Norfolk coastal erosion victims offered mental health care
According to a Norfolk County Council report, which was published last year, Norfolk has part of the fastest eroding coastline in North West Europe.It is estimated that without action, the north Norfolk coastline could lose about 1,030 residential and commercial properties by 2105.The government said climate change increases the risk of coastal erosion.
Ruth Taylor, the social development manager at Norfolk and Waveney Mind, said: "We are aware that people in these communities feel very strong emotions about the subject of coastal change and the impacts of policy decisions around sea defences."These feelings are complex and interconnected, and they include anxiety, significant levels of anger, despair and depression, and overwhelming grief related to the threat of (or actual) loss of home, income, community networks and cultural assets."Other emotions include feelings of apathy and also powerlessness. Some individuals most directly affected may be experiencing post-traumatic stress disorder [PTSD] and what can be called 'Pre-TSD' in anticipation of the changes that are coming."Over the coming months, the Sustain Coastal project aims to work with communities to create a bespoke range of support activities and therapies.These are likely to include monthly walk and talk groups, drop-in wellbeing sessions and one-to-one support meetings for those most at risk of losing their property."In this bespoke project we will include a greater focus on managing trauma, adapting to change, grief tending activities and strengthening community connections," Ms Taylor added.
Norfolk and Waveney Mind said it had already run successful pilot activities in Sheringham and Happisburgh.The new project is funded by the Environment Agency, Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs (Defra) and the Coastwise Coastal Transition Fund in partnership with North Norfolk District Council.It is also supported by the Climate Psychology Alliance.A launch event, which is open to all affected residents, is will be held at St Mary's church rooms in Happisburgh from 18:00 GMT on Wednesday. A similar event will be held at the Pilgrim Shelter in Trimingham from 17:30 on 17 February.
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Telegraph
a day ago
- Telegraph
I was 17 when my boyfriend pulled out chunks of my hair. His abuse still haunts me at 43
As I sit in the hairdresser's chair, she lifts some strands of hair to look at the condition, and I freeze. I can already feel beads of sweat starting to form on my back. She asks, 'Been a while since you've had it cut?' I nod. It's been 10 months. I say, 'I've got a sensitive scalp, so can you be careful while washing it, please?' What I don't tell the hairdresser is that I dread anyone touching my head because 25 years ago, the man I loved ripped chunks of hair out while he was throwing me down the stairs. All because I didn't tell him I was going on a night out. For years, I wouldn't set foot inside a salon without taking a beta blocker I was prescribed by my GP for situational anxiety. I grit my teeth as she lathers the shampoo, trying not to think of the sharp pain and tingling I was left with when he yanked my hair so hard that he left me with a bald spot. It has got easier to deal with my hair being touched by strangers, but I never expected painful memories to be triggered so long after the relationship had ended. According to the charity Safe Lives, two-thirds of domestic abuse survivors experience post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) – more than twice the rate experienced by soldiers in combat. New research from the University of Glasgow has found that women who experienced physical abuse in the context of domestic violence risk ongoing mental health disorders despite the exposure to domestic violence having ceased, on average, 27 years before assessment. The first kiss I met Colin at work when I was 17, and he was 33 (which, to everyone except me, was a huge red flag). I thought I was wise beyond my years, and Colin was everything I was looking for in a mate: strong, funny, intelligent and charming. After a few months of working together, we shared our first kiss on the way home from after-work drinks. He showered me with affection and attention; when we weren't at work, he called and texted constantly, which was flattering at first. Our relationship escalated quickly, and we were living together within three months. It took about six months before Colin became violent, but in the meantime, he had begun to manipulate and control every aspect of my life in ways that were nearly imperceptible at the time. Controlling behaviour We shared a bank account, but I was scatty and kept 'losing' my debit card, so he persuaded me it would be easier for him to give me a weekly cash allowance. I now think Colin was hiding my card all along. We worked together, so we spent every waking moment in each other's company. He would subtly belittle me in front of colleagues, picking on my insecurities and reinforcing every negative thought I ever had about myself. He poisoned me against my family (who could sense early on that he was bad news), causing an estrangement that would take years to heal. When my friends invited me out, he would guilt me into staying home, often claiming to be unwell. Friends stopped reaching out, and I became increasingly reliant on Colin. As this was my first serious relationship, I had no frame of reference or clue that his behaviour was troubling. Horrifying violence The first act of violence happened at Christmas. Colin was sick with the flu, and I'd decided to go to the office Christmas party on a whim without telling him. When I returned to our flat, I discovered I was locked out. I battered at the door, and when Colin opened it, I saw his face twisted into a shape I didn't recognise. He was drunk, and I knew immediately that he was going to hurt me. He hissed, 'You've been with another man, haven't you, you sl-t?' as he grabbed me by the hair and threw me down a short flight of stairs. I banged my head hard, and it took me a minute to get back on my feet. When I did, Colin was standing before me with a chunk of my hair in his hand. Sobbing, I told him, 'I was at the Christmas party, ask anyone in the office,' but he just kept calling me a sl-t. I staggered down the stairs and into the cold December night. I had no idea where to go, I wasn't speaking to my parents, I didn't have any friends I could call. I just sat at a bus stop and wept. After about an hour, I heard footsteps and saw Colin. I cowered, thinking he was going to hurt me, and he started crying. 