I’ve been trying to get back into a routine despite still being in a depressive episode, but the environment I live in – and my inability to sleep at a decent time – is making it feel almost impossible. Today was another 8am wake-up courtesy of drilling in the wall my bed is against. I went to bed at 2am like the try-hard I am, and despite being exhausted and having been woken at 8am the day before too, I still couldn’t fall asleep until 4am.

Four hours of sleep is atrocious at the best of times. Four hours two days in a row when you haven’t metabolised your sedating meds is a different level of awful.

Still, it was one of those days where I decided to make the best of a terrible situation. I went to meet my son after Uni – mostly to see him, partly to escape the deafening noise that has taken over every room of my flat. They need to invent noise-cancelling headphones for construction sites. My Bose didn’t even attempt it.

By the way this post is a long one. I’m back from a blogging break, and if you’ve only seen my last two posts you might think I’ve only been swallowed by a depression black hole. I have been. But here are some other things that have been happening too. Grab a snack and some coffee or something for this one.

“So I wake in the morning and I step outside, take a deep breath and I get real high, and I scream from the top of my lungs – ‘Please shut up.’”

I didn’t actually scream. Internally, yes.

I appreciate the work they’re doing, but this has been going on for months now, and there are still months left. Our building is undergoing cladding and external insulation replacement. It is so loud and also freezing. It’s like living inside a very loud fridge.

The noise was really starting to get to me. After my coffee – which was about as effective at countering days of sleep deprivation as a dustpan and brush is at cleaning up debris from an earthquake – I decided I had to leave.

I’ve been wanting to get my son some birthday treats. He turns 21 very soon. I figured I could just go today, even if I was severely sleep deprived and feeling quite ill because of it. I texted him to ask what time he’d be back from Uni so I could meet him after buying presents and a card, and we could get Starbucks together. He was really excited.

It’s been ages since we’ve been. Whenever I’ve been in town lately, I’ve just got in and out as quickly as possible. I couldn’t even face Starbucks while feeling so low and sedated after the medication increase.

So, very exhaustedly, I got ready to leave. I grabbed my newest Jellycat too. I was going to need all the emotional support I could muster.

Coo-per the Pigeon

Despite the fact it’s my son’s birthday soon, he recently bought me a present – a new Jellycat pigeon plushie. He’s a member of the Jellycat club online, so he got early access. He said I just had to have the pigeon, given my love of pigeons and the fact I still miss the pair of wood pigeons I used to feed before the scaffolding stopped them getting to me.

He’s been trying to cheer me up. Yesterday I woke up to find he’d done all the dishes. He’s been incredible with my currently slowed-down existence. He makes sure I have enough of my favourite protein bars and sourdough. He just comes home with them. I don’t even have to ask. The pigeon was the pigeon-shaped cherry on top of how supportive he’s been lately.

Jellycat released this specific pigeon in New York, so I assumed I wasn’t going to get one. When he arrived, it did cheer me up. I might have cried. I called him Coo-per – from Interstellar, and because pigeon puns. I knew he’d be the perfect emotional support for today. He’s adorable, permanently cheerful, and he makes me feel soft in that way only my son really can.

I walked to town with him in my backpack. I was mostly in my head. I had music on, but my thoughts were so loud it was like I couldn’t hear it at all.

I’ve been thinking a lot about recovery lately and feeling stuck where I am. There will be more on that soon. But that’s where my head was today. I think my brain seized the first moment without deafening noise to tell me how I really feel.

Cooper and I stood by where the city pigeons gather. I shook my head as if I could physically dislodge the bad thoughts, and then we headed to buy my son presents.

Being Present to Buy Presents

My son has been on T for a while now. It was briefly interrupted because he suddenly needed a passport sorted, but he handled all of that himself. He’s been juggling his own stress, Uni, and everything else, and somehow – despite all of it – he’s doing incredibly well. He recently got a 98 on an assignment.

He’s realised the T has changed his body enough that he now needs men’s and boys’ clothes. There was a whole day of supporting him through throwing clothes away and the emotions that came with that. Then he bought a Minecraft hoodie from the boys’ section in Primark. It fit him perfectly. He looked more like himself. He felt more like himself. So I knew exactly what to buy him.

I’d recently bought him an Enderman lounge set – also from the boys’ section – and for his birthday I added to his new wardrobe with an Enderman jacket he’d shown me online. He was so happy about the lounge set he didn’t want to take it off. I knew how big that was for him. How much he needed clothes that fit the him he is now. I knew he’d feel the same about the jacket.

I also knew I wanted to get him something to go with the necklace I bought him at Christmas. He loved it so much he hasn’t worn it once because it’s “too precious – I’m scared of losing it.” It sits proudly displayed on his shelf. The highest honour. So I bought him earrings to match, hoping he’d feel safer actually wearing them.

And then I saw a little silver ring with a bee on it. It was so him. I fell in love with it immediately.

After that I went to find a card. It is unbelievably hard to find a 21st birthday card for a son that isn’t mean in some way:-
“Thanks for looking up from your phone for one second to read this”.
“Now you’re 21, you’ll have to make adult decisions – given your past decisions, I don’t hold out much hope”.

