The 'M' Word

After a very stressful few months and then unceremoniously belly flopping into the new year, I find myself out of energy and about as useful as a car with no engine. When I feel like this, I tend to get very anxious and fed up and inwardly start berating myself for being so useless. "Winter blues, here I am, come and get me you miserable bitch!"

Before I start spiralling into the dark depths of my own misery I thought it was about time to shine the spot light on mental health. Just the term "mental health" makes me cringe and despite awareness being raised after the tragic death of the beloved Robin Williams, it is a term that is still taboo and many who suffer with mental health issues still hide in the shadows. For self preservation I want to edit myself to the point that this blog would only be eight words long, "I suffer from mental health issues. The end" but as I said when I started blogging, It is time to step out of my comfort zone.

It is hard to accept that you struggle with something that is socially unacceptable and harder still to admit it and seek help. I understood at a young age that I battled with depression and anxiety. On three occasions, between the ages of 12 and 19 years old, I tried to commit suicide. Thankfully, I was naive enough not to understand the effects of certain medications and other than feeling very sick and ashamed, I was still alive and glad that my attempts to take my own life had not been successful. At the time I did not see my actions as being selfish. When you feel expendable you think that no one will bat an eyelid at your death. After my last attempt (and in a more balanced frame of mind) I thought, "What if someone I knew did the same thing?" I knew that I would feel very sad and angry. With that realisation I made the decision never to make the same mistake again but it wasn't until I was 23 years old that I admitted that I needed help.

When I was 8 years old, I was taken to see a counsellor after my Dad left. I don't remember it very clearly but I do remember that I did not want to talk to him. In fact I felt this over whelming urge to bite him and run screaming from the room. I didn't though. I just sat there, saying nothing. It was a futile endeavour that I had no interest in repeating, so when I was referred by my doctor to see a counsellor after having a melt down 15 years later, I was more than a little reluctant.

I remember sitting in the waiting room, wondering how many times I was going to be asked "And how does that make you feel?" and whether I actually would bite the counsellor and run screaming this time. Although, I wasn't so sure I would get away with such behaviour as an adult. Luckily I was called through before I could get cold feet. As I walked into the office I looked up to see a mature lady wearing a casual blouse and a pair of comfy trousers, loose hair and a warm smile. No stiff suit, no clip boards, no quizzical stare and in that moment I felt relief.

This counsellor did not judge me nor did I feel like she was sizing me up for a strappy little number, she steered the conversation with a few probing questions but mostly, she let me talk. By the end of the first session I felt raw. Like someone had ripped open my festering wounds scrubbed them until they bled and then neatly dressed them again. It felt strangely good. I hadn't expected it to feel good, in fact I was expecting it to feel like I had been flattened by a ten tonne tank. I almost felt like skipping as I walked home until I remembered I wasn't coordinated enough to attempt such a thing so, instead I mulled over my discoveries hoping that I would learn something that would change my life.

I had seven more sessions with my counsellor and in each one I learnt a little bit more about myself, which in turn helped me have a better understanding of the people around me. In our last session my counsellor told me I was very articulate and incredibly astute. I turned my head to see if someone had slipped into the room behind me. There was no one. For a person who frequently tripped over her own words and with the ability to walk past her own sister in the street without seeing her, I would not have labelled myself as either of these two things. It was nice to hear though but it was many more years before I gave these words any credibility.

After my counselling sessions, I continued with other forms of therapy, some more helpful than others. I even attended group sessions for anxiety sufferers. It was awful! A group of people with varying levels of anxiousness expected to stand up in front of strangers and explain why they suffered from anxiety. It seemed like an oxymoron and very little progress was made in these meetings but I received useful information on coping techniques so it wasn't a complete waste of time.

I would like to say that I was completely cured of all my depression and anxiety due to all the therapy I received but, sadly this was not the case. Although my festering wounds became scar tissue, scar tissue is fragile, it requires maintenance. Little knocks and bumps had become easier to manage but despite my revelations, I still found myself spiralling with any major blow.

