud fan. Whoever says anything bad about her in front of me ends up at the receiving end of a massive rant so don’t you ever dare do it, ok?
LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE, OK?

siso2Lot of people teased me for being a Britney fan in the past, and some still tried to teas me nowadays. As you can imagine, I care about it just as much as I care about what Kim Kardashian ate for lunch today: a big, fat zero.
People think it is absolutely odd for a metalhead, who is all Slayer and horns up, to listen to such a cheesy popstar. The fact that I (predominantly) listen to Heavy Metal doesn’t mean that I cannot appreciate anything else, I mean, I grew up being Madonna fan, and maybe one day I’ll tell the funny tale of that time I went to see her gig alone lying to my mum, but for some reason people are not that bothered about me being Madge’s fan as about me adoring Britney.
I have never bothered to explain the reasons why I am such a fan to these people, mainly because:
a) I knew the people having fun at me were not really interested in hearing them anyway, they just wanted more stuff to laugh at my expenses (like I give a single fuck about it), and
b) because, fundamentally, I couldn’t have been remotely arsed to waste my time and energy to do it, and since it involves my mental health too, the less thing I shared the better.

I did a post on Facebook once about it, but I have been stupid enough to cancel it because it was very personal, and I didn’t want my ex to see it (yeah, call me Queen Dumb, I deserve it). I’ll try to re-explain it here, and I promise this time I won’t remove it.

I hated Britney Spears.

43159It took me a split second to hate her, as soon as I caught a glimpse of her on tv. She was a fabricated cute little girl vomited out of that Disney club where everyone seemed to be pushed out to make money: Justin Timberlake, Christina Aguilera… you name it.
When she came out with “Baby one more time” I was already a metal head, and she was the personification of everything I hated in a girl: pretty blonde hair, pretty body, dumb acting like a teenager, silly girlie face and behaviour, that horrid baby voice, the hideous clothes, the even more hideous dance moves…
Shivers down my spine.
She was indeed beautiful, a classic case of “all the girls want to be like her and all the boys want to be with her”. Everywhere you went, every time you turned MTv on, she was there, with her stupid bimbo songs about stupid bimbo stuff. Jeez she made me want to pull my hair and rip my ears! She became big like very few pop stars did, she sang with Michael Jackson (think whatever you want about him, but he was the King of Pop ok?), she did a song with Madonna (!!!) and who can’t forget her performance at the MTv VMAs 2001, with a massive snake on her shoulder? Or the one with Madonna and Christina Aguilera? I watched all of them in a sort of shock horror (for the record, “I’m a Slave for You” it is not one of my favourite songs still today).
I kept disliking her for years, who cares about that American, ex-Disney stupid girl anyway right? She is nothing like the Real Queen of Pop Madonna, I don’t care.

However, the picture-perfect image of this lovely cute girl suddenly started to break. She became like a wild beast in a cage, trying to get out of a very gold prison she wasn’t happy to be locked in anymore… and one day she just lost her shit. Royally. Like a supernova explosion, she literally exploded in a massive, full blown mentally insane fit: she shaved her beautiful, gold blonde hair, she beat the shit out of a paparazzi car with an umbrella, she was completely, completely insane. Her eyes when she shaved her head where those of someone who’s not right in their head and that cannot be stopped unless sedated. Everyone who was there with her was either trying to get a picture of her or trying to upset her even more to make her go even crazier. I felt sick in the stomach.

I remember watching the footages (the “perks” of being a celebrity is that all your ups and downs get ruthlessly broadcasted on and on and on….) and I just felt… sorry.
I was so sorry for her.
I wanted to hug her, to hug her like I would have hug my best friend in a similar fit of rage, and just cry with her.

For once, I felt even luckier than her: very few people witnessed me losing my shit, having panic attacks, and ending up in a very horrible meltdown, or not making it on time to get to the toilet during one of my anxiety attacks and… well…  etc. etc. Everything people know about my problems is what I decide to share. It is up to me what I want to make people aware of, I have full control of it. When I cut my long hair very, very short, not too far from Britney’s shaved head, because I hated myself and I wanted to rip off the only thing I liked about me, I didn’t have an army of people outside, taking billions of pictures of me and laughing at my expenses. It was just me and a stupid hair stylist, who should have spent a bit more time talking with me and maybe, just maybe, convince me to gradually shorten my hair, rather than chopping all my locks in one go then grabbing the razor like he had been waiting for that moment all his life. It took me 6 years to set foot in another hair saloon, such traumatic was that experience. Still, no one waited for me outside to laugh at me and my almost bald head. Thankfully. I would have killed myself there and then, and I mean what I’m saying (I was that fragile).

Britney? Not so much. Every single detail fed tabloid for months, and years. Her pictures, the measures that her family had to take in order to keep her alive and (medically) cared for, the custody of her kids gone to that work-shy sleazebag of her ex-husband, everything. It still haunts her today, 11 years later. Everything she does, good or bad, she will always be “the one who went mental” in 2007. All. The. Time. Give it a bloody rest, we got it!!!