'I'm so sorry, baby. I don't know what came over me. I am so scared you're going to leave me.' He knelt at my feet and begged for forgiveness, and I found myself comforting him, even after what he'd done to me. He was a master manipulator and lured me back with promises that he'd change, and it would never happen again. But it did. We lived together peacefully for months at a time, then, as soon as he'd drunk too much or had a hard day, the violent rage would return. I lived in hypervigilance, barely talking in case I said something that would trigger Colin's rage. I lived in shame, not telling anyone about the abuse because I believed what was happening to me was my fault. I drank heavily, sank into a deep depression and would often feel disappointed to wake up in the morning. The struggle to leave People ask, 'Why didn't you leave?' and I did try. The main issue was that I had nowhere to go. Shelters were full, I still wasn't in a good place with my family, and I had no money. When I did pluck up the courage to leave at age 20, he threatened to take his own life unless I came back to him, another manipulation tactic. In the end, it took three aborted attempts before I left for good, after one final eruption of violence that left me physically scarred and fearing for my life. When I left, I told him if he ever contacted me again, I would phone the police, and he could see that I meant it. I arrived on my parents' doorstep with my life in two bin bags and my mental health in tatters. Leaving was the easy part. Living with what had happened to me was much harder. I lived in a state of near-permanent anxiety and had flashbacks at unexpected moments, like in the hairdresser's chair when my head jerked back as the brush found a tug in my hair. I was right back to that December night, cowering in fear, my scalp on fire. When I had a wisdom tooth extraction, I couldn't look at myself in the mirror for over a week because my swollen, bruised face reminded me of a previous attack. I tried to push the memories down and get on with my life. After some time by myself, I started dating again, but found myself not only distrusting the men I met, but also my instincts. I had initially fallen for what I thought was a great guy, who turned out to be anything but, and was worried I was a terrible judge of character. However, at 21, I met Ronnie, a sweet man who was gentle, kind and understanding. We were married within six months of meeting, much to the surprise of everyone who knew us. I rushed into marriage partly to draw a line under my past because this new relationship came with a new surname and a move to a different city. My husband encouraged me to seek therapy because he had grown up in an abusive household and knew the lasting impact domestic violence could have. Battling with memories I had six sessions of NHS therapy and was diagnosed with PTSD, but that short course of treatment didn't 'fix' me. The therapy brought up a lot of intense and painful emotions, and I felt like I'd never be able to move past what happened to me. I didn't sleep properly for weeks after therapy finished. I felt hopeless and withdrew from my husband and my family, calling in sick to work and spending my days locked in the house, scared to go outside. I began to drink quite heavily one afternoon, pulling all the booze out to the cupboards that I could find. I wanted the pain to go away, and I would do anything I could to make it stop. I started raiding the medicine cabinet for painkillers, popping two handfuls of paracetamol into my mouth and washing them down with wine. I wanted to die. At first, I felt relieved; my pain would soon be over. Then I thought of my family and the people who loved me. I couldn't face the thought of living any more, but I wasn't ready to leave them. I called my husband and told him what I'd done, and he rushed home from work to take me to the hospital, where I promptly threw up all over the waiting room. After some blood tests, the hospital discharged me with a number for the crisis team, whom I was to check in with for the next few weeks, and who encouraged me to be more open with loved ones about how I was feeling. I hadn't been honest about the extent of the abuse, even with my family, so I sat them down and explained how bad things had been, and why I had decided that death was preferable to living with the pain. They were shocked, but started to understand more about how that relationship had forever altered me. Sharing my story with them helped to unload some of the shame I had felt over the relationship. I thought I had deserved what had happened to me, that I had provoked Colin to behave like that, but it was never my fault. I went back to suppressing my pain, mainly by drinking too much. My marriage ended after three years, partly because I had a paranoid mistrust of my husband. Every time my husband did something nice, I felt there had to be an ulterior motive because