Break ups and making it up

I've been avoiding blogging as it's hard to talk about my mental health without mentioning the one thing that is currently having a profound impact on my life. And Will's life. And Bea's. The cat not so much. She really is a heartless creature with no respect for the adage 'don't bite the hand that feeds you'.

I'm comfort eating, I'm lethargic, I'm not reading as my concentration is poor. Each morning I struggle to get out of bed, I don't sleep and I'm regularly close to tears. Exactly the way I was feeling 18 months ago. However at least this time there's a specific reason - the end of my marriage*. Even typing the words feels unreal. Will and I have been together for 25 years. Let that sink in for a minute. More than half of my life spent with this man. The uni years. The London years. The newly married years. The first house years. The money pit years. The baby years. The let's move house five times years. The surely she's a teenager already years. All of them the depression years - sorry, Will. It's been an eventful quarter century. Which is what makes this all so very sad.

If we hated each other it might be easier to move on, to accept that it's over, but we don't. For Bea this is both good and bad. It's hard for a 12 year old to understand why her parents are splitting up when they still laugh together and take the piss out of each other. The flip side is that long term this should make it easier for us all. Or not. Who knows? We're totally making this up as we go along. Acing it some days. Crash landing on others - we have expert advice from Chesley Sullenberger but still we're in the Hudson, not at LaGuardia.

Why write now? Well a number of reasons, all of them resulting from the situation we find ourselves in, and when I feel at my worst it really does help me to write.

1. The people we love

We worried about telling our parents, our friends and Bea. When was the right time? Would people feel they need to take sides? How would we explain why this is happening? It was predominantly painless with tears of course but plenty of support from friends and family alike. As my moving out date draws nearer though it's hitting home that life will be, has to be, different. I have to say goodbye not just to my husband but also to his parents. I know we'll still meet up but not in the same way. Those dinners we shared where we all got a little (very) drunk and talked into the small hours - they won't happen again. Over the summer we holidayed together in Spain and it was one of the most perfect weeks I've spent with them. I wish we could have more trips like that.

Then there's our friends. When you've been a couple for as long as we have inevitably many of your friends become joint friends. We holiday with three other families every year. What do we do now? New Year's Eve is always spent with the same couple, including our children. How do we handle that? Step by step I guess but it's hugely overwhelming and we'll definitely need some help**.

2. Christmas

I never planned to move out over Christmas. My new house is exactly that - brand new and typically it happens to be finished this month. We're spending Christmas together, the three of us, moving things into the new house over a period of weeks. Never really one for ripping the plaster off quickly instead we're going for the slow, painful peel away... See what I mean about making it up as we go along - is there even a right way to do this? I felt pretty good about the Christmas decision. Bea doesn't have to split her day (next year she will but we should be in a much better place by then), no turkey for one ready meals and less chance of me having a Bridget Jones moment - all by myself. Neither of us thought about the cards though. Both sending them and receiving them. Do we send them from all 3 of us one last time? Or opt to not send any, completely avoiding the issue? We've had our first cards that no longer say 'Will, Emma & Bea' - ha who am I kidding, it was alway 'Emma, Will & Bea' - but instead 'Will and Bea' or 'Em & Bea'. Sucker punch moments.

3. Bea

Where do I even start? We adore her. She is everything that's good about our relationship. As Will said this week, prompting tears, 'she's our legacy'. I'm crying as I write this. You know that song in the Sound of Music 'Something Good' - it's on a loop in my head because honestly we did. We did something good: Bea. She's seeing a counsellor at school. I'm so proud of her for taking this step and after meeting with her Vice Principal, they think she's coping extremely well. But my guilt kicks in and I worry about the effect this is having on her. She'll split her time between us equally and I know we'll do everything we can to make this as painless as possible but it doesn't change the fact that we're changing her life forever too.