It's hard to reach out to anyone when you feel so lost inside your own head. When someone asks, "How are you?" any other response other than "I'm fine thanks, and you?" you are fairly certain will be greeted with eye rolling and blank stares followed by awkward conversation while the other party is looking for a quick exit. It does make it easy to politely deflect such a question if asked by a stranger or someone you consider more curious than caring but when it is someone who genuinely does care, you find you are still doing the dance of polite etiquette. Why though? To look strong? Self preservation? There are probably hundreds of reasons for why that so many with mental health issues struggle with every day. I for one worry that I will sound stupid, that no one will understand and that I will ultimately be expendable if people don't like the answer to their loaded question.

Recently I found myself resenting  the "How are you?" question even though I am guilty of asking the exact same thing. I keep thinking, "If you really care about how someone is feeling why not ask a REAL question?" Not to say that you should go in all guns blazing and ask someone about their childhood but something a little less probing such as, "How did you get on at the doctors the other week or I heard so 'n' so has been having a tough time at school lately, how are you coping?" Nothing that would be classified as prying but enough to give that person the opportunity to open up a dialogue about how they truly are if they feel comfortable to do so. Surely if we could all do this then those of us with mental health issues may not feel so alone in the dark? If you know someone is struggling will you reach out to them or will you wait until they ask for help? Tricky questions with even trickier answers.

I don't want to be ashamed of being a little bit mental anymore. I want to accept it, to wear my battle scars and give people the opportunity to accept me for who I am if they wish to do so and I don't want to worry about the people that cannot accept me. I hope those of you still hidden in the shadows will find your own voice and I hope that it doesn't take another celebrity suicide or any suicide for that matter, for people to realise that mental health is a real issue and should be treated as such.

So, "How are you today?"

Appeasing My Inner Child

After I clicked on the publish button and debuted as a blogger on my own page, I found myself having an anxiety attack. As I sat there with clammy hands and a racing heart two simultaneous thoughts crossed my mind.

"What if somebody reads this?" and "Oh crap! What if somebody reads this!"

After a few breathing exercises (and several cups of tea) I started to calm down and think clearly enough not to click the remove button. I felt quite pleased with my step into the unknown and actually realised that I was looking forward to doing it again.

The things that we look forward to when we are adults seem dramatically different to the things that we looked forward to as a child. When I was knee high to a grass hopper, every Sunday morning, my sister and I were given 50p each to buy sweets from the newsagents down the road. I used to look forward to it all week and I would plan which sweets I would spend my pocket money on. If there were new sweets then all my meticulous planning went out of the window. So, I would sit on the floor of the newsagents, with my nose pressed up against the glass of the sweets cabinet trying to figure out which tasty morsel I could eliminate from the selection I had decided on during the week. I used to think that when I was a grown up I would spend all my pocket money on all the sweeties and I would no longer have to choose between the new ones and all my favourites. For me, that was the dream and I couldn't wait.

Last week I was waddling to the intercom as quick as I could any time it buzzed, for that all important parcel I had been waiting on. "Come on, it's supposed to be 2-5 working days. Where is it!" I've never been very patient when I am looking forward to something. Counting the days the same way I used to do when waiting to go to the newsagents on Sundays and like a child, being utterly disappointed when it turned out to be a neighbour who had forgotten their keys (which seemed to happen an awful lot).

After giving up hope of it arriving at all and gearing myself up to call the courier and shout at them for the umpteenth time this year…it arrived…

Our new hand held cordless vacuum cleaner.

It was purple and shiny and I was soooo happy!

I was utterly thrilled at the idea of being able to do the vacuuming without having to lug Hetty (like a Henry hoover but pink) out of the cupboard and spend hours hauling her around the house. A job that I utterly loathe and frequently leave to my Better Half because just the idea of it makes my back ache. No more! It was liberating and I couldn't wait to test it out.