Colin was never kind for no reason. A new life after death I've worked hard to rebuild my life after abuse, but have struggled with romantic relationships. Giving so much space and energy to mistrusting and second-guessing a potential partner's every move was exhausting, and I knew I needed to take a break from dating. I haven't been in a long-term relationship since my mid-20s. However, I am open to dating in the future. I've attended therapy on and off for years and began seeing a regular therapist in 2022, who referred me for specialist trauma therapy called eye movement desensitisation and reprocessing (EMDR). Instead of talking in detail about a distressing issue, EMDR instead focuses on changing the emotions, thoughts or behaviours that result from a distressing experience. Change didn't happen overnight, but the trauma no longer affects me as viscerally as it once did. I thought I was doing much better, but then, last November, I found out Colin had died. You'd think I'd be relieved. It was over; he could never hurt me again. I made an emergency therapy appointment because I found that I was sad about his death. I couldn't understand why until the therapist explained I had spent a lot of our early sessions saying, 'If only he had changed, maybe we could have been happy,' but that was a fantasy. I could never have forced Colin to change; he had to decide to change on his own. Perhaps I was mourning a version of him that didn't exist. Since Colin's death, I feel like I've turned a corner, mainly because the monster who haunted my nightmares wouldn't be coming back to get me. I am taking care of myself a lot better now; I quit drinking eight years ago and am trying my best to shed the heavy weight of past abuse and rebuild trust in others. I'm dating again, but I'm not putting any pressure on myself to find 'the one'. My life revolves around my friends, family, and my dog, a three-year-old spaniel named Bonnie, who gives me a reason to get outside as much as possible, which massively benefits my mental health. Things are less fraught when I go for a haircut, thanks to deep breathing exercises and restricting my trips to the hairdresser to twice a year. I hope I'll get to a point where the pain of the past won't be my whole narrative but rather a line in a chapter of my life story. Perhaps one day I will even enjoy trips to the salon.
BBC News
a day ago
- BBC News
'Traumatic' childbirth leaves woman with PTSD and depression
A woman said she felt "robbed" of her birth experience after a "painful" and "traumatic" delivery left her with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and post-natal Barlow, from Swansea, gave birth to her 10lb 3oz son, Osian, who was born unresponsive and taken from her immediately due to did not meet him for two and a half hours, and said during that time she feared he had died. Swansea Bay University Health Board has been asked to comment. Claire said she knew Osian was a big baby but was led to believe his size could vary, so she "gaslighted" herself into thinking he would be now believes a caesarean section would have been safer, but felt pressured to trust in her own "empowered" choices at the labour, Claire had meconium in her waters and Osian's heartbeat was difficult to find, leaving her feeling like she had no choice but to "go with the flow".After he was born unresponsive, Claire began to bleed heavily and was rushed away for surgery to remove her placenta - an operation she later found out was not Osian, who is now 13 months old, was taken to another room with her husband. "I remember thinking I've not met him, I've never seen him, I didn't know what he looked like - just 10 people looking after him and 10 people looking after me," she told BBC Radio Wales staff worked around her, Claire said she feared the worst: "I remember thinking something bad was happening and just my luck he [Osian] is in a different room potentially dead, and my husband was in a different room with my son and he thinks I'm dead," she added. Claire, who shared her story as part of Birth Trauma Awareness Week, said there was a lack of communication during the birth, and no one had the "common decency" to tell her whether Osian was alive or even show her a months later, when she spoke to the hospital, she said they admitted there had been no reason not to bring him to her."This is the part that's really hurt me," Claire said. "I could deal with the rest, I could deal with the thought of nearly losing my life - but it's the fact that I felt like I was robbed. "That initial skin to skin contact I didn't have."It was really hard to have that connection with him, or even to try and breastfeed with him," she added. After the birth, Osian was diagnosed with tongue tie, jaundice and hyperglycaemia, while Claire lost nearly 1.7 litres of described her recovery as difficult: "You're kind of made to feel like you've got to get on with it.""I felt like I didn't have that opportunity to really settle. I was in hospital for five days and that environment isn't the best as it is," she day three, Claire said it was a "really hard day" and she remembers thinking she was going to be sectioned or "I was going to have my baby taken off me"."I was having all these massive emotions and I couldn't process at the time," she said. Claire said Osian is doing "incredible" and is the "happiest baby", adding that the support of her family has been important in her continues to take daily medication for PTSD."The midwives told me lots of people feel the same, but I don't understand why no one talks about it that's why I'm speaking out today," Claire said."I just want everyone to know that time does heal, and for anyone going through a traumatic birth - whether it's today, tomorrow, or months later - it really does get better," she said.