So you might be wondering why we are doing this? Because it's the right thing to do. Not the easy thing but most definitely the right thing. Almost certainly the right thing. The 'right at this moment in time given the circumstances' thing. If we can continue to do this in a way that considers all of our feelings, it might at least be a little easier. That can never be the wrong thing to do.


* Please don't call this a conscious uncoupling. Even if it is. We're not the Martin/Paltrows. It's wanky.

** Unless you have always hated/disliked one of us there's no need to take sides. If you HAVE always hated one of us, fill your boots and pick your team. Either way - everyone can be happy.

Count me out

I like a bandwagon.

Except when I don't.

#365daysofselfcare is currently a thing on Twitter.

I'm giving it a go.

If it's anything like my photo a day blog I'll love it until about day 180...

Today's self care is all about doing what makes me happy.

Even if that pisses other people off.

A bit like the grammar in this meme.

Which I love.

The meme.

Not the grammar.

Why am I explaining myself?

#365daysofselfcare

This is Day #3.

Stuck on the guilt-a-whirl*

Gemma Correll is the rock goddess of illustrators for me. She completely captures, in a humorous way of course, how I feel as a depressive. I remember many people being shocked when I told them I suffered with depression: “but you’re so smiley”; “so happy”; “outgoing”. Yep. None of these characteristics are mutually excluded from the life of someone who suffers with mental health problems. In fact for me they are part and parcel of my general demeanour along with being a key component of my many coping mechanisms.

This particular low point I’m currently experiencing has come at me out of nowhere, a bit like the lorry in Cold Feet when Rachel was reaching for a cassette to play in the car. God. Remember cassettes? Imagine having to piss about with a footwell full of those just to save yourself from the repetitive drivel that’s played on most radio stations (6 Music excluded of course).

Back to Gemma. If you haven’t seen her work check it out www.gemmacorrell.com — if we’re friends I’ve shared most of it already because, well, I’m a bit obsessed with her — this sums up much more eloquently than I ever could how I feel at the moment.

From the top:

Visit Depression Land — if you have the energy to get out of bed. As I sleep an average of 2 hours a night I could blame this for my lethargy but the truth is I’m wide awake most of the time, I just can’t be arsed to move.

But assuming I’ve hauled my Padfoot carrying carcass off the mattress and somehow managed to get dressed and travel to Depression Land I’d probably skip the cruise. (I’ve ignored the mascot because I don’t want to get into an “I’m more tired than you” competition. I’d win.) Love the fact Gemma references one of the most irritating Disney songs of all time ‘It’s a small world’ because it perfectly captures the irritation at struggling to do things like read a book, go to the cinema or catch up with friends. I do still listen to a lot of music albeit my obsessive tendencies mean I’m inclined to hit repeat on inappropriate songs…

The Meh-Go-Round is more enticing. If only to use it as platform for launching non lethal missiles at well meaning people who really believe that positive thinking or more exercise are the answer. I don’t want to belittle anyone who’s genuinely trying to help but if it was that simple we’d all do it. I do feel better when I exercise but I refer you to my earlier point — some days I don’t even get dressed. In ordinary clothes. My gym kit is a stretch too far. And thinking about it, in more ways than one. Comfort eating is a life saver.

Please, don’t stop trying, just try something different.

1. Send a hug. Hugs are ace. They convey a battle bus of emotion without the need for tongues.
2. Tell someone you’re thinking of them. Probably not if they’ve just told you they’re in bed, unless you have those sorts of privileges — being in someone’s thoughts is very comforting.
3. Post a funny pic on their Facebook wall/ via whatsapp or if you’re old school in the actual post. Funny. We all need more funny. Read the message below with a Scouse accent… You have to admit that’s a little bit amusing?

Then finally, before the gates on Depression Land close for another day, as the sun is setting in the sky and teletubbies say bye bye (no fucking idea why that just popped into my head — does the avodaco look a bit like La La?) it’s time to take a spin on the guilt-a-whirl. An absolute favourite spot for all us mentalists. We feel bad. Then we feel bad because we feel bad. Which makes us feel bad. Round and round we go. Feeling guilty for being depressed. Feeling depressed because of our guilt. What a never ending circle of Dante like emotions.