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My metal collection and Britney (with her show’s ticket!)

That day, Britney may have lost her marbles, but she gained a fan: me.
I started rooting for her. Every progress she made, I was there cheering for her. When “Blackout” came out, I bought it immediately, and much to my surprise, I loved it to bits. It is still amongst my all-time favourite albums ever, together with Slayer’s “Reign in Blood”, Kreator’s “Endorama” and Megadeth’s “Rest in Peace”. If you wonder, my favourite song from “Blackout” is “Break the Ice”. No discussion about it mates.
When she performed “Gimme More” at the VMAs in 2007, not in her best mental and physical shape, I cried all my tears in front of the tv: everybody bitched and trashed her, saying she was a fat cow unable to move and sing. Yes, she wasn’t exactly in the same shape of when she was dancing with that bloody yellow snake years before, ok. However, what I saw was more than what the tv transmitted: I saw a strong woman, performing in the face of all the shit that happened to her, still trying to do her bit in the best way she could. Yes, it was atrocious, but I dare you do the same when your mind is in a blur: best of times, when I’m in my worst states, I can barely tolerate to function, let alone get on a stage and putting up a show. When it was my turn to go to work even though I was suicidal and out of my right mind, that performance kept playing in my head: “if Britney did it in front of a huge crowd, live on tv where millions of people were watching, so can I” I kept repeating myself. Every single minute of every single day.
Still today, every time I have to face something difficult, I channel that thought in my head and off I go.

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That’s my Britney!

I am so happy that not only she recovered, but that she is still a successful performer, has her life back on track, a smoking hot body, her kids back with her and so many good things. Think what you want, I don’t care, she deserves everything she gets.

Why all this blurb about Britney?

Well, on Friday I went to see her live in London, for the very first time in my life.

Yes, I was still recovering from food poisoning, but I was there.

I wore my hair extensions, some very pink and funky makeup (I had to get ready at the office, in the only Friday where everyone was in, so I had the pleasure of doing a walk of shame out of it) and yeah, as you can imagine, I was so agitated and emotional that I felt almost sick.

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Me on the train back home. DEVASTATED.

The gig was…. Well, the only thing I can say is that I cried all my tears. All my emotions, all my suffering, all my mental problems… I felt like it was the beginning of a new era for me. I sang all songs, I danced like crazy, I laughed and had fun with everyone around me, it was just magical. Magical.
I don’t care if she lip-synced all her performance, or if her moves where not super complicated: the whole show was just exceptional, and I had the night of my life.
Before anyone asks: no, I didn’t take any picture of video of the show. I kept my phone in my pocket and just lived the moment as it was unfolding (and I was too busy trying not to lose my fake eyelashes because I was in a flood of tears).
The next day I felt like I suddenly became a 98 years old woman, since part of my body ached (including my hair: fucking hell, hair extensions are heavy!!!). I regretted not having bought tickets to see her even Saturday and Sunday, but hey, I’m sure it won’t be her last tour and who knows what the future holds for both of us?

HELLO ME, MEET THE NEW ME

Ok, Megadeth’ song “Sweating Bullets” started in a slighlty different way, but I’m not sure if “meet the real me” is what is right for what I’m about to write. Aaaand now I can’t get rid of that song playing in my head! (It is one of my absolute favourites, for the record).

I’m in a weird phase as we speak. It is exciting, it is new, it is great, it feels great, but at the same time, it is slightly bittersweet and a tiny bit… upsetting?

Let’s see if I can explain…. I am trying to make sense to any of this and it took a good hour with the psychotherapist to come to some sort of explanation, be kind with me, this is harder than what it seems!

Before I start writing anything about it, let me give you an idea of where I am now in my journey: I’m sure it will make things easier for everyone, myself included!
All the work I’m doing on myself is starting to pay off big time. I’m beginning to see and feel tangible, wonderful improvements on my mental health, my self-esteem, my confidence, the way I portray myself with others but also with myself too etc…

Recently, I’ve been feeling this wonderful excitement that I can’t seem not only to justify, but also to contain. I feel like I’m reborn and I have to re-learn everything from scratch or so.
I’m approaching things in a new way, with a new mentality.
I’m experimenting with myself. I’m trying new things, or old things but experiencing them in a different way. My stream of thoughts is dramatically improved: I’m more positive, more rational, with a greater awareness of who I am and what is the message I’m trying to convey with my words and my body. I reflect more on stuff. I think before I react. I am learning to cope with my anxiety, talking myself out of it rather than just be defensive and succumb to its horrible effects. I don’t let things go by without asking myself “why am I doing this? Why is that I’m feeling this way? Why this upsets me? How can I re-phrase this in a positive way? What is the lesson I can learn from this?” etc.
I must admit, at time is very tiring, but at the moment I wouldn’t have it any other way. I feel more relaxed, even though I’m constantly analysing myself. As I write, I’m on a train, and I had quite the “anxiety inducing” morning. It required a mammoth effort to shut the fuck of my chain of anxiety driven thoughts and focus on what I had to do.

