biullet journal

To make a frozen magic cup, you will need the following ingredients and materials: - 1 cup of milk - 2 tablespoons of sugar - 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract - 1 packet of instant hot cocoa mix - 1/4 cup of hot water - Whipped cream (optional) - Magic wand or spoon for stirring - Ice cube tray Here are the steps to follow: 1. Begin by preparing the hot cocoa mix. In a mug, combine the instant hot cocoa mix with hot water. Stir well until the mix is completely dissolved. 2. Place the mug in the refrigerator and allow it to cool for about 10 minutes.

The therapist wrote something on her notepad. Then she said she wanted me to start taking some tablets. I said I didn’t like taking tablets unless they were absolutely necessary.

So Sandwich Woman had to drive hundreds of miles to keep an eye on a confused or ailing parent, then race back again to collect the kids from school. If Harper s Bazaar ever runs a mid-life Blues Sisters special, it will have to feature models who have been living in the same skanky trackie bottoms for nine weeks.

Place the mug in the refrigerator and allow it to cool for about 10 minutes. You want the hot cocoa to be slightly chilled before adding it to the ice cube tray. 3.

Depression's the curse of my generation and I'm struggling in its grasp

I have a confession. I used to cheat in those multiple choices. My eyes scanned down the lists of A, B, C or D and I would try to figure out which letter was the right one to pick.

Not-so-sorted: Actress Emma Thompson, left, and television presenter Fiona Phillips have both spoken about feelings of depression

If choosing mainly Cs meant that I was popular, with the eyebrows of Jaclyn Smith from Charlie’s Angels, then C was the letter I circled. I picked the answer that made me the best kind of girl to be.

More than 30 years later, I found myself in a psychiatrist’s consulting room with a questionnaire in front of me.

I recognised the format immediately: ‘Please circle A, B, C or D.’ Only this wasn’t a quiz about how to avoid being a wallflower at parties, or make yourself into the ideal bride for Donny Osmond (convert to Mormonism, get your teeth fixed, wear a lot of purple).

The options on this particular multiple choice said things like: ‘I find I take very little pleasure in life these days’; ‘I don’t consider myself to be a happy person’; ‘I drink more alcohol than I used to’; ‘I am anxious and tired some of the time? Most of the time? All of the time?’

My pen hesitated. I wanted to be sure I circled the right answer. Despite the fact I’d finally felt rotten enough to seek professional help, pride dictated that I still came across as the best kind of girl to be.

I could see what the questions were driving at and I could easily imagine the conclusions.

‘If you ticked mainly Bs, you are a total basket case. Get a bloody grip, woman!’ It didn’t say that, obviously. Nonetheless, that was my fear. So I chose the most upbeat answers I could find.

The psychiatrist, a serene, elegant woman, read through my multiple choice answers and gave a brisk little nod. ‘Have you had any suicidal thoughts?’ ‘No. Never. Absolutely not.’

I didn’t mention the strange allure of a nearby motorway bridge at dead of night.

She didn’t speak again. Eventually, I blurted into the silence: ‘Sometimes, I think it would be easier not to be. Not to be dead. I have two children, I can’t leave them. But just to stop, you know. To not exist for a while.

‘Sometimes, not existing, that would be really nice.’

And when do you have these thoughts?

‘Usually at 4am.’ How often are you awake at 4am? ‘Every morning.’ Every morning for how long? ‘I’m not sure. Eighteen months.’

The therapist wrote something on her notepad. Then she said she wanted me to start taking some tablets. I said I didn’t like taking tablets unless they were absolutely necessary.

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‘Don’t worry. We just need to get you off rock bottom so you can start to get better.’

Rock bottom? Get better? What was she talking about? ‘I’m not mad,’ I protested, ‘I’m a national newspaper columnist.’ And we both started to laugh. So it was, dear reader, that I was enrolled in the growing army of depressed middle-aged women.

Let’s call us the Blues Sisters. Unofficial logo: Edvard Munch’s The Scream. Theme tune: Karen Carpenter singing Rainy Days And Mondays .. . ‘Talking to myself and feeling old. Sometimes I’d like to quit. Nothing ever seems to fit.’

Cynics sneer and say that depression is very fashionable these days. I must say, I haven’t felt especially on-trend.