Cheery little post this, isn’t it? Watch this and remember I NEVER fail to dance when I hear it. Plus I epitomise the ‘dance like nobody is watching’ quote mainly because I’ve got sunshine in my pocket and it’s burning a hole in my pants. It’s a win for us all.

*Hats off to Gemma for the guilt-a-whirl. Brilliant name.

World mental health day: sharing is caring

My interest in mental health means I already follow* plenty of people who write or comment on the subject but I like to think that World Mental Health Day (WMHD) has raised awareness outside of the inner circle.

Over the past 5 days I’ve been part of something very special. Deep down I know this is the norm but it’s hard to accept that when I’m spiralling downwards.

On Monday I sketched out some of the thoughts that go round in my head. Not all at the same time. Nobody could cope with that much negativity every day. If you do however, hats off to you, you’re a stronger person than I am. Stick with it but for God’s sake ask for some help.

My simplistic illustration was an easy way to ask people to get involved. To take some time to consider how it feels to live with mental health problems. Life’s not all misery and despair but the strength it takes not to fall into that rabbit hole can be exhausting before the day’s even begun. I thought if I was prepared to share some of my innermost thoughts I could legitimately ask others to invest themselves just a little.

And some of you did. With bells on. Great big jangling shiny bells. No euphemisms here. Think Christmas and Liberty, not end.

This is my illustration:

Not a great work of art and with full disclosure it only took me about 30 minutes but it is an accurate representation of how I’ve felt in the past (and some of the things I'm feeling today).

It clearly struck a chord. I can’t remember the last time one of my tweets made such an impression (see what I did there?). But more than that I was blown away by the response by my friends on Facebook. First up Paul Walker, my much loved friend from Uni commented that he thought it would make a cool canvas — Paul is an incredible artist so a huge compliment! Then Lesley Marshall, a friend from my days at BT, asked if she could share it.

And then things went a little crazy. Paul, Lesley, Jo McEnery, Will, my sister Ruth, Mark Doughty and Andrew Sugden used it as their profile pic to raise awareness of WMHD. Plus other friends shared very lovely messages of support — Sophie, Carry, Carrie, Rachel W, Rachel D, Tim, Ben, Paula, Sarah, Kirsti, Vicki and Julie.

And then, things got really silly and I was asked if the image could be used by several companies who were planning campaigns during WMHD. Of course I said yes and I feel ridiculously proud (and also somewhat embarrassed).

The irony of my mind map and the support network I have isn’t lost on me. I use phrases like ‘unlikeable’ and ‘unloveable’ because I genuinely feel like that, most days. Which is why I also say ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ because it’s the truth. Don’t give up on me or other friends/colleagues/family members like me. We’re probably doing everything we can to stop ourselves from sinking and you never know how much that kind word or thoughtful gesture might mean.

Finally, to everyone who liked, loved, shared and engaged with my picture — thank you. I hope it’s given you a look behind the curtain. If I forgot to mention you I’m sorry, take your pick of the statements in my illustration; one of them will provide a reason/an excuse I’m sure.

*Online obviously. I’m not loitering outside Matt Haig’s house, or trying to catch the same train as Ruby Wax.

Be the reason someone smiles today

Hello you lovely lot. It's World Smile Day. Yesterday it was National Teacher's Day. Tomorrow National something else Day. Actually October 8th is National Fluffernutter Day. I kid you not. Some things are too ridiculous to be made up.

Ignore my fake cynicism.

I'm a big fan of smiling. I like to think I smile a lot, even though I have depression. They're not mutually exclusive thank God. I did think about sharing a venn diagram to illustrate the point but, well, you know...