My confidence is on a record high. My self-esteem? I can’t believe how good I feel about myself. I’m in such a state of grace that all the negativity can’t seem to affect me the way it used to affect me and make me miserable as fuck, feeling defeated, a failure, the shittiest shit of the world.
More so, it seems like any attempt at dragging me down and making me feel like dirt is met by me with a “whatever, I can’t give a single, remote fuck no matter how hard I try… and I’m not even entertaining the idea of trying, by the way” attitude. It is awesome, and the less fucks I give, the better it gets.

I’m loving this new and improved Silvia. I really do. I see this beautiful path in front of me and I’m taking my time to walk on it, savouring every single step. I don’t want to rush it.
I don’t want change to happen like a sudden miracle: I am enjoying too much the little steps, the small but incredible victories against my old self, the tiny bits and pieces that seem to fall into place every time I take a moment to analyse my surroundings and myself in it. I know it is not an easy, smooth ride, but even bumps along the way are not perceived as “dramas that will traumatise me forever”, but they are just put into perspective, dealt with and put behind my back: it happens, it is fine, I’ll do better next time.

I have also this… it’s such a weird feeling: I can’t stop thinking, feeling, being convinced deep down to the core that something amazing is about to happen in my life. I have this crazy but absolute certainty that I will soon experience something incredible, that will not only make up for all these years of suffering, but also give me a massive boost into keep pursuing my best possible self. I spoke to my therapist about it and the way I described it to her is “I feel like a child who knows that soon is going to be Christmas – it will happen, it’s just a matter of letting days go by; in the meantime she is thinking of all the amazing presents she will get and oh my gosh she is so happy that she is restless”.
I don’t know if I will truly get this amazing thing, but I want to believe I will, and I have faith the universe has listened to what I am asking, has witnesses that I’m not fooling around, that this time I meant it when I said “I’m going to change!” and therefore is cooking up something truly awesome for me. Having said that, everything already looks like a present for me, and I want this feeling to last for as long as I possibly can.

At the same time, a tiny bit of me is… lost? Like… this tiny part of me sees all these changes happening, is experiencing all these new things, there is a mammoth amount of new data and information that my brain requires to process in a new, positive way… and this part of me is in a maze, trying to find a way out, trying to come to terms with the new me and the death of the old me.

I’ll try to expand on the topic, bear with me because I’m also trying to explain this to myself!

I give you an example: I recently saw my ex. We spent the night together. Few weeks ago, I would have been extremely happy and looking forward for having a chance to be back in his arms, to spend time with him and maybe, just maybe, you know, hopefully, his feelings for me…
Well….
Don’t get me wrong, we kind of had an ok night, and we did have some nice moments, but… my feelings were not there. My mind was not there. The more time we spent together, the more I felt “….is it really this what I want for me?”. In the morning, I stared at him whilst he was sleeping, something that I used to love to do. I adored waking up next to him. I used to cuddle him, kiss him, grab his arms and wrap myself in them, listen to the sound of his breathing and just enjoy his warmth, his presence.
That morning all I could do was just… stare at him., in the same way as I would have stared at any other object that was there, but that I don’t really give a fuck about it.
I tried to grab his hand, and yes, it was nice, but…. Just like any other hand would have felt.
Don’t get me wrong, I was absolutely fucking thrilled, happy to the moon and back that I could feel that distance, that “I think you killed all the love I had for you and it feels awesome”, but this tiny bit of me felt so… lost? Unable to understand the situation?
This little part of me kept asking “where are your feelings? I swear they were here not long ago, I fucking left them there, I kid you not, I felt them! Where are they? What happened? Did you put them in the bin? Did you hide them from me? What the hell…..”.

Another example? My recent interactions with my mum. I love her, I love to bits, but she can piss me off like very few people in the world can. She can make me go from Buddhist monk to hysterical, emotional wreck in the space of a second. Yet, in our latest exchanges, I’ve not behaved as per my usual, defensive self: I let her yell, or be her usual bitching and moaning. I didn’t allow her to drag me to the level of the child who is at the receiving end of a rant. I stopped her “emotional blackmailing” before she dared to try and do it, and in a calm (but firm) way I told her what my point of view was, and why I was sticking to it no matter what. Again, I felt SO proud of myself. The way I successfully handled it, avoiding a total meltdown and a yelling challenge amongst us, made me feel on top of the world. I am confident, I know I’m right and I don’t need to defend myself: it is how I say it is. However, this tiny bit of me felt a bit… unease? Like “I was expecting shouting and tears and…. nothing happened? What was that? Who are you Silvia? What the fuck are you doing?”.

I think that this is part of my “transition” into this new person. A lot has changed, and I can see it clearly, but some stuff is still present because hey, I’ve been the old me for a very long time, you can’t just get rid of years and years of feelings, behaviours, attitude etc. just like that right? The new me is up and running, but the old me is still looming around, trying to find her dimension, to see whether there is still space for her inside me, and if so, where is it and what can she do to regain some of her power. This is also the part of me that makes me feel scared (and anxious) that all the good work will lead into nothing, that it is all so stupid and embarrassing, that at some point I will go back to my old ways anyway so I should surrender now in order for me to face a smaller, unavoidable disappointment. Oh, I so wish I could shut this part of me down for good!

