Stop telling me it’s okay to not be okay, okay?

“Hi guys, I know things are hard right now, but, we’re all in this together, right? You got this, you’re enough and remember it’s okay not to be okay, okay?”

I know they’re only trying to be helpful and saying things without really seeing the point, but can we stop churning out the same handful of trite hashtags without fully grasping what it is we’re actually saying, please?

“It’s okay not to be okay, guys.”

Is it? Is it truly okay to not be okay?

Unless we’re talking, ya know, down in the dumps, can’t be arsed to get out of our pyjamas for a few days, eating more cheese on toast than is strictly necessary and doom scrolling Instagram all day, type not okay?

But ya know, beyond that; ew gross, you’re actually ill? You’ve forgotten when you last showered or changed out of those leggings? Your diet has consisted of your meds and maybe, if you’re lucky, a stone cold cup of milky tea from a few hours ago (that took all your energy to make)? You spend your time staring blankly at walls with dead eyes, ugly crying or sleeping the pain away?


No. It’s not okay. It’s completely beyond okay.

Can we stop normalising mental ill health in the sense that it’s just something we have to endure?

There was colouring in, there was mindfulness, meditation, there’s self-care, there’s gratitude journals, bullet journals, shit, there’s baking or running or learning how to cross-stitch, and yes, along with correct treatment and care and support can all help you, but the latest mental health related fad and that alone will not cure your common garden variety of depression (other mental illnesses are available, kids).

Whether that care and treatment is therapy (CBT, DBT, pychotherapy, one to one, group, the list goes on), medication (SSRI’s, SNRI’s, antidepressants, antipsychotics, mood stabilisers, or indeed, like me, a complex mixture of the lot, spaced carefully throughout the day) social support from family and friends, if you’re lucky enough to have them of course, an understanding GP and / or a psychologist or again, a tricky-to-craft cocktail of all of the above, then yeah, you might feel well enough to grab your New Balance’s and go for a jog around the block, dodging the discarded blue surgical masks in the street like a dystopian version of hop-scotch.

What I’m saying is, if half of your leg was going green for instance, something tangibly wrong that you could see, would you bake a loaf of sourdough to make it better? Would you write down everything you have to be grateful for (YOU WILL BE GRATEFUL, DAMMIT) even though, ya know, your leg’s falling off a bit?

I’m kind of hoping you wouldn’t.

So why do we placate ourselves with twee little sayings when our minds are falling apart? Why do we chuck out these platitudes rapid fire, as if not only are we desperately trying to convince ourselves, but everyone clicking through our stories or tweets, that YOU GOT THIS HUN * strong arm emoji *

I really ain’t got this, hun.

We’re in the middle, well, maybe the middle, maybe the end, frankly who knows anymore, of a big fuck off pandemic, things are actually really quite scary atm and have been for a bloody long time now.

People are alone, people are frightened, they’re struggling under the enormous weight of Microsoft Teams and making sure their elderly mums are alright 60 miles away, that their prescriptions are filled out, that they can get a grocery delivery next week, fuck, how are we going to pay for that? Not even going to begin on the monumental guilt and fear that this is all a lovely recipe to fuck up our children. All while gritting our teeth into a tight I GOT THIS, I GOT THIS grimace that makes our mouths taste powdery and eyes that are trying to smile but fuck me, have you seen the figures for today? What do you Boris is speaking to the nation at 8pm?

It’s simply, too fucking much.

The easiest thing you can do for someone who is at breaking point, is to listen to them, sit in that horrible, skin crawly pain with them. Let them have that, at least.

And while our instincts our telling us to repeat the mindless witterings of Jessie J, to fix them, to solve their problems, to give them a little shake and a “C’mon mate, you can do this,” – just let them have their moment, point them in the direction of professionals, helplines etc and sit in that shitty, dark place with them. Someone stuck in the maw of depression (other mental health conditions are available) needs our empathy, not to be told to be okay, okay?

New Year, New Name

I’ve decided to have a little rebrand, as much as I still love the name MummyNeverSleeps, I feel like it’s a past me and I need to change things up a bit to keep things interesting.

From mid-January 2020 I’ll be changing my blog and social accounts to Complexed Cassandra (or variations thereof – thanks Twitter and your 15 characters).

