Happily Imperfect

‘Stacey, are you okay?’ Mum peered into my bunk as she closed the book and started up towards the light switch.

‘Don’t leave me! Please don’t go!’ I begged, holding Tootsie even tighter. ‘If I go to sleep I might die. I might never wake up again!’

I don’t know where those thoughts came from, I just blurted them out.

Mum looked at me strangely. ‘What are you on about, Stace? Of course you’ll wake up again! You silly girl, you’re just overtired. What you need is a good sleep, young lady.’

‘No, Mummy. I’m scared.’ I must have sounded so pitiful!

At that moment Dad stepped into the bedroom. ‘It’s time for sleep, Stacey,’ he said firmly. ‘Come on, let’s leave them and let them get some rest,’ he said, looking pointedly at Mum. Dad was strict about bedtimes, which now I understand. Back then I would never have dared challenge him, so I stayed in my bed, though each second was agony.

‘There’s nothing to worry about, Stacey, I promise you. We’re here and you’re safe. Now go to sleep,’ Mum whispered, leaning over to kiss my forehead.

Usually she was able to soothe me but not that night. I stared after her as she tiptoed out. I didn’t dare to move, sitting bolt upright in my bed, as Matthew and Jemma snored softly in their bunks close by. Our giant teddy, Sylvester – we called him Sylvia after one of Mum’s friends, thinking it hilariously funny – was beside me. I cuddled up to him, dread filling me right up.

Every night Jemma and Matthew fell asleep before Mum had finished reading, but it usually took me longer to drop off.

‘You’ve got a busy head, that’s what it is, clever girl,’ Mum would say, ruffling my hair proudly. I didn’t feel clever. I just couldn’t switch off my head like my siblings did at bedtime, and I wished I could! Mine was always sparking with thoughts and questions.

I don’t know why I suddenly developed such a terror of going to sleep and dying. What could have triggered it? No flippin’ idea. I was confused as much as scared, and I really believed in that moment that I’d drown in the blackness of sleep, never to wake up. Dramatic but true. The thought makes me shudder, even today.

‘Don’t go! I’ll die if you go!’ I whispered, but the door was shut, the room turned black, and I sat there, wanting to scream but instead panting, my eyes as wide as a rabbit’s in the headlights. My breathing was becoming shallower and faster. I’m going to die … I’m going to die … My head was thumping. My body felt numb as I tried to draw air into my lungs. What if I fall asleep and it’s black for ever?

The numbness spread from my feet into my legs and passed through my small frame. I felt heavy and even more frightened. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t move. For what seemed like an hour, I sat there, my heart pounding.

Eventually – perhaps only a minute or so later – the feelings began to subside. I lay down, feeling really sick, my eyes eventually closing, but sleep stayed away.

That was my first panic attack and it was the start of my lifelong relationship with anxiety, or the Big A, as I call it. It was frightening because I hadn’t a clue what was happening to me. From then on, I dreaded bedtime because I was scared it would come back, and it often did. I wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened, and go back to being the happy child I was before it struck.

It’s taken me a long time to make peace with my anxiety, to understand that it’s a natural survival instinct, though I’d be lying if I said I’m totally comfortable with it.

I still experience panic attacks, though they’re less frequent, and at least I now understand what is going on. I can also be open about my anxiety, which means I can share my experiences and, hopefully, help you guys. Worry isn’t a taboo subject for me. I think the more honest we can be about anxiety attacks, the more we can all feel we’re not alone, that we can talk about it and therefore help others who might feel isolated.

Anxiety creeps up on me when I hear about the death of a friend’s friend or see something tragic on the news. Death is the only thing I’m properly scared of, whether mine or a loved one’s. It freaks me out. In fact, I envy people who worry about their relationship ending, or their children moving far away because that stuff just doesn’t bother me. I don’t worry about whether I’ll lose my job one day, or even if my boyfriend Joe and I will split up. I don’t want any of those things to happen, but they aren’t life-or-death. Dying is the only thing that is!

If I’m alive I can do anything, but I’m aware that death could touch me at any moment. None of us knows when our time is up. I don’t want my life to end. I love my family, my children, my friends, and even Joe (sorry, babe, I couldn’t resist saying that!). Every morning I wake up happy to be alive and grateful for all the amazing things that have come my way. The thought of being dead fills me with horror. I don’t want to lose any of my loved ones and I don’t want my life to end. It’s as simple as that.