AAAAH it makes me so upset feeling this way!

Anyway, I’m trying to manage the situation as best as I can and to not worry too much about it. I’m sure that, in time, I will be better. I saw hell, I lived in it for years and years alone and able to count only on myself. Now I have a team of people supporting and taking care of me, a bit like some self-esteem and mental health superheroes: let’s wait for those Christmas presents, shall we?

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A very happy me. Few months ago, you would have never EVER seen me smiling for the camera. NEVER.

SHARING IS CARING

Since I started this blog a month or so ago, I’ve been increasing my time on WordPress browsing other blogs to read what other fellow bloggers are up to, and I discovered a world full of beautiful people that are writing incredibly moving things which I can absolutely relate to. In Italy, when someone “discovers” things that everyone else in the world knows about, we say “you just discovered hot water”. It seems that it is what happened to me with these blogs!

Anyway, one of the blogs I fell in love with is called “Around the ward in 80 days” written by the amazing Ida (I encourage you to please give this blog a read, it is awesome).
The other day I was reading this post that she wrote called “I need to tell you something.”, which is about whether or not someone suffering from mental illness should hide or share this fact with his/her respective parner. I had quite a debate with myself about it: why people should hide their mental health to their partner? Or to anyone, to be honest? Like Ida, I wholeheartedly agree that no one should ever hide what goes on in his/her mind, especially in a relationship.

Ok, let’s expand on the topic a bit more, shall we?

I understand that mental illness comes with a very horrible stigma attached to it.
I said it in previous blog posts and I will say it again now: I don’t get why people are fine with, let’s say, broken bones, upset stomachs, viruses and infections, but anything that affects the brain is a massive taboo that everyone better hide or be shamed for life. I just don’t get it! Am I missing a memo or something? Isn’t the brain just like any other organ of our body?
Ok, I get that mental illnesses are not exactly like chickenpox or measles, I’m not that oblivious to the fact that we are talking about a very different kind of illness here. I’ve suffered with crippling anxiety for all my life, I had panic attacks and suicidal thoughts for three years and half of my family is battling (and battled) mental illnesses (from depression to in and out of mental units) so yeah, I know what I am talking about, alright?
picI understand that the nature of the topic discussed here is pretty sensitive, and I’m not suggesting that people should force it down other people’s throat, not at all. Having these kind of issues is rather upsetting as it is, last thing someone in these conditions need is to feel obliged to overshare for the sake of “killing the stigma”.
However, I do feel that it is important to spread the word, to let people know, to raise awareness: I surprised few people when I said that, even though I could barely go through five minutes without a panic attack, I managed to work full time without taking a single day off sick. You know, not all people with mental illness spend their days in bed, in the dark, hugging their pillows and sobbing their heart out. Some do, some don’t, some do something different entirely, some do all of the above or nothing at all and guess what? it is absolutely fine because everyone copes with what they have in their own way; my point is that mental illness does not necessarily equal “unable to function at all times”.
I don’t think people should introduce themselves like “hello, my name is … and I’m bipolar / depressed / suffering with anxiety” etc, but once you get to establish a connection that is more than casually chatting away now and then, if you feel like it…. Why not just mention it?

The vast majority of my colleagues and my friends knows what happened to me.
I shared my story openly, multiple times. Most of them read this blog as well, so there is no mystery about whatever I have suffered or what I am going through at the moment. I don’t really care about hiding it.
I spent too much time and energy hating myself and trying to be everything everyone wanted me to be, only to end up being even more miserable than before.
Thanks to therapy and some work on myself, I’ve now reached the blissful stage of “I am who I am and if you don’t like it, your problem not mine” so if someone gets upset or shocked by me having been suicidal, well, is it really my issue? Don’t think so, no.

My mental health, or illness, is something that it is part of who I am. What I experienced, the way I overcame my issues, the journey I am in to feel better, improve and re-wire my brain into a powerhouse of positive energy and thoughts, it’s exactly what makes me the person I am today. Why should I hide it? To make others feel better? To not “scare” them? I’m not a murderer, I don’t have any dark secret, I just dealt with what life threw at me!

I’ve always been clear in my relationships about what I’ve been suffering with. Unfortunately, I had a thing for falling for unsuitable partners (I’m trying to be polite and diplomatic here, please appreciate the effort) who either didn’t want to understand, or who used my “weaknesses” to make me feel even worse that what I was feeling, in order for them to cover their insecurities and ensure they always had an upper hand when it came to our relationship: I was the needy one desperate for love, they were the tyrants with the power to decide if and when I was worthy enough of the tiny crumbles of their attention. It was only after few sessions of psychotherapy that I realised why I kept picking these pricks (ok sorry I can’t be polite for too long): I hated myself so much that, by choosing these arseholes, I was basically proving to myself that I was not worth anything better, and I was using them as the embodiment of my self-hate. Of course I always dreamed of having someone who truly loved me, who truly cared for me, who was there to protect me, inspire me and to share our lives in an equal, amazing partnership, but turns out I have preferred to chase people too damaged, too arid and incapable of loving anyone, themselves included, in a sick pursuit of “fixing them to fix myself”.