However, my Better Half was home when it arrived and like all men with new gadgets he grabbed it off me, opened the box and started to play with it! I would like to say I didn't pout like a small child and that I acted like a mature adult but that would be a big fat lie!

Luckily it had some power so we went round "oohing" and "ahhing" as it powered through the cat hair that Hetty failed to devour. I wanted to snatch it off him and have a go myself but I managed to resist the urge and waited my turn. Then, the battery ran out. I knew it would take a couple of hours for it to recharge and by that point it would be too late at night to be vacuuming the house. So, feeling more than a little miffed, I went to bed and sought vengeance during the night by poking my Better Half while he slept.

The next morning, instead of my usual routine of stumbling out of bed and making a beeline straight for the kettle, I jumped out of bed like a kid at Christmas and vacuumed the whole house from top to bottom. I was so surprised to find that it still had battery left when I had finished so I started hunting around for more things that I could clean. After partially dislocating my shoulder, my thumb and three fingers in pursuit of vacuuming the curtains, I figured it would be a good time to stop and let myself and my new toy recharge. Despite my injuries I was beaming at my fuzz-free house that I had cleaned all by myself.

You may think me very sad and 10 years ago I probably would have coughed a not so subtle "loser" if I had been told a similar story. However, as much as we all look forward to the highlights of our lives, going out, holidays, getting married, having children, etc, etc. I think it's just as important to look forward to the little things and appease our inner child no matter how daft others may think it is. It certainly can make the week a little less ordinary.

If at first you don't succeed, try, try again…and again…and again.

 I have always been more of a thinker than a writer, a day dreamer if you please. With my head off in the clouds and very rarely in the 'here and now' writing did not seem like the obvious step forward. It takes time and energy to transfer thoughts and ideas to the page. Time and energy I have copious amounts of, and none of, all at the same time.

The problem is, when I have so many thoughts and ideas whizzing around, my brain becomes crowded. I can no longer think along a straight line and I find that I have just put the bottle of milk in the washing machine or something else utterly absurd. So there needs to be an outlet for all those random thoughts that strike me at all hours of the day and keep me awake at night, but what?


I have been told numerous times over the years that I should write things down to help me get perspective. Clear my head to make space for new thoughts, new ideas, new dreams but until now I have been reluctant to do so. Not just because of the time and energy it would take to write them all down but because the gremlins in my head make me feel like I should censor the things I would like to say. I have recently been told by a fellow blogger and writer that this is my 'critical parent', my 'internal editor' making me censor what I say. I like to call them my gremlins because they are ugly, spiteful and they seem to multiply when splashed with negative emotion. Whatever they call it they make me want to keep it all locked away inside my brain where no one can judge me and I am safe.

So, why am I writing this?
I have asked myself this question repeatedly and have minced around the truth of this question for a couple of months now and this was the only honest answer as to why I felt the need to write.

Many times I have had to start over with my life and each time I feel like I have failed to accomplish my dreams and aspirations, like I have let myself and everyone around me down and all I wanted to do is crawl into a hole and not re-emerge, unless I won the lottery of course. However, after a period of self loathing, doubt and mourning over what I had lost I found I came to a point where I had to make a decision. Do I continue feeling sorry for myself or do I set myself new goals and strive for a new dream, or a slightly modified old one? This point usually comes when I step out of my own misery and look at my better half. I see how hard he tries and how much he cares and he reminds me why I was trying in the first place.

For us.

He makes me want to keep trying, to be the best that I can be and to always find a way round the dung heaps that life so carelessly leaves in it's wake. If it wasn't for my better half I would have given up a long time ago. I certainly would not have found a new job when I could no longer do hairdressing. I would not have found a diagnosis to my illness that made no sense and I certainly would not be writing this now.

Today is a new beginning and with all new beginnings we must shed our old life and step boldly into the present and face our fears head on. Writing something for the world to see and judge me on is one of my biggest fears, one which I now intend to face without my gremlins (hopefully) and probably with a lot of spell checking, but maybe, just maybe it will help.

And if it all goes tits up…well, then I will try again.