Lockdown Guilt and Imposter Syndrome

As previously stated in my last blog: at the beginning of June I had a bit of a wobble. When I state a bit, I lied... I actually had quite a big one. Unusual for me. I haven’t felt that low in quite a few years and it was particularly disconcerting not to feel like I was going to pull out of it anytime soon. Perspective is everything and despite the fact that really, my situation isn’t really that bad; the wobble was very much needed. Quite rightly so, nothing of what I’m living had I signed up to: I’m living in another country with no support (I have the odd friend, but my existence here isn’t particularly the most social in the beginning, let alone after lockdown started! My own choice as I’m quite the introvert but also, my good friends are actually stuck in other countries waiting to return to Egypt!)  My husband is stuck in the back end of the Middle East with no way of returning, my parents confined to their house back in the UK and me stuck in between. For a few weeks even the animals were beginning to test my patience. I’ve taken on a lot with Cervantes, my street cat project. (I’ll write about his story another time.. let’s just say it’s not been particularly easy and he’s very time consuming.)

A few people at the time had suggested that I get one of the repatriation flights back, but they seem to miss the point that El Gouna is my home. This isn’t a holiday, this has been my home and my life for over four years - I cannot just jump ship back to the UK without consequences. My life here, my cats and my dog would still exist. It’s amazing how easily people just assume that I am still just on a giant holiday here. I guess perhaps you don’t really “get” it until you visit and realise that this is life. My life. 

I got through the wobble, obviously. I still credit the kayak as one of the things that grounded me. However, now I’m almost experiencing the opposite - Lockdown Guilt, with a pinch of enjoyment? I’m still stuck. Dan is still stuck until god know’s when, each month we promise ourselves and hope that the outcome will change and yet it seems to change for the worse at the moment. We were meant to have spent June together. Instead we just sit here and every day count the hours, chat about day to day annoyances with not much to report back on. I miss him something chronic, but I’m a lot more at ease with it now. Don’t get me wrong.. I hate every damn moment of it, but I can’t change it, all I can do it sit and support and try and keep positive. He has his own issues - mostly revolving stupidity of others, and major fallout thanks to being in a ridiculously poor country rifled in Corona, but that’s another story and not mine to tell. (I’d love to though, his anecdotes keep me in stitches for hours). 

I’ve started to revel in being here, doing my own thing and from that I’ve started to feel guilty. I don’t know if it’s the Endorphins or having a purpose, but my feelings have bucked up a lot. I’ve got deeply into exercise the past few weeks. The Twitter posse, mostly the running community have been a bit of a lifeline on top of the kayaking. Mel, Myrna, Paul, Chris, Darren et al... you’ve all been a major help to me. Your positivity, guidance (and jokes!)  have really kept me focused into challenging myself which is normally what I shy away from. I’ve somehow managed to do a full 180 degree turn, and using that misery against something positive. Now I just need to keep it up. I also have the added bonus that my brother, Neil is now a running addict. (Words I thought that I would NEVER write). He’s lost a tonne of weight, got fit and we have a promise of a half marathon together in 2021. Neil and I are particularly close and I’m beyond excited to be able to share this with him, I’m quite simply over the moon actually. I then in turn feel guilty for actually feeling positive in such a shoddy time - I know it’s all situational and people are suffering and then there’s me trotting along just happy to be doing the bits that I’m doing. The introspective, anxious mind will never just simply let me enjoy a moment, will it?

I joined something called Run Around the World - It’s a split team effort to try and “virtually” Run around the world over the whole of July. I chose Team North, (choices were the obvious East, West, South) the only time that I’ll ever be a Northerner but pretty much all of my friends were in this group already so it made sense. I’ve been running on a treadmill pretty much ever since. I also shall complete the Race to the Stones Marathon today. 42km in 6 days...not bad for a wannabe runner. 