I don’t think I will end up in another relationship anytime soon, but would I be sharing what I have been through with my mental health again? Yes, of course I would. I now believe that the right person would love me for who I really am, not for what they think I am, or for being the one they want me to be, and my mental status is included in the package, like it or not. How can a partner get to know me if I don’t share with him this very important aspect of my life?

Before you dare to ask something like “but what if you are scared that your partner will run away as soon as he/she knows about your condition?”.
First of all, you are not exactly confessing a murder or anything as horrid as that. I’m sorry to break this news to you (and I’m one who didn’t want to accept it myself), but as upsetting as it may sound, if your partner gets scared and does a runner once he/she knows… well… he/she is not the right person for you.
The end.
Being scared and concerned it is totally understandable. I get it. When my ex told me about his personal dramas, I had few moments of “….shiiiiiit…..”. But I loved him, I wanted to help, to be supportive; I was grateful and appreciative of him allowing me to step into his nightmares and have a good understanding at what was up with him (shame the gratefulness has not been reciprocated…. Anyway). You need to understand that we are used to fight against our brains, but our partners may not, and may not know what to do, how to approach us, how to help us in our darkest hour. We need to understand this and help them. Communication is key, and trying to have a bit more patience too when they struggle to get it right would also be nice. Let’s be honest, it is not easy being us, ok, but it is also not easy for them being our partners if we don’t make them aware of how we function, and we need to appreciate how complicated can be to act in what we think is “the right way” (which, for some of us, may be ok today, but completely wrong tomorrow). Having said that, if they refuse to acknowledge our issues and make our lives an endless misery of shame and pain… well…. Here is the door, goodbye, fuck off.

I understand why people want to hide these issues, don’t get me wrong. It is not exactly the nicest thing ever to go to someone and say “hey, dude, here’s the thing: I’m mental and don’t function like “normal” people, happy?”. But hiding is not the answer. Believe me. The only one who will suffer is you, in the end. I know it is hard to believe, but hiding requires a lot of effort and energy, and the more you hide, the more painful and tough to keep your secret will be.

As hard as it may seem to think this way, you may be positively surprised by how people react. Yes, there will be the odd imbecile here and there, unfortunately there is no vaccine out there preventing stupidity, but good people will listen and will care. Give the world a chance to hear about you. Even if you find just one person who listens to you, your effort will be worth it. You may not know, but your words may mean the universe for that single individual out there. Let’s spread some love out there, shall we?

STRIKE A POSE

I think I shocked quite a few people, lately, with some of my daring pictures on Instagram.
When you spend a lifetime portraying yourself as the as the ugly weirdo in a heavy metal t-shirt, who can barely put some basic make up on her face and who is as feminine as Godzilla with a skirt, the sudden change to a rather hot babe with full make up, false lashes, sexy underwear and not giving a single fuck about showing off can be quite a big “WHAT?”.

Honestly? I’m loving it and I’m having such a jolly good time.

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mastering the truck driver look at the office (for the record, this is Nico Rosberg hat!)

I’ve spent every single day of my life, up till not long ago, convincing myself that I was irremediably UGLY AF, Supreme Court final judgement issued, no appeal, over, that is it, deal with it.
I never even dared to entertain the remote possibility that, actually, I may not be that bad, and that maybe, just maybe, with a bit of effort, some guidance and a different mentality, maybe I could be the person I really am and not the one I decided to be (the one who looks (and feel) like a pub toilet after a Saturday night).

I never had a mirror in my bedroom up till January this year. No joking. Why should I have had something reflecting the image of a body I always hated with a passion? I barely had one in my bathroom and that was more than enough to make me start my mornings and end my days with a “oh no that ugly face again, look at you, jeeez you are hideous”.

I have wasted so much time, so much energy, putting myself down and diminishing myself; if only I had been less negative and more positive! I tried to be the people pleaser whilst flying as low as possible, because I was one of those who thinks that it’s only other people who can be looking good, successful, interesting, good, etc. Even in my relationships, I fell for the wrong men, thinking they were awesome even though they were barely average (or downright twats) because I couldn’t think of deserving anything better.

You know what I realised? Hating yourself is quite a demanding, hard, and tiring job. It takes quite the effort. You are always, constantly, continuing thinking of horrible, negative stuff about you, and your brain is in an unstoppable spiral out of control full of hate, from the moment you wake up, till the moment you go to bed, without any breathing space.
Then, to add salt to your very open and bleeding wounds, you start comparing yourself to others. I don’t just mean the celebrities in their ultra-doctored and intensely photoshopped pictures: any other human being, living and breathing, is a chance for you to dig some more into your non-existent self-esteem.

Oh, but this is not the end of it!