Hopefully this is the beginning of something exciting and I really hope you continue to follow and support me 🙂

Cas x

What Village?

They say it takes a village to raise a child.

Recently there was a campaign on Instagram of women all doing peace signs and singing the praises of their own personal villages. And I totally love that, don’t get me wrong, I dig women empowering each other and feeling supported and kicking life where it hurts.

It’s just, with a bit of thought, it left me feeling cold. I didn’t feel like I could join in and feel #blessed with them.

What if you don’t have a village? What if you don’t have a wealth of support around you? What if you don’t have grandparents to take the kids for sleepovers  – or just a few hours? What if you don’t have close friends to take turns holding playdates with? Or even a trusted babysitter you can rely on?

What if your only chance to recover from being overwhelmed and touched-out and talked-out is when the kids are asleep and let’s face it, you should be too?

The last time I went out out with my partner, I shit you not, was to see Sex and the City 2, and we all know what a fucking let down that was.

What if you are the village? What if it’s all down to you indefinitely, forever and ever, amen? I’m not trying to sound like a martyr, I’m just saying for a lot of us, that’s just what life is.

My family are scattered all over the place and are so fractured I can no longer keep up with who is talking to who – or in most cases, not talking to who. And yes I have friends, who I can send smoke signals to in times of crisis but at the same time they have their own shit to deal with and I totally respect that and don’t want to add to their problems.

As for blogging, I’ve been dipping my toe back in the pool of writing stuff and getting out there and talking bollocks on Twitter and doing carefully thought out, arty photos for the grid, but the community spirit I loved a few years ago just seems stale and a bit broken tbf.

So I guess what I’m saying is – where else is the village? Is it just an exclusive club if you’ve got over 10k Instagram followers?

What Not to Say to Someone with Bipolar

Are you still taking your meds?

The weather is so bipolar rn.

OMG my friend is SO bipolar, we’re always arguing.

Wow, you’re so moody.

Well you were fine yesterday.

Cheer up.

We all get down.

Have a nice bath.

Try not to worry so much.

You just need to get out more.

Snap out of it.

Oh I’m a bit bipolar too!

It’s just all in your head.

You’re just doing it for attention.

Wow, you’re dark.

You don’t need medication, you need nature / yoga / aromatherapy – delete applicable.

It hasn’t done Stephen Fry any harm.

You never know, it might never happen.

Oh like Stacey from Eastenders?

Are you sure you’ve taken your meds?

Think positively.

Chin up.


Stop being so negative.

Happy mums have happy kids!

Get a grip.

Well you sound OK.

Man up.

Stop being so selfish.

What have you got to be so unhappy about?

Oh I read an interesting article in the Daily Mail about bipolar, it said –

Go take some happy pills.


What to say to someone with bipolar:

It’s OK.

Same here.

I’m here if you want to talk.

I understand.

Write it down.

Do you need anything?

I know.

Do you need some help?

I’m not going anywhere.

I’m listening.

Did You Know This About Me?

While my brain has resulted into some kind of Mini Eggs flavoured soup (yay Easter holidays) I thought I’d write one of these old skool meme type blog posts that I saw over on Mummy Barrow’s blog (originating from Nickie at I am Typecast). Let’s get started shall we? And if you fancy giving it a go, give me a shout on Twitter so I can have a read innit.


About 2 weeks ago when I failed my driving test. I held it together from the examiner telling me and the drive home but as soon as I opened the front door, I had a little sob. And another when my other half and Noah presented me with flowers for just giving it a good go.


I like to think so, I really hope I’m a good friend but I’m utterly shit at replying to texts and I hate talking on the phone.


Of course not.


Their mood and their eyes.


I couldn’t tell you the last time I watched a film the whole way through but I wouldn’t watch a scary film if you paid me.


Tomatoes growing on the vine take me right back to childhood and making dens in the garden. Original Dove shower gel because it reminds of that first, very sore bath after Noah was just born at the hospital. Noah’s hair, admittedly it smells more like sweaty boy now but I still can’t resist sniffing his head on the rare occasions I get a cuddle.


Maybe Naples? I realise that’s not very far at all!