Although if you think you sit firmly in the blue camp take a look at this:

You have to admit, that's pretty funny!

I've lost the point of this post after falling down a Venn diagram rabbit hole. But along with pie charts they're one of my favourite mathematical props. As I've mentioned pie charts this is smile worthy surely?

No? What about this?

If your mouth failed to twitch at any of these pics we're probably not great friends but it's a day to celebrate smiling so whatever tickles your fancy go with it. Just remember to spread the joy. We can never smile too much.

Thanks to all of you that regularly make me smile. I hope this post has returned the favour just a little.

10 top tips for good parenting - Emma style

What makes a good parent? 

Kindness? Patience? Being a suitable role model? 

Google 'good parenting' and you'll be rewarded with page after page of articles like: 10 little things good parents do; nine steps to more effective parenting and 50 easy ways to be a fantastic parent. 

Easy? Easy ways? Fifty of them? I've been a parent for almost 12 years now and easy has never been a word I've associated with the job. And yes, I do think of it as a job. Motherhood doesn't come easy to me. Not the love bit; that's pretty straightforward especially when you have a funny, kind, bright child. But like most children she's also argumentative, stubborn and domineering and I'm constantly having to up my game. I don't want to pass on my insecurities, my indecisiveness, my depression. 

Since asking for help over a year ago my condition no longer manifests itself in an inability to get off the sofa. My diet is far from good but I'm not single handedly supporting the bottom line of Walkers. I drink alcohol again - more than the recommended guidelines but less than Oliver Reed. I can see I've made progress but I recognise that at times I'm still a mess. I'm ok with that when there's only me to consider but how do I make sure I'm not setting a precedent with B where she sees my behaviour, my character as the norm?

I try to be honest with her and provide her with some context - only as much as she needs of course - if I let her see the whole truth I'm pretty sure I'd scare the hell out of her. However how do I really know how much she needs or whether this is more about what I need? That's when I start to question if I'm a good parent. Aren't most of us winging it every day? Please say yes. If I find out that you've all got this whole parenting thing sussed it might just tip me over the edge and I don't think there are enough packets of Wotsits on sale in Swaffham.  

One definition of good parenting I've seen is:

Good parenting happens when a person creates for a child a stable, nurturing home environment, is a positive role model, and plays a positive and active part in a child's life. Good parents provide moral and spiritual guidance, set limits, and provide consequences for a child's behaviour.

Nothing too scary there. Suitably broad so that even I can relate to it and agree that, in general, I'm a good parent.

Ask people to define bad parenting though and my discomfort level is turned up to 11. Especially when they cite things like 'someone who puts their own needs before their child'. Put it this way, if I hadn't finally put my own needs first we'd be in a dire situation as a family today. Depression is cruel. It makes me feel worthless, helpless, incompetent and inadequate. In my desire to the do the right thing for my child I ask a lot of questions. Questions like:

• Is it healthy for B to see that medication is a core part of my life?  In one of my first posts I said that we're ok with people taking pills to help with long term conditions like diabetes, arthritis or heart problems and mental health shouldn't be any different. But we refer to anti-depressants as happy pills and that underplays their importance. I'm not unhappy. I'm depressed. It's different. 
• When I can't force myself out of the door to exercise how can I then talk to her about a healthy lifestyle? She called me up on this over the weekend when she had agreed to go for a run and then didn't want to. "You say you're going for a run and then don't; why is that any different?" In some ways she's right, it isn't any different. I want her to be able to trust me to be true to my word but when my body feels as if I've swallowed an Acme anvil I don't stand a chance. We don't live in a society where 'do as I say, not what I do' is a suitable response (thankfully) but we do live in one where I can try to explain how I feel even if it's hard for her to understand.
• I could go on. I won't, but I could.

I don't believe any of us fully appreciate what makes us good parents. Sometimes it's luck. Sometimes it's what we do. Sometimes it's the kids we have. I've come up with my own top 10 tips all of us simply trying to get through another day as a Mum or Dad or similar.