I know people will probably laugh at me for being so morbid when I’m only twenty-nine, but I grew up around Jewish grandmothers. If you want to learn how to worry about anything and everything, get a Jewish granny! Seriously, my nana (my dad’s mum) would constantly say things like: ‘Ugh! Don’t go outside – it’s cold!’ or ‘Ugh, if you don’t eat breakfast, you’ll starve!’ or ‘Ugh, you need a coat on [when it’s twenty degrees outside]!’

Nana lived like everything was dangerous and she was permanently on the edge of a cliff. I wonder if it was because Dad’s father died when he was young and she had young children to bring up on her own. She did an amazing job, but her anxiety definitely had an effect on me, though as a single mum I totally get where she was coming from.

When I look at my boys, Zachary, ten, and Leighton, six, I feel it’s all down to me to look after them. I mean, who would have them if I died? Who would support them and guide them? I’m really lucky. I have a big Jewish family so they wouldn’t be left on the streets. It’s more like, who would love them the way I do? And there’s no answer to that.

I grew out of the childhood panic attacks and spent my teenage years in an almost exactly opposite state: I felt indestructible. I’d spent ten years worrying about dying in my sleep and was still alive so I trusted life again. I actually believed that nothing bad would ever happen to me, and behaved accordingly. I had found my outspoken, rebellious side and loved it! It drove my mum mental.

When I went into labour with Zachary, everything changed and anxiety reared its ugly head again. I had no idea what to expect when I found out I was pregnant at seventeen. It was a big shock, closely followed by worry about the birth. I asked other mothers what their labours were like, and no one told me the truth. It was like there was a secret conspiracy to stop me knowing how traumatic childbirth can be. Looking back, it’s obvious they were trying not to frighten me, to protect me from the often grim reality, but it also meant I had no idea about the pain of contractions. I was in labour for seventy-two hours. I couldn’t believe how much each contraction hurt.

Ten years ago people weren’t talking about it so publicly and honestly. There was no social media, no ‘Maybe I can go on Twitter and ask for help or read blogs.’ I was told, ‘It’ll all be all right in the end,’ but that didn’t prepare me for having giant needles in my spine, clamps up my vagina, and yet another person looking at my nunny.

It was the first time I truly felt my mortality, triggering all those old, anxious feelings. Giving birth was so painful, alien and undignified that it shook me. I found it utterly traumatic (don’t let me put anyone off – I had a second child so it can’t have been that bad, right?) and at one point I really thought I was going to die.

I realized I wasn’t super-human. I’m not indestructible: I am, in fact, mortal. Perhaps I should’ve grasped that earlier in life. I’m a bit of a control freak. I like being on top of things. Anything I can’t control sets off my worries big-time, and those feelings continue today.

Now I can’t wait to have another baby. I go online, look up childbirth blogs, and birth stories, then work out all the options.

Anxiety is the bottom line for me. It sits under everything I do or am as a person. It comes on early in the day, a kind of itchy, troublesome restlessness that creeps over me, making everything I do seem strange and forced. It’s usually when a friend rings and says, ‘Did you know so-and-so got diagnosed with cancer?’ or ‘So-and-so died yesterday of a brain haemorrhage,’ and it stays with me all day. It’s the understanding of how fragile life is. It’s much later, when I get into bed, when the kids are asleep, when my filming is done for the day, and there’s nothing to distract me, that I go into a full-blown panic attack.

If I try to relax that only makes things worse. My breathing becomes something I have to think about, just like when I was a child, and that’s when I know I’m having an attack. My body feels numb, heavy and paralysed. I have pins and needles in my hands. I can’t swallow, and feel like I’m going to faint. I’m like that for about two minutes but it feels like for ever.

So, what do I do? I’ve come to terms with the fact I cannot stop the attacks when they start. I have learnt that the only way through is to accept it. I can’t change who I am so I accept that I’m someone who has panic attacks. It’s part of me, just like the colour of my eyes or the way I speak.

Rather than try to stop one, I concentrate on each moment, focusing on what is happening rather than trying to deny it. It sounds counterintuitive but, slowly, I was less freaked-out when I had one. Over time each attack felt less severe. I had to see an attack for what it was: a response to unhappy news that left me feeling powerless. A panic attack began to seem a logical response to whatever had happened. Once I understood the cause, I was able to sit through each one, and understand it. In doing so, I lost some of my fear of the actual attacks.