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I have been famous for not being capable of having a picture taken without pulling a stupid face

You so hate yourself that you cannot possibly contemplate, not even remotely entertain the idea that someone may disagree with you and see you for the lovely person you are (inside and outside). No, no, no, no! They MUST be wrong. Worse. Not only they are wrong, but they must know they are and therefore they are teasing you. They are having fun at your expenses. Needless to say, you reject any compliment like the plague, and you are quick to answer back shit like “pretty? ME? Dude your eyes need checking”, “What? Are you joking? I look like a bin bag in this dress” etc…
I am not proud to admit that I took this habit of refusing compliments to the next level: I intentionally annoyed the hell out of anyone (friends, colleagues, partners) with my refusal till I ended up making them feel bad, I have forced them to listen to all the tripe I thought about myself to the point I got them so extremely fed up with me that they just stopped complimenting me altogether in order to avoid having to yell at me (or slap me).
I know.

I portrayed myself uglier than what I am because this is the reality I wanted to believe in. Being the victim of my own image meant that I didn’t require any effort on my part to change: I was just passively accepting this as a fact because I knew that changing is H A R D. And I didn’t do hard because I’m lazy at the core and I would have missed a chance to moan and make myself miserable a bit more. I did lazy, commiserating, “poor me” and helplessness. Gosh I was such an unpleasant mess.

I’m about to break this news to you: if you want to love yourself, you got to learn to do it. Even better, you have to start trying to love yourself, one step at the time. Just that. Try. No other options for you. You can either stay miserable all your life (and believe me, I was headed towards this road without a single care in the world) OR, you try to improve. At worst, you stay as you are. But if you try and make a real effort, change will happen. Guaranteed.

I was talking to a very good friend I met on Instagram, who is on a similar journey to mine (you know who you are 😊 Love you!) and we were discussing about my gym body. I told him that I’m nowhere near the body I plan to have, but that I’m working hard towards it, and if only I didn’t spend all my life hating myself, I would already be at that level now. All I had to do was just…

Try.

Don’t get me wrong, I make it sound so easy, but giving yourself the push to try… it is hard as hell.

I read tons of self-help books, all giving great, helpful suggestions on how to start change, what to do to start believing more in yourself and lift your self-esteem.
Convincing myself to follow those advices was a piece of cake: of course I’m going to write some lovely positive affirmations!
Hell yeah I’m going to stop my negative thoughts before they kick in and replace them with positive ones!
Absolutely, don’t worry, from now on I’m going to do all these things, you watch me.
Then the time to actually try and do these things came, and guess what? I freaked out. Because I convinced myself it was pointless. Because I felt stupid. Because my mindset was always in a “I’m a helpless loser” mode. Because what if. Because I knew better. Because nothing can possibly work on someone like me. Because I was so (insert negative thing) that not even a miracle could make me any different. Ever felt the same as me?

Well, guess what? Give yourself a much-deserved chance. I did it. And hear this: you got nothing to lose and all to gain. Don’t think “it is not possible”, shut that thought and re-wire it into a “let’s see what happens!”.

You can’t imagine how hard I struggled to tell myself that I was worthy. It took me more than a month to stop laughing and think “yeah right” every time I said to myself “I am beautiful”. But I didn’t surrender. No way Jose, this time we don’t do half-arsed stuff.
I have always been proud of surrounding myself with positive, loving, caring and inspiring people; when I embarked on this life-enhancing mission of changing the way I think, act, and see the world, I “hired” them as my special angels – change assistants: to ensure I didn’t back down, I asked all these friends to listen to what I said carefully, and yell at me should I have said anything bad about myself. Anything! Slap me too, if I don’t stop. Believe me, having someone telling you “ENOUGH” Rephrase it positively!!” every time you open your mouth is incredibly helpful, mainly because your negativity is so rooted deep down in you that you don’t realise how bad it is unless someone points it out at you.
I have forced myself to say “thank you” to any compliment, without biting back or saying anything else. Thank you and a smile. That’s it. Gosh it was sooooo hard. More so, I started to actively compliment myself: damn I cooked an amazing dinner tonight; good job Silvia, that was great; look at you, going to the gym even when you’d rather be in bed, you go girl. No more “you are shit” and stuff like that, no.
Since I knew one of my worst defects is being a massive lazy arse, I ordered a colleague to drag me to the gym no matter what. Boy she did. I almost got scared of her!

However, the best thing I ever did was to allow myself to see me through all these amazing people’s eyes, and just embrace what they saw rather than staying stuck with what I saw. I started to think: look, if all these wonderful people I love, cherish and admire have nothing but praise for me, and I’m the only one who thinks shit (beside the twat I was in love with, who was just that, a twat) …. Could it be that I’m the one in the wrong?
I let their love fill my empty heart, and I used their skills to learn and improve myself: I am useless at shopping for clothes? I dragged a friend with me and gave her the power of treating me like a human doll: show me what you think I would look good in! I had a photoshoot with a dear friend of mine, and she showed me that even with not a lot of makeup and not “fresh from hair salon” hair, I could look good. I sat and listened to them, trying to grasp any tip, any advice on how to look and act better. I even said to my desk-neighbour “kick me if you see me slouching on my chair (my physiotherapist thanks profusely). I hoarded makeup, and I asked the shop assistant good tips, then I spent endless evenings on youtube trying and testing stuff to learn how to do nice looks without ending up looking like a clown or a prostitute. I pampered myself with a new haircut, a facial, some new gym clothes and a better diet.