I call myself a wannabe runner, as I definitely have a touch of Imposter Syndrome, I don’t “feel” like a runner. I’m not entirely sure what I’m meant to feel like to actually BE a runner. I feel like someone dabbling in it... but I guess at some point that will change and I’ll feel like I’m actually doing it as a choice and not as not as a force to push myself ( but isn’t that what running is about?) I feel a little daunted by the twitter running community, everyone seems too have amazing race photos, cracking heart and breathing rates and personal bests that I could only ever dream of, but I guess that comes with time. They’ve never been anything but kind and inclusive despite the fact I’m so ridiculously new to all of this. I just have moments of blind panic that I’m not really anything vs these running giants and I’m wasting people’s time. 

I’m running in constant heat either outside (rarely now it’s Summer) or inside at the gym (the air con is only on 25c!) so I’m hoping that this will bring me in good stead as and when the temperatures drop and I can pick up my pace a bit. I guess also, after all the years of being sick and constant illness I’ve never really thought I’d fall into the category of being an athelete of sorts. I don’t feel good enough to be that, despite the fact it’s obvious that somehow I’m finally able to push myself to run 10km, with the aim of much, much more. I always feel like I’m in the recovery stage, not out the other side - always expecting the next fall. I know you could argue that attitude can set me back, but after over 20 years of suffering you kind of just expect it. A psychologist somewhere could probably make wonders out of my mind set, but instead, for now, my musings are put down on my blog instead.

Maybe when I can finally enter proper races, in person and join Park Run back in the UK I might feel a little differently. It also probably doesn’t help that I’ve pretty much run out of running kit. I’m down to two pairs of shorts and one running top. Even my sports bras are beginning to give up the ghost. So if you see any selfies/ photos of me wearing a pink running top, I promise it gets washed every single day! I’m hopefully due a family visit in August, of which I’ve already ordered a tonne of new kit to their house to bring with them.

Anyway,  it’s now 5am and the sun is coming up. It was one of those mornings where sleep was lost on me. Time to get out, walk the dog and then go kill the rest of that marathon. Come on Summer, I’m ready for you so that we can start back to the new normal again. Chop chop.

The Same Old Rhetoric.

Well what can I say? Just the other day, someone brought it to my attention that I haven't used my blog in over a year. The last post I had made had been written in such an emotional time that I just ran out of steam. I lost my love of writing anything half-decent (If you can call any of my blogging "decent"!). I'd like to be able to give an excellent excuse as to why I haven't blogged since then, but the truth is that I've simply just been lazy. Busy, but lazy.

The start of 2018 was filled with such promise, however, over time the reality sinked in that it was just the same as any other year, it was truly bog-standard. Dan ended up in hospital and had a big operation, which took months to recover, whilst I played nurse and worked my butt off for most of it... That's about it really. nothing really to write home about.*

Saying that, there was one thing that consistently stood out for us both by the time we'd arrived at the last quarter of 2018. We realised the fact that we'd both ended up doing absolutely everything that we promised ourselves that we wouldn't do. 

Three years ago we moved to El Gouna to make our own way, our own business and our own path together. We'd both previously come from uncomfortable and unstable "toxic" relationships and needed that chance to grow, and heal with time together. We managed those parts quite easily, we're happily closer than ever. Sometimes things just fit and our relationship does just that. However, it was everything else that just wasn't fitting in. 

El Gouna is amazing, it really is.. but it is a bubble. You can lose yourself into this little piece of paradise without even realising. Unless you come here with money in the first place, or the right friendships/contacts you'll end up within that little bubble, without actually taking notice of what is going on it the world. This in itself can become very toxic and repetitive on a day to day basis.

With all of this in mind, we ended up running around trying to keep our heads above water without actually achieving anything of what we wanted. We'd got stuck in the bubble and it really wasn't a nice place. Another year down and another wall, unfilled with achievements. We'd sit and discuss our hopes and ideas knowing that it just wasn't going to come but we'd pretend to think it would be nice to see it happen despite knowing it wouldn't. By the time we'd realised the truth we'd realised that our time in El Gouna was nearly at an end...

Then it all changed. We changed. One day we both sat down and finally started forward planning. Not hopes and wishes but proper life planning. I quit my job. I was done, I was burned out and unhappy, none of which I intended on doing but I needed to take that leap. Dan's taken a few leaps himself of which one massive one has turned out to fit in perfectly.