I hate that *humour*. The kind where you just rag on your family member and it’s supposed to be funny. It’s not funny to me. If you think your son makes terrible decisions… you raised him. That feels like a you issue.

The only comeback would be to wait until Mother’s Day and hope for:
“To the Mum who raised a son who makes terrible decisions – Happy Mother’s Day! My questionable taste in cards? Guess I got that from you.” I find them so annoying.

Eventually, after digging through what’s marketed as comedy but feels more like casual cruelty, I found one that was perfectly soft and soppy. It made me cry in the shop, which means it was perfect.

By that point I desperately needed coffee to recover from my card-based meltdown. Thankfully my son appeared in town – having tracked me on GPS because I was too busy judging every card in the card shop and then crying at the best one to reply to his text.

Glad to See My Son, Glad to Have Starbucks… Until.

I was relieved to be in Starbucks and finally sit down. I had forgotten to put my knee sleeves on, so at this point my knees felt searing hot and oddly fragile. I ordered our drinks – my regular Americano, and my son’s white mocha – from the Pumpkin King of Starbucks, who wondered where we’d been and jokingly accused us of being traitors who’d taken our caffeine loyalty elsewhere.

No. We’d just been severely lacking in coffee. And serotonin.

When we got our drinks, I asked my son if he’d like his presents now. I get so excited to give them to him. His birthday has always been a week-long event. It used to fall during half term when he was in school, so we’d just stretch the fun out for days.

He said, “Yes, I do!!”

So I gave them to him.

He loved the earrings immediately. And the ring. He said he’d been looking at rings just like it online for a while and I had absolutely no idea. He looked at me and said, “You always get me the best gifts.”

That sentence alone was worth the entire day.

He’s got Jellycats on the way too. I bought him a pigeon after he loved the one he bought me, and a Madoline. But on the way home from Uni he bought himself another pigeon as well because he bonded with him in the shop. He always prefers picking them out in person.

So we’ll now have three new pigeons between us. Plus the previous three different Jellycat pigeons.

That’s fine though. I’ve always wanted to be the Pigeon Lady in Central Park in Home Alone 2. I’m simply fulfilling my destiny – but with plush versions.

He was so happy. I loved watching him stare intently at the earrings, holding them up to the light, appreciating how pretty they are. He put the ring on straight away and kept looking at his hand like he couldn’t quite believe it was his.

And then the ambience shifted.

Starbucks was not giving peaceful, safe refuge today. There was a child screaming – not fussing, not the occasional cry – but relentless, full-volume screaming. The adults were chatting over him for what felt like ages before someone finally said, “You know, I think he’s teething. I might give some Calpol.”

The irony of leaving my flat to escape deafening construction noise, only to sit in Starbucks and experience a different flavour of deafening noise. Oof.

On another day it probably wouldn’t have pushed me over, but my nervous system was already behaving like I’d stuck a fork in a plug socket. Everything felt electrically sharp. The screaming didn’t just exist – it pierced.

After a while I felt myself disappear inward. Not dramatically. Just quietly.

My shoulders crept up towards my ears. My vision went slightly unfocused. It was like there was a thin pane of glass between me and the room. My son was still right there, still happy, still turning his earrings in the light, but I felt slightly removed from it all.

I think my brain was trying to shut out the screaming by generating its own noise. The depression thoughts came in thick and oily, coating everything.

“You should be doing more for his 21st.”
“You’re not enough.”
“Why are you even here if you feel like this?”

Starbucks wasn’t doing what it usually does for me. It didn’t feel warm or grounding. It just felt loud. I wanted to go home, even though I was sitting across from my son while he was clearly so happy about his presents.

Then came the guilt. Guilt for wanting to leave. Guilt for feeling low. Guilt for being ill for my birthday, for Christmas, and now his birthday. The audacity of depression to not obey calendar events. I booked this one in advance. Twenty-one years ago.

We finished our coffees anyway. My son kept saying how much he loved his ring. I suggested we get him a birthday cake before heading home so we’d have everything ready. I’d already bought candles and sparklers from the card shop.

We couldn’t find a perfect cake, so we bought a small Victoria sponge and buttercream icing and sprinkles so I could decorate it myself. Both of us get overwhelmed by birthday cakes.

If you remember, I bought that enormous Biscoff one for my birthday. We both felt pressured by the sheer size of it. It’s a birthday cake, so it feels important, which somehow makes it harder. You eat some on day one. Maybe day two. Then you’re done. But it’s still sitting there in the kitchen, looming, and neither of you are big cake eaters. You feel guilty throwing it away because it’s food and also because it’s symbolic. It becomes this weird emotional object.

So we got a four-slice Victoria sponge and instantly both felt better. We have strong opinions. Even about cake it seems. Especially about fondant, where you’re essentially expected to peel a cake before eating it.

Cake in one hand, the other hand tucking my pigeon into my coat to protect him from the slight drizzle, it was time to go home.

The Audacity of Ice to Be Slippery

We were both excited to be home to eat dinner watching the men’s free skate final. It felt like a whole event. The Winter Olympics has quickly become our thing. We’ve loved the skiing and the snowboarding, but ice skating has been our favourite.