I am still nowhere near where I want to be, but one thing is sure:

Yes, I am beautiful.

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I need few things to fix, but yes, I am a really beautiful woman.

I have a big heart, I’m a loyal friend, I’m funny, I’m sweet, I’m fierce, I’m strong, I’m powerful, I’m full of love and I am positive force. Whoever thinks differently about me is more than welcome to fuck off back from the shithole where he/she comes from (excuse my language). I’m independent, I have a job I love to bits, I love abundantly, and I am surrounded by love; I am sure that the universe is now gearing up to bring me all the goodness I deserve.

If you are reading this and you have been in my same old, negative shoes, feel free to reach out to me. If you are in need of a sign that will turn your life around, here it is: just do it! Just try! I am just like you and I’m still walking down this path, stumbling, and falling at times, but still going strong, because I don’t want to live that negative hell anymore. Listen to me, give yourself this chance. Forget negativity, that won’t lead you anywhere but misery. You are unique. You are special. Leave your past to rest, focus on today and start loving yourself. Don’t feed your negative narrative and push away whoever tries to bring you down.

And in the words of the wonderful Whitney Houston (may she rest in peace):

I decided long ago never to walk in anyone’s shadows
If I fail, if I succeed, at least I’ll live as I believe
No matter what they take from me they can’t take away my dignity
Because the greatest love of all is happening to me
I found the greatest love of all inside of me

HELP! I NEED SOMEBODY! HELP!

I hate being weak.
I hate people thinking that I’m weak, and even more so, I hate when people can see my weaknesses.

I HATE IT!

The only person I allowed to be in the presence of a flawed, frail me, has been my ex-boyfriend, because I convinced myself that he loved me so much that he would have helped me heal my issues with his love.

Yeah right, it didn’t really go to plan this one…

When he dumped me and all I had was, well, me, and I realised how helpless I was, I decided to do the bravest, most upsetting, panic and anxiety attack inducing thing I have ever done: I admitted defeat; I acknowledged that, there and then, I was in no mental state to move on from that shit.
I raised my hand and I asked for help.
Not just reaching out to friends though.
I mean, I asked for PROFESSIONAL help.

Bit of a background here: I fought with my mental health since my teens. I already said in another blog post that I come from a family, on my mum’s side, where everyone has something not quite right in their head. Yet none of us ever dared to even think of going to see a psychologist, or a therapist, or anyone, really.
I grew up hearing things like “oh you don’t go to the shrink, only total coo-coo people go there” or “I don’t need to see a shrink, no way I’ll say stuff to a complete stranger, he’ll think I’m crazy, will only stuff me with pills and besides, what can he/she actually do to help!”, “it is so shameful and embarrassing, do you want people to know you are mental?” and so on.
Trying to improve your mental health by seeing a specialist was something you didn’t do and didn’t even dare to mention.

Once, when I was 17 years old, I insisted to see a consultant because my crippling anxiety was starting to take a toll on my physical health. I had to beg for months, and in the end, I ended up with the crappiest psychiatrist working in my city, because what was important was not his/her capabilities, but his/her surgery being as far away from where I lived as possible, and hidden too, to ensure that no one would have ever seen me going there – or else, shame on me, my family and my relatives for years to come. This woman I ended up seeing was rude, she didn’t let me talk, she handed me an antidepressant’s prescription and dismissed me there and then: needless to say, I decided my relatives where right after all and there was no going back.

Over the years, my anxiety only got worse. It didn’t help being bullied at work for two years solid by my manager. I reached a nice equilibrium when I moved to London, because I was too busy settling down in a new country and in a new job, so I didn’t have the time to think “wait, how am I doing?”. All went down the drains after my pregnancy: yes, the dreaded Post-Natal Depression (you can read more in my previous post). I knew it was a possibly, I read about it, I thought I knew what to do… till I had it: 3 long years of constant panic attacks and suicidal thoughts. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. I slowly crawled out of that hell alone and I re-built a kind of “new normal” counting only on myself and no one else. I sometimes think it is a miracle that I’m here, writing, living, and breathing and not being locked in a psychiatric ward (or six feet under).

I knew I was not perfect, but I thought I was doing ok: I mean, I was alive. I was happy. I put up with divorcing, with being alone with a kid, bills to pay and a mortgage, I had friends, work was good and I loved it, I had an amazing boyfriend…. till he dumped me, and at that point life hit me in the face like a truck.
I was not ok anymore.
No, worse, I have never been ok, I only pretended to be so.
Everything I pushed in a remote corner of my brain (hating myself, hating my body, being a weirdo, being alone, you name it) not only reached the surface, but BANG! It was like being run over by a train on full speed.
I had to do something though, come on Silvia, you can do this bitch, you overcame worst things!