In the meantime I'm going to be concentrating on my mind, my health and obviously, my blogging!

So here's to 2019 everyone. May it be happy, may it be healthy and most of all, may it NOT be bog-standard.

*Dan is absolutely fine and recovered now, just encase you were wondering.

Fear of flying?

Now I'm never one to admit when I have a fear of something. Unless it's small spaces it's rare when something bothers me. 

Now, writing this post 36,000ft in the air it's sprung to my mind how much older I am, and therefore how much more aware I am that life passing me by. If the plane dropped out of the sky right now, that would, be it. The end, c'est fini.

Not to curse the rest of my flight but it feels kind of odd to look out to the jet engine, which I happen to over viewing from my surprisingly comfortable Easyjet seat and think that that particular engine is keeping tonnes upon tonnes of heavy metal and not to mention the human, living cargo alive as we motor on across the continent. Caught myself staring out at that engine for a good five minutes in wonderment of what the human race has managed to create over the years.

I love flying as a general rule. As a child I always used to sit next to my father and he'd hold my hand at take off just encase we didn't lift off the ground (Great bout of confidence in survival there, Dad.) Dad has no fear of flying at all. He enjoys the same rush as I do from life, always happy to jump onto the next adventure. Whereas my Mother always had this feeling of danger throughout. Don't get me wrong, she's a happy enough flyer but always quite cautious. She'll always spend the  week before flying a little uptight, however she's got the same fear of small spaces that I have. As much as I love flying I can totally see her point of view, I hate the thought of spending 5+ hours cooped up in a tiny seat with someone sitting next to me who happens to have a knack for elbowing my kidneys ever ten minutes.

I always find it funny, when I leave to go on holiday, Mum will ask me to send her a text upon landing to let her know I'm safe. The generic response from me being that if I hadn't landed safely, I'm quite sure she'd hear about it before I did!

I have found that, recently my survival instinct has kicked in. When I mean survival instinct, I mean the fact my brain kicks into thinking that this flight could be the last one I ever take. Morbid, eh? Such happy thoughts!  I have no idea where this has stemmed from, but it's a constant when I've flown in the past few years. I wish I knew why and as I said before, I can only put it down to having this awareness of age and life. Maybe the thought that things can be so sudden. The world is so very big, especially as you look down from this height. Makes you realise just how insignificant you really are,

On the brighter side, I am on my way for a bit more of the good side of living... Scuba heaven. Even ticking off the SS Thistlegorm from my bucket list. If that's not something to live for, I don't know what is :)

Signing off. 

J L Edwards.

Seat 8A

EZY3031

All about ME... Part 1.

Someone asked me to explain the history of my illness the other day. I don't know how I can compact this into a blog post without writing a whole essay.. It's quite a task! Gradual parts, I think, is the way forward. I didn't realise quite how much of it I blocked out my brain until I talked about it with my parents a little while ago. Hopefully it makes sense; here it goes:


Growing up; I was a bubbly blonde happy go lucky girl who took part in practically everything. I loved life and spent most my time at gymnastics, sea cadets, dance, cycling and tons of other things. I loved school, I was a normal kid who was rarely ill.


Age 10: I moved schools due to moving house. (Big Mistake of life No1.) I missed my friends chronically and for some reason I could not glue into this school whatsoever.


Age 11: I moved into a class where I didn't get on well with most of my class mates. I only had one friend (The wonderful Beth, who is still near and dear to me) and my teacher decided to put her into a different class to me. 


I got bullied, physically and mentally by a few girls in my class. One would even be as so bold to kick my legs on the way home from school despite walking back with my own mother.  I got sworn at, spat at and pretty much humiliated in front of my whole class on a regular occasion. Kids can be so cruel.  The reason? Because I spoke nicely. Supposedly I was too "posh" to fit in. I'm a very friendly and open person and it really got me down. I also got accused of stealing a (cheap and half used) lipstick by a girl who then spread the rumour through the whole year. I hated not being liked and for some reason I wasn't just disliked.. I was pretty much hated. Not that I was ever popular in my previous school but this was another level of loserdom. I didn't want to go to school any more; it was misery. I pretty much didn't want to be alive anymore. My family and Beth were about the only things keeping me going.