10 top tips for good parenting - Emma style

Try to:

1. Greet your child with a warm smile and a proper hug when they wake up in the morning. You can go back to sucking lemons when they take a nap/ go to school/ go to work.
2. Make it through the day without swearing in front of them. The money in the swear jar will probably go towards a visit to watch some wretched teen film - in your purse/wallet you can buy chocolate/wine/that handbag you've been googling.
3. Bonus points if you don't swear at them (some of you will totally get this - that's who this list is for).
4. Avoid hiding away in the bathroom unless you're about to break down in front of them. In which case lock the door and muffle your screams with a bath mat or a large towel.
5. Cook a balanced meal and eat at the table as a family - it sets a good example. Anyway the meal will be over with more quickly if you're still wearing your lemon sucking face.
6. Eat takeaway and cake in front of the TV because experiences are much more important than good examples. Plus if you don't watch Bake Off live you won't be able to sit on twitter later.
7. Take your meds with a glass of wine and explain that it's the wine that makes you happy, not the pills.
8. Wear pjs all day - it reduces the amount of washing you have to do and hell that's great for the environment. You will eventually have to wash your dressing gown though - we don't want to cross the line into complete and utter slovenliness. 
9. Take the piss out of yourself and your family. None of us are perfect and being able to laugh at yourself is one of life's greatest skills. Don't try this one if you have a dodgy sense of humour. Jokes about suicide don't go down well with everyone. So I've heard...
10. Make sure your kids knows they're central to your life but not the centre of your life. We have to be responsible for our own happiness and one day they'll leave home and you have to be able to cope with that. Unless you live in London in which case you're stuck with them forever because they'll never be able to afford to move out.

I think I'm a good parent most of the time. I know I'm a terrible parent some of the time. And just occasionally I get it right and I'm a great parent. That's as much as I can hope for isn't it?

#depressionfeelslike

"Yawn, yawn - is she still harping on about depression?" Nobody has actually said this to my face. Quite the opposite really but I still feel believe that's what people think. I'm sure some of you have thought that at least once - I promise I totally understand. It's boring for me too.

Repetition isn't always dull though. I never tire of Eddie Izzard enacting 'There must have been a Death Star canteen', or of watching The Two Ronnies perform their 'Four candles', or should that be 'Fork handles', sketch. Ok so both of those make me laugh but I also like to rewatch things that make me cry. Like the end of Ashes to Ashes "See you around Bollykecks" and Sally Field in Steel Magnolias "I can jog all the way to Texas and back, but my daughter can't!"; although again humour is part of the pathos in these scenes.

It's also an enormous part of my life. I like, need, to make people laugh; I'm often the (self-elected) comedian at family gatherings. When you feel like shit as often as I do a clown mask is a great way to deflect people, to cover up your true emotions, to make it look like you're ok.

I've been blogging less because it feels self-indulgent (I've said that before) and repetitive (I've said that before too). I've been blogging less because I began to question if my depression is something that happens to me or something I bring on myself. I've been blogging less because FFS - I have a great kid, a job I enjoy, the support of some amazing people and a pretty nice roof over my head. Fair enough I also have questionable fashion sense and middle-age spread (which is nowhere near as interesting as Lotus - middle class spread) but overall the positives in my life are tipping the scales.

And yet it's still there. The black cloud. The black dog. Padfoot. I'm making some major changes at the moment and wondering if these will help improve my condition. I'm unconvinced. If anything I'm scared I've created another opportunity for anxiety to creep in.

There's a hashtag on twitter - #depressionfeelslike - to share insights into its affects. Insights that are far more eloquent than anything I could ever write, illustrations so simple yet managing to convey complex emotions. Strong, courageous people who feel weak and cowardly.

#depressionfeelslike a parasite has locked itself in its own created world within my brain and evicted my own mind.