Afterwards, I can’t sleep, so I’ll clean the house, at 1 a.m., if need be, and eventually I might get a few hours’ sleep. These days the attacks are fewer. I don’t know why. I tried every technique I could, including cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT), yoga, Rapid Eye Movement Therapy (EMDR – Eye Movement Desensitizing and Reprocessing Therapy) and hypnotherapy. They all helped in small ways, and may be useful to anyone experiencing panic attacks. Do seek help and try different techniques if you suffer from anxiety – it really is worth it. In the end, though, it was accepting my anxiety, and enjoying my life despite the attacks, that made the difference for me.

I have learnt that if I allow each attack to happen without trying to stop it, it will work its way out. When I’m in that scary place, when my body is freaking out and my mind is telling me I’m going to die any second and leave my babies bereft, it feels like it’ll never end. That’s why I talk about it to friends and family. Somehow the act of talking, of being open about it, makes it seem less overwhelming.

If anxiety is part of you too, you’ll know that feeling – the first few prickles of sweat, the nagging thoughts, the sensation in the pit of your stomach that tells you an attack is under way. You may feel light-headed, restless, have racing thoughts, faster breathing, and your heart is beating, it seems, at a thousand miles an hour.

At times like that it’s impossible to see the bigger picture, to know that this excruciating feeling will last for a few minutes at most. Knowing your triggers and building a support network of friends, family and GP are invaluable in dealing with anxiety.

My trigger is always health-related. I know that the Big A will creep up on me and take me hostage at night if something upsets me.

I’ve learnt to differentiate between nerves and full-blown anxiety. For example, I get nervous before I go on Loose Women or before I sing. That it isn’t anxiety because during an attack I feel like I’m going to die. I can’t control that at all. I’ve been with Loose Women for years but I get a bit nervous still because I care so much about my job. I want to do well. That isn’t the same as an attack. Before a show I can calm my nerves by telling myself that no one wants me to fail, the girls have got my back, or I remind myself that I’m capable of doing my job: that’s why I was hired. I can create a positive mindset through experiencing nerves.

Positive self-talk is empowering because it helps me to keep my nerves in check so I can use them to try to do a better job. I like feeling that I’m giving something my very best shot.

If I’m honest, I have days when I sit on the panel and feel under-qualified, or unsure of my opinion, but at those moments I make a conscious effort to tell myself I’m good enough, and that it’s okay to be unsure or even to change my mind on an issue. I tell myself it’s okay to be nervous. If I felt nothing, I would wonder whether I wanted or cared about my work.

Knowing my triggers, working with my body and mind, and letting go of the need to stop my anxiety has helped me to keep the attacks in perspective, even to celebrate them. I find that turning a big negative into a positive is the way forward, though it takes time and understanding to achieve. I see my GP regularly, and I make sure my family and I eat healthily and do loads of outdoor play. I focus on creating a happy, balanced home and work life. The Big A can be a positive, even if it often doesn’t feel that way. The challenge for me is to remember that, and keep living my life the best way I know how.

STAY POSITIVE

Find someone neutral or trustworthy, perhaps a GP, family friend, partner, or mental health professional, and just open up. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Speaking up on any mental-health issue is brave and honest, and will make things easier.

You may need further professional help, which may include medication or talking therapies. Work at understanding your triggers.

Recognize that anxiety is part of you – and is no different from any other illness. If you break your leg, you go straight to a doctor, and it’s the same with panic attacks. Treat your condition as an illness rather than as something to be ashamed of.

CHAPTER 3

Ugly Duckling (#ulink_c178721f-1db4-5440-b417-9fc472c93203)

The pretty girls at school were petite with cute button noses, smooth, shiny hair, sculpted eyebrows, long lashes and fuzz-free skin.

Then there was me. I was gawky. Ridiculously tall, with frizzy, unmanageable hair – barely there eyebrows and lashes, and a thick Yeti-like fuzz of body hair.

How did I get through school with those ‘gifts’ from Mother Nature? I just didn’t realize how unconventional I was until people pointed it out to me. Even then, I was blissfully unaware of what people classed as pretty or otherwise. I hadn’t really thought about my looks until then. I’d concentrated on developing my personality. I could make people laugh, and if I was naughty and funny, I had friends. I thought less about what I looked like, and more about who I was.