One standout moment for both of us was Canada winning bronze in the ice dance to Starry, Starry Night. Piper in that Starry Night dress? It was just all so magical.

“Aren’t you British?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t Britain compete in that event?”
“Yes.”

But neither of us really understand British patriotism. Maybe because we’re Welsh and that’s loaded – not even represented on the flag, let alone much else. And maybe because, apart from Matt Weston (genuinely thrilled for him), the commentators have mostly used “Great Britain” in the same sentence as “another disappointment”.

Most of that is the BBC’s fault, continuing to refer to the British team as “The next Torvil and Dean” and “gold medal chasing” set themselves up for disappointment. They kept saying they were capable of getting gold when their previous score meant that they’d have a tough fight for bronze and gold was always out of reach. But no, “they’ll be the first in 42 years to get a gold medal” – before cutting to the event where the commentators there immediately announced they’d have a tough fight for bronze and it would have to be perfect.

So basically, we just support whoever we like. Vibes. Brilliance. Elegance. We were supporting Ilia Malinin in the men’s free skate, but I also had a soft spot for the sheer beauty of Shun Sato, and his Japanese counterpart Yuma Kagiyama.

And then the BBC made it unnecessarily difficult to even watch.

Because Matt Weston won gold in skeleton – which, again, fantastic – they cut away from the skating. When coverage resumed, both the Korean skater and the competitor from Kazakhstan had already performed. We had watched everyone else. Just not… two people from the final warm up group fighting for medals.

When they returned, the commentators were breathless:

“You just had to be there to witness how great Kazakhstan was.”

NONE OF US HAD.

No replay. Nothing. Then the chaos started. Skater after skater began falling. Including Ilia. We couldn’t believe it. It felt unreal. The audacity of ice to be brutally slippery in exactly the wrong way. I blamed the ice. It was too many of them. Something felt off.

Because of that chaos, Shun Sato – who had literally taken his boots off, convinced he was out of the medals and wouldn’t even need to skate a lap – ended up winning bronze. That made me cry. He was so happy! Yuma secured silver. He was radiant. It was impossible not to feel joy for them, even while feeling crushed for Ilia.

But we still haven’t seen Kazakhstan skate, so I have no idea how great it was. But I am happy for Kazaskhstan nonetheless. I ranted to my son that we’d have to find it on YouTube despite paying for a TV licence for “live” coverage that was neither fully live nor complete. They didn’t even replay it at the end. Instead, they replayed Matt Weston’s gold moment again the second the ice skating was over.

We ended up on an American website to watch the medal ceremony. Which is absurd. There was one relief though, the commentators of the ice skating were not Tim and Ed. They’ve been annoying us so much in their snowboarding and skiing commentary.

We’ve had to hear lines like:
“She’s absolutely devo’d.”
“The plus-sized lady is not singing.”
“Call the FAA, he’s about to clear airspace.”

Sir. This is Italy. You are British. Why are you calling America’s aviation authority about a snowboarder in Europe? Don’t even get me started on the endless animal and inanimate object metaphors. Cats. Dogs. Monkeys. Robots. A train. AN IRONMONGER snowboarder??

One of their favourite repeated phrases is “They’re like a cat amongst the pigeons”. Please clarify. Who are the pigeons? He didn’t violently attack the other competitors. He just skated well. The pigeon in your metaphor won so I am confused.

My son and I kept looking at each other like, “Did they just say that?”
Yes. Yes they did. Unfortunately. Honestly, we’re both convinced they’re AI or using AI for that ability to say a lot, without saying anything that makes sense. One of them said, “Let me look that up because I don’t know” and I said, “ChatGPT confirmed”.

The other commentators were fine. They explained scoring, history, context, rules, previous medalists. But Tim and Ed announcing, “I can’t find a good superlative for this, the right word” was probably the most accurate thing they said in the last week. Yes, all of us at home are VERY aware of that.

After feeling so much empathy for the fallen skaters, anger at the BBC (peak Welsh behaviour) and happiness for the medalists, we were both exhausted. My nervous system that started the day feeling like I put a fork in an outlet, started to feel like it was completely absent from my body. We therefore spent the rest of the night quietly, my son drawing the picture in this section on his iPad, and me writing this post, while absolutely exhausted.

In the End

I’ve written a lot lately about the hard parts. The stuck parts. The ambivalence. The depression.

But this is also true: I am still here. I am still present, buying presents. Still arguing with sports commentators. Still getting emotional over bronze medals. Still bonding with my son about all of it.

Recovery, like skating, isn’t clean. Sometimes you land it. Sometimes you don’t. Sometimes the ice you’re meant to glide on feels like it personally offended you.

Sometimes you take your boots off, convinced you’re not getting a victory lap, and end up with bronze anyway.

This post was my bronze today. And lately, even when the ice beneath me still feels too slippery. The things that my depression tries to convince me are not enough, but when I zoom out, I know that they are enough.

Also, there are now a concerning number of plush pigeons in my flat. So maybe the commentators were right about the whole “cat amongst the pigeons” thing.

The song for this post, is the one still stuck in my head after watching Canada skate:-