Erm, I can fit my fist in my mouth.


From a pretty young age I wanted to a tattoo artist, but I just don’t have the patience (read talent) for it.


Not enough, maybe 4 or 5.


Favourite was English or art, worst was maths.


The first coffee of the morning, every time.


I named him Noah when I was about 5 months pregnant and luckily he looked like a Noah when he was born. I’m not in the least bit religious but I do have a thing for biblical names and have a list for possible future babies.


I don’t watch YouTube, but Noah is on there all the time and I can just about tolerate Dan TDM’s voice.


3, but the third I’ve been with for 10 years this year and have a child with so that makes the other 2 look a bit, ya know, childish.


To be frank, a lot of my childhood wasn’t great because of my mum’s mental health and drinking but I always enjoyed being outside, making dens, catching frogs, hunting for bugs.


Not listening, pretty often my thoughts are whizzing around my head like a Rolodex and the simple task of taking in more information or a simple “Mum! Mummy, look!” is too much.


Don’t forget that guest post you need to write – Where’s that email address? – I need to sort out my inbox – I’ll do it later – The tumble drier’s finished – Change the bed sheets – Noah’s run out of Nurofen – Write it down on the list – Where’s the pen? – Fuck, I need to call the vets – Have we got anything for dinner? – Check the freezer in a minute – Write down that blog post idea – Where’s the pen? – Charge phone – Text mum – Change the bed sheets – Reply to comments – Photos, you haven’t taken any bloody photos – Sort out SD card – Ask OH to sort out SD card – CALL THE VETS – Tea, I need tea first – Sort out Noah’s Pokemon cards – They’re every-fucking-where – Write it down on the list  – Only an hour until you need to pick him up – Check emails – Put kettle on – CALL THE VETS FFS – Just need to read these emails quickly – Reply to emails – Oh shit, the bed sheets – No, call the vets first – Tea, where’s my tea? – I didn’t make it – Put the kettle on again – Reply to comments as kettle boils – Check time, 45 mins – Leave the comments – Change the sheets – Collect dirty washing from upstairs – Empty bin – Oh CHRIST what has that child done to the toilet? – Where’s the toilet cleaner? – Can’t find any, add it to the list – WHERE’S THE PEN? – Make tea – That’s it, where have all the pens gone? – Check the cupboards – Check the bookcase – Nope – Fuck’s sake, buy a new pen – Dig out change from pockets and purse for a pen – SHITCUNTS, CALL THE VETS – Right, sorted – How long now? – 20 minutes – Dinner, what can we have for dinner? – Sod all, do a Tesco order tonight – Have you taken your pills for today? – Check emails – Reply to emails –  Raid cupboards for after-school snack for Noah – Shit, gotta go – WHERE ARE MY KEYS – Gonna be late – Leave – Text Mum while walking jogging – Forgot money for pen – Not enough time to go back – Already late – Fuck’s sake.



New year, new me bollocks.

I know the whole mindset of YOU MUST LOSE WEIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS YOU QUALITY STREET EATING MONSTER is wrong and unhealthy, but I feel in my case, it’s long overdue.

After years of riding the bipolar train up and down and back again, trying every known medication and every cocktail of said medication in an attempt to remain stable – I’ve put on a lot of weight (shout out to the mood stabilisers that conveniently increase your appetite and utterly zonk you out, therefore you crave sugar to give yourself a some kind of boost (Goodbye dear full fat Coke, my friend) and the crippling anxiety stopping me from actually doing anything).

However *jazz hands emoji* I’ve been stable for a good 6 months and it’s time to do something about the extra 4 stone I’ve put on thanks to the meds and my poor choices and tackle my nonexistent fitness.

So that’s the plan, lose the extra 4 stone and see where I go from there. Ya never know, I might become one of these running addicts and live in active wear every day and keep going, innit. But for now, little steps, little goals.

This is where the accountability comes in. I don’t want to do this for a week and quit. I don’t want to buy a Fitbit to encourage me to move and then find an excuse not to wear it even though it is bloody ugly. I don’t want to be disheartened by losing little and often rather than 8lbs a week (the lady at Slimming World told me people starting their plan often lose REALLY big in their first week and proceeded to give me the death stare when I lost 2lbs – I didn’t return and cried for 3 days).

