With the recent BBC Two reality show/documentary ‘Who are you calling fat?’ still looming fresh in my mind, being a ‘woman of size’, I have a lot to say about the issues and debates raised in this programme.

The format follows a reality show where nine people living with obesity are placed together to live in a house. All with differing views, it makes great viewing and sparks the debate off nicely.

The two main camps were the body positivity crowd on one side and those on the other who believe in the medical implications and risks of staying obese.

In my last two blog posts I’ve been touching on my mental health and how it's reached a peak. How, my whole identity was being called into question whilst trying to get an official mental health diagnosis. I wanted to write a proper blog post about it and tell you my thoughts about finding your identity. What does it mean to be you? Do we really need to define ourselves in order to live? Do we need labels or are they useful? I will attempt to answer these through my own experience.

I had a bit of a crisis in my mental health. It’s such a long story but I suffered PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) from May 2016 after a traumatic start to life with our now 5 year old. I was put on anti depressants, Sertraline, because I went to the doctors feeling suicidal. Read more about that here. They helped for a while whilst I was in recovery. I had a year off work to get better. But in the last 6 months I felt the anti-depressants were making me worse.

It was calling to me. The pull was too hard to resist.
“You deserve this”, my brain said.
“You need this”.
I saw myself as a soap actress. The viewer shouting out at the TV.
“Don’t do it! You’re stronger than this!”.
My self control was shot.
All I could think of was the taste on my tongue.
The receptors in my brain already whizzing around at the anticipated pleasure.
It was no good. I gave in.
I grabbed it off the shelf and walked to the till.
As I paid for my item, words going through my head “why am I doing this?”. The guilt already seeping through.
Home. No one in. The way I like it.
Indulging in secret keeps me in denial.
I open the six pack.
Moans of pleasure escape my mouth as my teeth sink into the creamy, sugary frosting of the cupcake.
It was gone in seconds.
I ate them all.

It is 3:30am. I am lying awake in bed, typing this on my phone, in the dark with my husband sleeping softly next to me. Anxiety is a funny thing. Stress and pressure can worry you to withdrawal all day long. And the overwhelm can lead to depression when it all gets too much.

There seems to be drowsiness all day. The thought of having to cope with all my worries makes me feel tired. Shut down mode. But as the day starts to turn into evening and my duties as a wife and mother draw to a close, a strange thing happens. After feeling drowsy all day and wanting to sleep, when my time is my own, I suddenly wake up! Thoughts start whizzing around. My brain is powered with plans, dreams, organising, full of hope and opportunity.

It's a wonderful feeling but the problem is, I need to get to sleep. Or tomorrow will follow the same dreary pattern. The cycle starts again. Tired, irritable and struggling through the day. But unable to sleep at night for the overactive brain.