Can you be boring and a blogger?

I’ve been thinking about getting back in to blogging lately, I’ve always rather enjoyed tip tapping away, sharing a little insight in to who is me. It’s been almost 9 months since I last put finger tips to keyboard and bashed out some rambling nonsense, and I’ve been missing whatever it was I got from blogging.

But the topic of what to write got me thinking, am I really that interesting that I need to write about my life?

The answer is no.

No I am not.

Like most of us, if I’m being honest, I’m boring. So so mundanely boring that at times I bore myself. For sure, I can and do get in to some awkward and interesting situations; who hasn’t fallen in a river and pondered if cows smell fear, been mistaken for a prostitute, almost had a leg amputated due to infection or gotten lost on the South Downs several times?

But for the most part, life is just ticking along in a way that I suspect is similar to yours.


Photo by Freddy Castro on Unsplash

I’m not building my forever home in the middle of the woods. My children, whilst awesome, are no different to most kids out there…they’re slightly annoying, frustratingly stubborn yet wonderful in their own weird and wonderful ways. I’m not on some miraculous journey of self discovery, nor am I embarking on a fitness regime, besides no one wants to see a sweaty ol’ me panting for breath with frizzy hair and wild eyes. I can’t cook, burning pasta is a niche skill I have, so a food blog is out. Unless I got to eat all the yummy food without cooking it, but then I’d really need to do a fitness blog to negate the impact of a food one!

I have done some pretty interesting things career wise, which legally I can’t talk about, so that’s out the window. So to are the personal things I don’t share with family let alone folk “out there”.

I don’t travel to exotic far flung places, air travels scares the crap out of me, and I don’t think I could convince the school that my kids need to be out during term time. I’m so far removed from fashion that a fashion blog would be ridiculous, my jeans have holes from wear and tear not as a paid for fashion statement. Where are all the bootleg jeans, are they still a thing?

I wouldn’t know in what order to apply make up even if I had detailed instructions before me. I could try my hand at writing about serious topics, but in all honesty I like to play devils advocate and would just end up pissed off at myself.

I’m a wood turner, looking to set up shop, but that isn’t all that interesting to most people. My depression story, whilst uniquely my own, isn’t all that different to most out there. My parenting journey has at times been interesting, yet is pretty much what you expect parenting to be like, full of ups and downs and not really all that remarkable. My relationship is the same, we love each other yet also piss each other off in a healthy adult way.

So, when sitting before a computer, contemplating a blog post, whilst leading a pretty regular life, what do you write about?

Life After Depression

I long held the naïve assumption that depression and anxiety were conspiring bedfellows. They arrived together on a quest of destruction of everything I thought I knew and held dear.

Instead, as I tick off the 200th day since I’ve taken an antidepressant I come to the sad and hollow realisation that anxiety can and does continue to flourish long after the chaos of depression has subsided.

I’m happy, that much I know.

Yet for reasons both known and unexplainable, my anxiety has bloomed. My nerves are shot, sleep is hard to find, the knocks at the door have me freezing in fear of……something. Unwanted memories overwhelm me at the most unexpected times, taking me down paths I never again want to walk down.  Crowds are still making me twitchy and leave me longing to slam the door, pull the curtains and just shut everyone and everything out.

I’m at a loss.

I’m not depressed.

I’m happy.

But there is something missing or broken in me which is stopping me from making the most of this new lease at life. I hate that I might be wasting something which isn’t granted to everyone who has battled depression and PTSD. I hate that I might not be strong enough to make the most of life, that my fears will keep me locked away in a prison of my own making.

barbed wire

Life after depression wasn’t meant to be like this, I thought the hard part was done, yet it really seems the hard work of reclaiming my life is only just beginning and I’ve no idea what to do.

Charity, Is it better to give than to receive?

I have, for as long as I remember donated to charity, whether in monetary terms, physical item donations, my time or my voice, I’ve given to those charities which have either directly impacted the lives of myself and loved ones, and those which have tugged at the heart strings in such a way that I couldn’t just sit by and do nothing.

I always give, when I can, to the homeless. Not always via a charity, but to the individual.

You see, I’ve been homeless twice in my life.

There really aren’t words to describe the emotions which bombard you when you’re sat on a bench on Wimbledon Common not knowing where you’ll sleep for the foreseeable future. Knowing that everything you had been gifted, collected, bought and cherished is now gone, from cherished birthday cards to the tooth brush you didn’t have time to grab .

That your favourite pillow and blanket will no longer keep you snug at night.

So, the other day, when the boys and I walked out of the newsagents having bought yet more Pokémon cards, my eyes were drawn to the young man sat unobtrusively in a door way.


Quietly, and oh so politely he asked if we had any change.

As I herded my overly excitable children to a bench so they could tear in to their Pokémon cards, I looked between the young man and my boys.

At one point in time, that young man could have exited a newsagents, giddy with excitement after his mother or father had bought him a treat.

I don’t know what led him to be sat on the high-street, politely asking for change, and I don’t need to know.

As my boys were alternating between squealing and scowling at the cards they got, I took the change and walked over to the young man.

It was over in seconds, I extended my hand, he somewhat shocked, accepted my small offering.

‘Thank you so much’

‘You’re welcome’

We both smiled and then I herded my children off to continue with our errands.

But, the exchanged lingered for me for longer than a moment.

I don’t feel like I contribute much to the world, but for a one fleeting moment I made a difference, just a small one, but a difference all the same.

I'm not sure who benefited most, him receiving the money, or me, for feeling like I’d made a difference, no matter how small.

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