I want this to stick, I want to do this. It’s a marathon, not a race innit. So I’m putting it out in the world (or to ya know, 4 people, let’s be honest) to make myself accountable and responsible for this decision. Suffering with a mental illness, it’s easy to make life choices big or small, and then ditch the idea because it’s just too hard or I become unwell suddenly and my little world comes to an abrupt halt.

In the past year I’ve proven to myself I can stick to things even when a little voice is telling me it’d be easier to stop and hide in bed until I don’t feel guilty anymore. So this year I shall be mostly losing 4 stone and getting fitter. I will share my progress on my Instagram weekly and will check in here every so often.

Btw – I’m if you want to add me on Fitbit

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to prep my lunch and sweat my arse off on the treadmill in my fancy active wear.

What is Cyclothymia?


Cyclothymia (or Cyclothymic Disorder) is a rare, chronic personality disorder.

It’s bipolar’s slightly younger, highly annoying little sister. She tries to emulate bipolar in every way she can, but gets it a bit wrong along the way. On the surface they look the same, they even sound the same, it just comes to how they both behave that differs.


I was misdiagnosed for years because of this. I was always asked by professionals if I ever felt moments of “happiness” and the answer was (is) always simple – no. I don’t. Hypomania is always misconstrued as elation, an invincible high, like a helium balloon caught in a breeze, and most commonly – happiness.

I don’t experience it like that, I’ve come to fear the highs just as I absolutely dread the periods of low mood, or minor depression as the official term is. With the highs, I find it easier to do things, I want to do things, I want to do everything all at once. My mind will pinball around hundreds of different ideas, it’ll settle on one thing, one idea, one plan for a nanosecond before zooming off to the next. I may look happy on the outside, I may sound more animated and alive, but invariably I’ll be getting frustrated with not being able to settle on anything, I’ll become irritable and inevitably, I’ll lose my temper as my mind feels like it’s vibrating with thoughts and I’ll want to curl up in a ball just to make it all stop.

It gives you the air of self confidence that you know what you’re doing when really you know anything but. It makes it impossible to trust your own judgement – is this actually a good idea or am I manic?

Hypomania also comes along with other, stranger symptoms; I get easily overwhelmed by too much noise, as it feels as if sounds are jumbling up with my zooming thoughts. I can’t listen and have a tendancy to interupt conversation with whatever pops into my head.

Minor depression: 

I don’t think I need to go too far into explaining this one.

I have a tough time with describing depression as minor, as far as I’m concerned, depression is depression. For me it’s the bone crushing inability to do anything. It’s world wide indifference. It’s staying in bed all day. It’s not bothering to look after myself or shower. It’s not bothering to speak because what’s the point? It’s simply not caring. It’s numbness and it’s pain.

Mood swings:

Now we know the moods I experience, one of the biggest things with cyclothymia is how rapidly these moods can swing and change. I can go from one end of the spectrum to the other in hours, if not minutes when I’m triggered by something stressful or exciting. When I’m in a bad spell and my medication isn’t doing what it’s supposed to do, I frankly don’t know how I feel, I may have been fine in the morning but high by lunch and down again by the evening.

I was diagnosed with cyclothymia in February 2016, for the forseeable future I will need to take mood stabilisers (traditionally known as anti-psychotics) to balance the swinging scales of my moods and anti-depressants so my lows aren’t as bad as they could be.


New year, new blog, new domain.

I could pretend this was an intentional way to kick off 2017, yay fresh start and all that and post some artfully arranged daffodils in a jam jar to signify new life or whatever. But it wasn’t. It really wasn’t.

I fucked up.

In a medicated haze of “yeah, maybe later”, I decided to ignore the glaringly urgent emails screaming that my domain name was about to expire, thinking they already had my details to take their $26.00 and all would work out fine when I looked the other way long enough.

But it didn’t. They didn’t. And now almost 5 years worth of writing has disappeared because of twenty six sodding dollars. The comments, the links, all the complicated stuff in the background I still don’t fully understand. Gone. Poof.