Not that I knew it for many years until being told by Great Ormond Street, but I'd actually contracted Glandular Fever through my brother at the same time. It all went downhill from there. The combination of the Kent Test (11+), being bullied badly and the GF my body started to cave in. I couldn't eat without being in pain, I lost so much weight and I physically couldn't get out of bed anymore. My body ached all over, my throat was sore, my glands were up and I could barely make it up the stairs at home without giving out half way up. It took forever for the doctors to diagnose me, a good year at least. Problem was ME/CFS, back then was non existent. Known as "Yuppie Flu" or "The Fakers Disease" If only!!


 Luckily my parents took me to a private physician out of pure desperateness and even luckier for us, he happened to be one of the leading doctors in the field of ME. He wrote to Great Ormond Street to get me on the list to see the specialist.. but that didn't happen till quite some time later.


In the meantime I'd passed my 11+ and had been accepted into a local all girl's Grammar School. (Not going to name names here) My parents were very proud of me bar the fact that I struggled with life. The new teachers had reassured my parents that I would be looked after and helped with my learning considering I struggled to concentrate for an hour without developing sickness and dizzyness. I lost count of the amount of times I'd fainted.. I'd just keel over at any given moment. Beleive me when I say, that school = Biggest Mistake of my Life. 


I spent the Summer in hospital.. about 7 weeks being "monitored". I had ECG's, blood tests and   practically every other test under the sun to see what was wrong with me. It was a boiling Summer and I'd be huddled up under fleece pajamas and hot water bottles. All a bit strange really. The doctors still couldn't figure it out although they had worked out I had developed at least one stomach ulcer. (No wonder I couldn't eat!!) I dropped down to well under 5 stone and spent pretty much most my time in bed, or in a wheelchair. By now I had such bad insomnia I was lucky to get 3 hours sleep a night. My poor parents; they were at their wit's end. 


I think that's enough for now. Considering that's only the first 2 years and my concentration is failing me. Don't pity me though; this story is what makes me who I am now. A walking, talking survivor who happens to know everything and anything about drugs :-)


Part Deux.. coming soon!

Don't take life too seriously; Nobody gets out alive any way.

I was on the phone to my mum this morning when it dawned on me that tomorrow is the 10th anniversary of my Grampy passing, and a week since I had to lose my beloved Cookie. Within seconds I was once again in flood of tears. (I must sound like an emotional screw up to all who read this after my last post!)


My mind cast back onto who I've lost; especially the few in the last few months too, namely my amazing Uncle John. I couldn't help the tears; it never gets any easier, does it? They go and yet we're the ones left behind in pain. I've never dealt with loss well. I hate the idea of not existing any more; which is hilarious really considering everyone technically is a drop in the ocean of life.. It's not exactly like we make the biggest impact.


It's days like this a few old sayings pop into my head: "Don't take life too seriously; nobody gets out alive any way" and it's oh so true. We're born, we die.. perhaps we should try to enjoy the little bit we have in between (Thank you for that one Max Heinze). 


The philosophy behind my thinking could go on for hours here; is life what you make it? Is everything set in stone? Have I made the right decisions so far or will I be destined to make more bad or good choices? Should I buy chocolate or bananas for breakfast? (Actually, that one's a given!) Then I realise I've sent my head into a spin with all of this and develop a headache. (This happens on a regular occasion, trust me.)

Isn't she fantastic?!

My Grandmother turned 90 last year. (There's exactly 64 years and a day between us) She's awesome for her age but she carries this air of sadness; She's lived a long an full life but she's watched so many pass and yet she's still here. She misses Gramps terribly but at least she has all of us around her for company.  To think that I'm just over quarter of her age makes me think there's a hell of a lot more out there still to do. The question is, what do I want next? How do I go about getting it? I guess I don't know what life has in store for me yet; I keep forgetting that life goes on and that I'm only 26.  


