Breathing through it

I have lived with anxiety most of my life. It was at its worst when I was in my late 20s with big work stresses in London and, a few years later, after I had my second child.

I have then found myself curious about why, since having a child with complex learning disabilities and seizures, I have been able to manage my anxiety more effectively than I ever have.

I have wondered if it is perspective; I manage a lot of scary seizures and, outside of that, life doesn’t seem quite as frightening. But I don’t think it’s just that. Perhaps I am so aware that the challenge of having a disabled child means that looking after my mental health has to be a priority. So, I consciously try do stuff to manage it.

This can be hard but I have learnt that I have to protect the things I need to stay well. I will not sacrifice an early night for a night out, and if my exercise plans get blown out of the water due to care demands, I make sure I book it in again as soon as I can. I have learned to stop feeling guilty for having an afternoon slump on the sofa to watch Emily in Paris. I have also learned to ask for help so I can do these things.

Perhaps one of the less helpful ways I cope is by trying to maintain control (familiar to many I expect).

I can’t control the seizures, but I can control how tidy my house is, how organised my emails are. I can clear out clutter and have clear worktops which helps give me a sense of (i.e. no real) control.

The thing is, it is impossible to maintain this with a child with a severe learning disability. Last weekend, on sparkling form due to six nights free of seizures (a record), our daughter did the following: tipped over a 4ft sensory bubble tube, flooding the kitchen; marched through the house with a giant bunch of dried lavender she’d found in the garden, scattering it liberally throughout (thankfully the scent is supposed to be relaxing); took two tins of coffee beans and poured them from a height all over the kitchen floor, perfectly blending the decaf and caffeinated versions together as they bounced around. To finish her work, she took a jar of nuts, decanted them into a bowl, climbed the stairs and poured them so they rained down on us from above, scattering across the hall and two rooms.

This morning she took a keen interest in putting away cups and glasses.

Some from the dishwasher (helpful) and some glasses that were on the side, full of water. All banged into the large drawer they live in. She was not happy that some were stacked on top of one another so she removed those and forcefully jammed them in to make room for them all. I could only wince at the scraping and chipping noises. She wasn’t doing anything wrong, she was putting the cups where she observed they belonged. I had to breathe deeply when she insisted on carrying multiple beautiful pottery mugs in one tiny hand. She did it though.

The skill of breathing through this stuff is something I am still working on, but I am proud of my progress. I mentally tell myself that it doesn’t matter. Because it doesn’t. And it’s also quite funny. To see the joy and her concentration makes my heart happy, and that’s great for mental health.