Why? Because at the time I was happy without writing and I thought blogging was dead anyway. I liked knowing it was there if I needed it, ya know, like ice cream or 26 episodes of Toddlers and Tiaras on my Sky planner. But once it was gone I immediately knew I wanted it back. Cos ya know, that’s how shit works.

It’s been so long since I’ve written anything properly, let’s be honest, aside from stuff I’ve been paid to write and the thing is, do people even read normal blogs anymore? If they don’t come with professionally published candid books or quirky jumpers and tote bags to buy in the sidebar? Or without viral stories where you’re pictured pointing at something that has gone out of it’s way to wrong you personally (picture with snivelling child for extra bonus points)?

The answer is, I don’t know.

Does it make a difference? Last year’s me would have said yes, because why else am I doing this shit when I should be sleeping or acting like a normal human being if no one’s reading it? But looking back, one of the reasons I stopped writing was because I felt suffocated by the pressure to perform and be bittersweet and funny in the same paragragh. I felt if I didn’t reach a certain number of views on a post or likes on Twitter or hearts on Instagram then I was doing something wrong.

And that is so bloody wrong.

So I’m delicately shoving myself and my laptop back into the ring, and if you’re sticking with me after all this mess I’ve gone and done, thank you. Seriously.


The Quiet Ones Have the Loudest Minds

Generally when I meet people for the first time I’m all awkward and completely forget how to behave when I’m around actual human beings. I start to panic that when they look me in the eye they’ll be able to see all my secrets, steal my superpowers and notice that worst of all, I only managed to get mascara on one eye this morning before leaving the house in a whirlwind of book bags, permission slips and tangled hair. My voice shuts down completely, it’ll get stuck halfway up my throat and surface as a shaky whisper. I like to think it makes me sound profound or mysterious, but truly, I just sound like a have a bout of tonsillitis.

It seems that the majority of mums (and dads, obvs, we’re all equal here) take to the whole socialising with their children thing like a fish to the proverbial expanse of wet stuff. You sometimes catch a glimpse of us awkward ones, slinking around the parameter of the playground or baby & toddler group, pretending to be really into what our kids are up to (or the next imaginative way they’re trying to maim themselves or others). We’ll be looking anywhere but directly at other people. Anywhere. Oh, hang on, I must now look really intently at my phone for the next few minutes, brow furrowed, swiping that finger with purpose, I tell you. You are reading business emails, those deadlines keep whooshing in and dammit the FTSE has just dropped 100 points.

What? They don’t need to know that you’re simply trying to catch a Magikarp on Pokemon Go and that you have no idea how to work your 4G.

Don’t forget the dramatic sigh for added effect.

Thing is though, you might see us awkward folk, desperately trying to go unnoticed. Some of us performing the school drop offs and pick ups with the expertise of a ninja, speaking to no one, especially avoiding the Glam Mums, straight in and out, and in a puff of smoke – they disappear. Some being less fortunate and run in with the school PA (ya know the one, the mum who makes it her personal business to run everything yet isn’t actually on the payroll), with a homemade cake in her hand, “Excuse me, the rules do state that the children aren’t supposed to ride their scooters or bikes within the school grounds. Just so you know.”

We may be quiet. We may be awkward. We might say the wrong thing or laugh at an inopportune moment. Hell, we might even have leftover tear stains behind the bug-eyed sunglasses or hiding our quivering hands within our pockets. We could have an occasional tick and our hearts stop momentarily as a child screams, a baby cries or once we realise that we really can’t deal with crowds.

You might think we’re mental. You might even say it out loud or via a loaded glance to one another.

And do you know what?

We probably are.

Postnatal depression affects one in eight mothers. Not to mention causes a tidal wave of destruction for their partners, families and friends. Mental illness affects one in four people in the UK.

My name’s Cas and I’m a bit mental. Various acronyms have been thrown around in my presence – PND, OCD, PPD, PTSD, plus the good old depression, major depression and neurotic depression, bipolar disorder and anxiety disorders.

To be honest, I haven’t got a clue what’s going on in my head and most of the time I’m floating on a rollercoaster of antidepressants and mood stabilisers.

The quiet ones are all coping, somehow, hanging on by our fingernails. We’re battling stuff we could never say out loud, even if we were able to put it into words coherently.