I don't know how to be kind

But I am trying (very trying)

My mum often used to tell me to be kinder to myself.

I’d mutter, “Yes, yes, I know,” squinting at my laptop into the early hours, powered by half a sandwich and too much caffeine, certain that finding the perfect arrangement of words for my M.A dissertation would ensure that I not only secured PhD funding but also universal adoration.

Despite chronic illness and long-standing depression, I’ve always pushed myself to or beyond my limits and (except in the universal adoration stakes), it’s often paid off.

So although I agreed with the concept of treating myself with kindness, I didn’t know what it meant in practice, or whether I was capable of doing it.

My mum, on the other hand, was an expert.

My mum once arrived at a job interview, sized up the cramped, damp building and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t want to work here, so I don’t think there’s any point in continuing.”

When I was 16, I sat through an excruciating group interview for a Saturday job at Dolcis instead of leaving the second the interviewer mentioned improv.

My mum once held up her hand during a dental appointment because she was in pain and wanted it to stop.

When I was 11, I gritted my teeth when the anaesthetic wore off while I was being stitched up after a cyst removal because I didn’t want to be a bother.

It’s like I didn’t think I had the right to express my preferences or my pain.

And the trouble is, in general, speaking up rather than pushing through isn’t really encouraged.

Capitalist societies want us to pull our socks up and get back to work after a loss, to shop ourselves out of stress and feign glee when we’re devastated.

We suppose we’re weak if we can’t hack the pace and are ashamed to admit we can’t cope. It’s only out of desperation and devastation that something in me has snapped.

A tiny, trembling part has woken up and is ready to whisper, “Um, this might be what I need, if it’s not too much trouble...”

A couple of weeks ago, I had blood tests as part of a yearly medication review. Totally routine. I’m not scared of needles and the nurse I saw is the friendliest and most empathetic medical professional I’ve ever met.

I’m sure that plenty of people would have had those tests and been happy to go back to work or whatever else they had planned that day.

But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t because I was so far out of my window of tolerance, I’d gone stratospheric. My nervous system was on fire and alarm bells were shrieking.

I was shaky and scared and needed to be swaddled like a baby.

Partly because any medical appointment now makes me wish my mum could give me a hug and partly because (call me a Gen Z snowflake but) I was triggered by (what I can finally reluctantly admit was) past trauma.

I’ve had a lot of unpleasant medical experiences over the last 26 years of living with a poorly understood chronic illness. I was disbelieved, misdiagnosed and eventually ignored.

It’s been difficult for me to call those experiences trauma. I could call them gaslighting. I could call them minimising, trivialising and infantilising. I could call them hurtful, harmful and hateful, a punch in the gut and a kick in the teeth.

But trauma seemed a bit much.

And yet as hard as it is to let myself believe that they made a lasting impact, I had to type that whole preamble before I could publicly admit that I think I did something that counts as being kind to myself because part of me assumes you’ll think, Well, that sounds lazy and pathetic.

It felt outrageous and egregious and ostentatious but after my blood letting, I went home and put on my dressing gown and turned on my electric blanket and lay down and ate pizza and watched season three of Hacks. LIKE AN ANIMAL.

I’m not saying I’ll do that every day — there aren’t many TV shows as good as Hacks, and too much aimless flopping around makes my grief worse.

But I’m trying to continue the most important part of that decision from here on out: the ability to identify what I need and act accordingly.

Last week, for example, one of my PhD supervisors asked me how the process of writing my latest 5000 words had been and, rather than pasting on a smile and pretending it was fine, I admitted I’d had PMDD and wept my way through it.

She was immediately insistent that we work around my hormones in future and I felt so much better.

I’m sure it’s obvious to some people but it’s news to me that I can adapt to my circumstances rather than acting like everything is OK.

I’ve now gone hog wild and set myself a rule that I only have to do one hard thing (as defined by me) a week. ONE. Maximum! I know many people do so much more but it’s all I can manage right now.

Plus, I owe myself this.

I fitted so many hard things into so few days after my mum died, shaking and shivering and crying until it seemed like I might burst every blood vessel in my body, feeling like the sorrow and terror could kill ne.

When I later told people about those awful hours, they said stuff like, “Yeah, there’s a lot of death admin isn’t there, it’s awful,” which I appreciated.

But I don’t think anyone said, “You know, you’re allowed to take a break, you don’t have to do all that at once” and it didn’t occur to me to say it to myself.

Now, seven months later, I realise that I get to determine how much I can cope with, even if it’s far less than other people think. I don’t have to take on tasks that are too much for me. I don’t have to keep pushing myself until I collapse. That’s how I became ill in the first place.

I’d never believed in the concept of a mental health day (for myself; you do you) because I haven’t felt mentally well since the mid-1980s, so what am I going to do, be off for the rest of my life? (Seriously, does anyone want to fund this?)

But it turns out you can discern the difference between a crappy normal day and an ‘uh-oh, I can’t cope today’ day.

Last week, just before what would have been my mum’s 75th birthday, for example, I couldn’t believe how bad I felt. It came out of nowhere and floored me, a knockout punch.

At first, I tried to fight it, but I quickly realised I couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t focus, couldn’t skip that night’s grief support meeting to go to my writing group like I’d planned.

Instead I needed to take to the electric blanket again, be soft and gentle to the point of self-indulgence just to make sure I survived.

This is not the time, if it ever was, to toughen up. I’m as strong and vigorous as a wind sock on a calm day.

I haven’t called BT to renegotiate my contract although I’ve been meaning to since December. Every day, I see writing and volunteer opportunities that I could be interested in but don’t even imagine trying to pursue them.

For now — although I promise not forever — I can’t take in the global havoc our political leaders are wreaking in anything more than the briefest soundbites before my brain fogs up and my eyesight blurs.

The idea that I can protect my long term ability to contribute by logging off sometimes is new.

The idea that I don’t have to anticipate what other people want from me and try to fulfil their imaginary expectations is new.

The idea that I don’t have to beat myself up for being unproductive is new.

It’s almost as if I deserve someone to treat me well, just because I exist. It’s almost as if that person could be me.