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I even bought myself flowers every week!

I became obsessed with “doing”. Anything. So long as I didn’t have to stand still. In the space of a month I read at least 15 self-help books (and some really did change my life) and I got still a handful around the house waiting to be read; I meditated every single day, twice a day minimum; I pushed myself to go to the gym and put some REAL effort in my exercises; I wrote my affirmations and I repeated them over and over again non-stop like a lunatic; I forced myself to think positive things, to have faith in the universe, to block any negative thoughts on the spot…. and yet the only thing that I could not manage to do was asking for help. Psychological help.

Let’s face it, you can do all the exercises in the world, you can follow all the sound advices that experts and caring friends give you, but you are barely scratching the surface of something that it is deeply rooted in you. This is, at least, how I felt. I tried very hard to avoid it, even though all the signs pointed in that directions. I fought it hard and I gave myself a million of excuses to not do it, including “I cannot afford it” and “who’s going to care for my son when I’m in therapy”.

Still, in front of the mirror shouting “I am so beautiful. Check these abs, wow, I am so fierce” I felt this…. void. It just wasn’t enough. I bit my lips and decided that I had it, that was officially it: if I really wanted to see changes, I had to stop being so up my arse, let go of my past and just

ask.for.help.

What could possibly go wrong? Do I ask for help when I can’t do something at work? yes. Do I ask my son for help when I’m cleaning his bedroom and shit reaches the roof? yes. Do I ask for help to my friends when I’m feeling down, and I need a good chat and an Aperol Spritz on the side? YES. So… I am now in need of help to dig at the core of my problems and I need someone with the appropriate shovel to succesfully do it.

Easy, right?

Of course, I thought. Let me find the right therapist who can help me, yey!

So here is me, googling “best therapist near me” and browsing profiles, all happy and merry. I found one I liked, I read the profile, it fitted what I was looking for. Actually, it felt like “THIS IS THE ONE I FEEL I WANT TO TALK TO”.
I was all geared up. Contact page, here is the psychotherapist’s email.
I’m ready. This is my moment, let me write a lovely email.

“Dear……

my name is Silvia and….”

And I stopped. I just froze.

My hands couldn’t write anything. At all. My mind went blank, all of the sudden.
Then, a tsunami of negative thoughts filled the void: “WTF are you doing? What is this shit? What are you thinking of writing? What do you need? Are you sure you want to waste money chatting away to some stranger? You know the things you could do instead? Plus, what do you say to her? That you are sad because your love story ended? So what? Do you think you are the first one who ever had a broken heart? Come on bitch, you survived worse things by yourself, delete that email, go to the gym instead, have a glass of wine” and so on.

I dropped my phone. I got up, and I started walking around in my living room like a caged animal at the zoo. I’m in this whirlwind of thoughts when, like a lightning strike, I remember a quote from one of those self-help books I read:

The Big Snooze will do everything it can to stop you from changing and growing, especially since you’re attempting to obliterate the very identity that you and everyone else has come to know as “you”
Jen Sincero, “You are a Badass”

That was exactly what was happening. My brain was working against me in an attempt to stop me pursuing change, real change. I grabbed the phone from the floor, re-open that email and I simply typed

“Dear….

my name is Silvia AND I NEED HELP”

I wrote how hard it felt to write this request, how anxious I was at the thought of looking stupid, but that I needed to do it so please guide me into the process.

I paused. I closed my eyes. I had some deep breaths, then I pressed send.
And then I ended up with an anxiety attack!
But, what was done, was done. I asked for help. The therapist wrote me back shortly afterwards and she arranged for a phone call later the day to start the ball rolling.

The first session was… weird. I sat there, eyes wide open, like I was about to be executed at gunpoint. I just didn’t know what the hell I was supposed to do! My therapist put me immediately at ease and gently pushed me to talk.
I started to stutter and mumble a bit. Then I felt more at ease. I said something funny and we both started to laugh. I felt better, and I opened up a little more… and by the time the session finished, I realised I turned into a total chatterbox unable to shut up.
That night, I slept like a baby, happy.

Now, after a month and half, I’m here thinking: why on Earth I’ve been so dumb and stupid to not do it sooner!

I feel like every session is a pampering spa experience for my brain. My therapist engages me in amazing debates, she helps me reflect on the things I say, she guides my thought processes without judging or forcing me, and when I leave, I feel amazing. It is the most selfish thing I have ever done for myself: every week, an hour of 100% me, me, me, me. ME. No one else but me. It is the best thing ever. For someone who has always been “others first”, it is a mesmerising experience!

If you are there, thinking “mmmm I don’t know” please, listen to me: give it a go.
Think of what you’d like from a therapist: I chose mine because, amongst other things, she doesn’t do Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (been there, done that, I HATED IT) and because she is there to LISTEN.
Research carefully: we have been blessed with the power of Google, let’s use it for good things, not just to find the funniest cat memes of the month.
Then, once you got the one who ticks all the boxes, just give it a go: trust me, if you find “the right one”, you won’t regret it, and you’ll thank yourself soon!