BBC News
4 days ago
- BBC News
Miscarriage: 'Don't tell me my baby wasn't meant to be'
"There was probably something wrong with your baby", "you could always try again", "it wasn't meant to be".These are just a sample of the comments Siobhan Gorman experienced when her baby died 16 weeks into her pregnancy."It's not out of malice, I found a lot of people just don't know what to say," said the teacher from 35, was home alone when she went into labour and gave birth to her baby experience has left her with both post-traumatic stress disorder and a determination to educate others about the reality of miscarriage, as well as how to support those who experience it. Warning: Article contains graphic description of miscarriage which some readers may find upsetting. On 23 January last year, Siobhan began experiencing sickness, pains in her bump and blood loss so went to an emergency gynaecology a urine test she was told her symptoms were most likely signs an infection and was sent home with antibiotics. With her partner away in Italy she stayed home to rest but the following evening felt a shooting pain in her bump so intense that it made her drop to the floor."And then my waters broke and I ended up giving birth on my bathroom floor alone," she said. Unable to reach her phone she tried yelling for her neighbours, but her shouts went she could do was remain in the bathroom, holding her tiny baby. "My baby was alive but 16 weeks is too young," she said through tears."I'm holding my baby and I could tell that there was nothing I could do."My baby had 10 tiny fingers and toes and eyes and ears and was perfectly formed but was just tiny, the size of a pear." She was eventually able to get to her phone and call her mother who was nearby. "I didn't even say what happened, I just said 'you need to get to the house'," she said. An ambulance was called for but there was a long wait so her father drove her to the nearest hospital."I stood in A&E with my baby in a towel," she said. "I was told that my baby had died and my world just changed." Siobhan said she was able to find support from charities including Morgan's Wings and Petals. She said her school were amazingly supportive and she was able take 16 weeks sick she welcomed news that parents who experience a miscarriage before 24 weeks of pregnancy will be entitled to bereavement leave under a planned change to the Employment Rights Bill."I wasn't ill, my baby had died," she said. After a six-month wait for a post mortem, which did not provide any answers, they were able to have a funeral. Birth certificates are not issued for babies born before 24 weeks England, parents who lose a baby before 24 weeks of pregnancy can receive a certificate in recognition of their loss but no equivalent is available in means the only paperwork Siobhan has to show Archie existed is a cremation months on, Siobhan can't believe how naïve she was about miscarriage until it happened to her. "I assumed that you would bleed and you'd be told that there's no heartbeat, I didn't even consider the multiple other forms of baby loss that are out there," she said. If a baby dies before 24 completed weeks of pregnancy, it is known as a miscarriage but Siobhan prefers the term baby loss to describe what she went through."I had a baby and my baby died," she said. Jenni Whitmore, 41, from Brynna in Rhondda Cynon Taf, has an 11-year-old daughter and has had three also feels uncomfortable about some of the terminology."When you're told that your pregnancy can't progress anymore, you're not advised 'I'm really sorry your baby's died', you're just told your pregnancy is not viable, which yes in medical terms is correct but the terminology used needs improved," she said."We never refer to our miscarriage as a foetus, it's always 'our baby', 'my daughter's sibling'."Jenni's first two miscarriages were in October 2018, at six weeks, and in March 2019, at 10 weeks, following fertility treatment. Her third miscarriage was in February 2023 after becoming pregnant was 13 weeks pregnant when she was told there was no heartbeat and chose to stay at home and let nature take its course."It is like going through labour," she said."You're just left to deal with that at home with the advice to take paracetamol which doesn't touch it, obviously, and then once it has happened, you physically have to flush that toilet and basically flush what is referred to medically as 'product' away."But of course, mentally we know that that was our baby... and I don't think that ever leaves you." Like Siobhan, she has also experienced hurtful comments from those around her."We were met with comments of 'at least it was an early loss' and 'you can try again' but we knew it was the end of the road for us, which I think was quite difficult to process," she said. How did these comments make her feel?"It's anger, just anger," she said. "I think it's just ignorance to be honest."From the minute you've seen that pregnancy test with the two lines, you've prepared your next 10, 20, 30 years. You've planned out the rest of your life."Other people in her life just stayed away."That was quite hard because you just crave that little bit of support," said. So what is the right thing to say to someone who has had a miscarriage?"We had friends that turned up and said nothing but gave us hugs, which was really appreciated," said Jenni. "Or for someone to just say 'this is totally rubbish, I can't change it for you, but I'm here and if you need anything you know where the phone is'."Siobhan said the comment that she found the hardest was: "It wasn't meant to be.""It's the baby that has made me a mother and I don't have my child, but I am a mother," she said would prefer people simply admitted that they did not know what to said seeing other women's pregnancy announcements, gender reveal parties and baby showers on social media had been hard."I'm still able to be happy for them, you can have emotions that run alongside each other so you can be happy for somebody else, but still sad for yourself," she said."It's really hard to see what could have been but it also made me realise what a miracle it is." Details of help and support with miscarriage and pregnancy-related issues are available at BBC Action Line