The one thing I have decided; Life is one big question and it never, ever gets an easier. (Especially if you're involved in politics!!!)


Live in the now; life is far too short to worry about what you did yesterday, or perhaps what might go wrong tomorrow as you may never get that chance to see it.


"Sh*t happens.. it's how you deal with it that counts" - Quote Jennie Edwards 2012.

Family of the Furry Kind.

Very sad day in the Edwards Household yesterday... My little Cookie-Monster had to be put down. To anyone who is currently rolling their eyes and thinking that it's just a cat, get over yourself Jen.. Please leave this page now.


Animals teach us to love unconditionally. They are the one thing you know that you may never count on and yet want them around not matter what. (The little buggers really get to you!) I am a major animal lover and have always had a moggie in tow. Even though the first cat I ever really had contact with hated me with a vengeance till the day he passed, I still loved him to bits. (I still have the scars to prove it!) Inspector Gadget was evil. But awesome all the same


Cookie-monster  was a rescue from the Herne Bay/ Canterbury branch of Cat's Protection League. Found in a field at about 8 weeks, never to have had human contact before only to be lumped with me after a scary few days in someone's bathroom. I will never forget going to see her, she was such a bright spark for such a little thing. She won me over within moments of meeting her; she was so tiny she fitted on my right hand. We'd adopted Solimonster as an adult so I hadn't done the whole kitteny thing. I refuse to buy a cat when there's so many that need a loving home all ready.


She came home with me one sunny afternoon back in August '09 and then spent the next two weeks hiding under my bed, refusing to come out and shivering when touched. I finally managed to coax her out with the promise of food. Gradually, from then onwards, the only time you'd see her is when she'd climb up on the bed, perch on my shoulder for a mini cuddle before disappearing under the bed again. How tiny? --->


The process of getting her out of the bedroom and into the house was a slow and painful one. She was the shyest thing possible, it took months just to get her to stray into the living room. Don't even get me started on trying to get her to go outside! A leaf would fall down and she'd be shivering under the table.


I'd spent nearly 3 years with this wonderful kittencat as company. She was mine. She'd talk back to me and no one else, she'd follow me around the house and we had a very special bond. I'd miss her as much as she missed me. I especially loved waking up in the morning to find her perched on my shoulder, staring at me with "WAKE UP.. I NEED FEEDING!!" expression. She was always so kind not to paw at me, would patiently wait there for hours until I felt the need to be horizontal. Soli, on the other hand, would have no qualms on jumping on you, pawing you or even biting you to get attention.


She developed FLUTD (Feline Lower Urinary Tract Disease) back in November. Poor thing started to go to the loo indoors, which she'd never done before. You could tell she'd suddenly lost that spark of wonderment and fun. She constantly needed the loo, blood started to go everywhere and she just wanted to curl up and be loved. I spent many an hour massaging her belly for her, something she came to really enjoy. Feline cystitis is supposedly ridiculously painful. Problem was she was causing it herself. She'd been stressed out by two local bully toms, and the situation just got worse. We tried every medical technique, drugs, tests over the next few months. I refused point blank to give in to drastic options. She'd perk up a little, then suddenly all hell would once again break loose. I even tried making her an in-door cat which just plain stressed her out even more. I knew I was running out of options fast.


I thought things were better, then a few days ago I came home to what was such an upsetting scene; she was cowering under the table and there were blood spots littered across the living room floor. I just couldn't take it any more, it played on my mind for a few days; I didn't care about the mess, I just couldn't bring myself to put her through more pain. Mum accompanied me to the vets and I then spent the next few hours in floods of tears. I had a lovely cuddle with her before saying goodbye and I'll never ever forget her.




I knew I'd done the right thing. Although, that is the first and last time I ever want to play god. I was glad to have had her in my life, albeit a short period and I hope that she was happy too. I feel odd today, such a surreal feeling to think she will not be there when I get home any more. I have to try and remember the great moments, and perhaps one day I'll feel up to finding another stray in her honour as I'm sure she'd be quite upset to know there's no one sitting on her favourite patch of the sofa.