If Harper’s Bazaar ever runs a mid-life Blues Sisters special, it will have to feature models who have been living in the same skanky trackie bottoms for nine weeks. Or a must-not-have dressing-gown trimmed with cat hair.

Perhaps Vivienne Westwood could design the perfect little black dress for the woman who can’t face leaving the house?

Lately, a lot of women have started to speak candidly about their depression.

That wonderfully witty novelist Marian Keyes told fans that she couldn’t sleep, write, read or talk to people.

Emma Thompson, who always comes across as the most sorted, funny star imaginable, admits she has sometimes been in a state ‘when you never wash, and wear the same things all the time . . . You just don’t want to be; you want to switch it off and stop.’

Fiona Phillips, who left the GMTV sofa in 2008, having been its main anchor for 12 years, admitted she suffered a breakdown as she tried to cope with her mother’s Alzheimer’s while trying to provide a normal life for her two young boys.

Fiona didn’t like to complain because she was so fortunate and ‘ everyone’s got hard times in their lives’.

Depression is the curse of my generation. When did this epidemic begin? I can remember my grandmother — my Welsh mamgu — when she was the age I am now, sitting in her back-kitchen and saying: ‘My nerves are playing up.’

You never hear about ‘nerves’ any more, do you? Nerves have gone the way of the hostess trolley and the Ford Prefect. Instead of nerves, we have depression and panic attacks and little silver wafers of pills we pop in our handbag to take the edge off another bright, unmanageable day.

The typical female of my age has been dubbed Sandwich Woman because she found herself in the middle of two demanding generations.

Sandwich Woman postponed having her first baby till her 30s to get her career established. She and her partner couldn’t afford a house to raise kids in on one salary, so she had to keep working.

Then, just as Sandwich Woman got the kids sleeping through the night, one of her parents fell ill. As the modern family is so dispersed, chances are your mum and dad don’t live round the corner any more.

So Sandwich Woman had to drive hundreds of miles to keep an eye on a confused or ailing parent, then race back again to collect the kids from school. Somewhere in between there was a job to be taken care of.

And a man. Life is no picnic for Sandwich Woman — though let me tell you she would dearly love to have time to go on picnics with the kids, in summer, when the weather gets nice.

Is it women who are mad, or is it the society we live in? We always suspected there would be a price for Having It All, and we were happy to pay it; but we didn’t know the cost would be our mental health.

My story is no different from any other Sandwich Woman. For a time, my mum was seriously ill, I ran into gynaecological problems, I fell badly behind with a novel I was writing, and I felt so bad I was letting people down that I didn’t have the self-confidence to finish it.

Because I was permanently tired and distracted, I felt like I was being a lousy mother to my two wonderful children. And I didn’t want to let it show or, God forbid, seek help.

So long as I didn’t seek help, waking at 4am and feeling the call of the motorway bridge was normal. Perfectly normal.

So, ladies, what is the answer to the depression epidemic, that damnable multiple choice of our age? Is it A, B, C or D?

Maybe it’s none of the above. Maybe we have to stop doing multiple choices. Maybe we have to accept that it will be absolutely fine if we’re not the best kind of girl to be.

While the hot cocoa is cooling, prepare the milk mixture. In a separate cup or bowl, combine the milk, sugar, and vanilla extract. Stir well until the sugar is dissolved. 4. Once the hot cocoa is cooled, remove it from the refrigerator. Take the ice cube tray and carefully pour the hot cocoa into each compartment. Fill them about three-quarters of the way full, leaving some space for expansion when freezing. 5. Place the ice cube tray in the freezer and let it freeze for about 2 to 3 hours, or until the cubes are solid. 6. Once the hot cocoa cubes are frozen, remove the ice cube tray from the freezer. Gently pop out the cubes and transfer them to a serving dish or individual cups. 7. Optionally, add a dollop of whipped cream on top of each hot cocoa cube. 8. To enjoy the frozen magic cup, pour the milk mixture slowly over the hot cocoa cubes. As the milk hits the frozen cubes, it will melt them, creating a creamy and delicious drink. 9. Stir the mixture with a magic wand or spoon to further combine the flavors and create a magical swirl effect. 10. Sip and enjoy your frozen magic cup! The combination of the frozen hot cocoa cubes and the milk mixture will create a refreshing and delightful beverage. Note: You can get creative and add toppings or drizzles such as chocolate syrup, sprinkles, or crushed cookies to enhance your frozen magic cup..

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