#depressionfeelslike depression isn't always suicide notes and pill bottles. Sometimes it's all smiles and fake laughter. It isn't always easy to notice.

#depressionfeelslike with every minute that passes by, I keep saying I'll get out of bed but my body is frozen. 

And mine?

#depressionfeelslike sinking in quicksand, then being rescued. Sometimes you want to sink in quicksand; sometimes you want to be rescued.

I'm not really sure what my point is. Perhaps I want everyone to remember that we're all doing the best we can with the flaws we have.

So a big thank you to Mark for replying to my tweet today with 'Lifeguard bear on duty'. Thank you to everyone who continues to send me messages of support. To all of you who make me smile and accept me in spite of my flaws. You're the ones who get me through even the toughest of days. You're the ones who know when I want to be rescued.

Imperfect and inevitably flawed. I'm ok with that.

Applying sun screen for 11 days has forced me to be honest about how my body looks. Generally I'm not one for short sleeves, skirts or tight fitting clothes but in a break from Mumsy tradition I've opted for bikinis during our trip to Spain. One has a tiny half, the other a skimpy top. They're not at all me - far too much flesh on show. Like many women I'm not hugely confident about the way I look and yes I know I could exercise more, eat less, blah blah blah but honestly I don't want to. If I exercise I want to do it because it makes me feel good not have it linked to weigh-ins and inches lost. Plus I like my food. A lot.

I've had plenty of time to reflect on the way I feel about my appearance and it's time I started to view things a little differently.

I'm short. People love to tell me this. Like I hadn't noticed. "What? Am I? I had no idea. I thought everyone else was wearing stilts/standing on steps." When I was a kid I was told I probably wouldn't grow beyond 4'11". I'm 5'2". I'll take that as a win. Plus being small means I can sit anywhere (cinema, theatre, plane) without feeling too cramped. It's not all bad.

I don't have a six pack. Unless you count the San Miguel or the Coke Zeros in the fridge. Some people claim they do - it's simply hiding. Mine isn't. I think I left it somewhere back in the '90s. Actually I know exactly where it is - Anvin - crushed by the weight of too much Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Nutella and crisps. One glorious week spent eating, drinking, reading and sleeping. Laughing with Will and two very dear friends as we made memories that are now part of our personal lore: Monsieur Darkness, Titi and Hesdin. That top trumps a six pack any day of the week.

I have dimples. One on my left cheek and too many to count on my thighs. After the Anvin trip and a recalibration of what would become my natural weight I wholeheartedly embraced the hedonism of London/pre children life and ate/drank my way from North to South, East to West. A dining club with friends took us around the country to some of the best restaurants the UK has to offer. I spent Sunday mornings reading the papers, eating bacon sandwiches and drinking good coffee. Barely a week passed when I didn't have tickets for a show, a play or the cinema. Years and years spent perfecting the imperfect thighs that I have today and this holiday I've covered them up less and enjoyed myself more.

Big boobs aren't all they're cracked up to be. Stop it! Try buying an off the peg bikini when you need the equivalent of a 34DD matched with size 10 pants. The comedic value alone of trying them on is worth it - either I end up with too much side boob or run the risk of my pants falling down as I take my first step towards the pool. And that's before we encounter the ridiculous differences in sizing charts across retailers. I've spent my trip in one old faithful and one new one. Sometimes mismatching the tops and bottoms and accepting that my top heavy shape is what it is.

Lines. I must not worry about my lines. I must not worry about my lines. On my face. My neck. My hands. A tan is apparently the worst thing for advancing the ageing process. I no longer care. With a tan I can travel home in white jeans and a light coloured top; yes it will no doubt be raining but I'll be golden and glowing for a few weeks at least and I've already curated a very impressive scarf collection.

Scarred for life. My c-section scar. It gave me Bea. Need I say more?

There we have it. I have a body, I'm confident of that. In support of helping all those younger men and women who struggle because they don't feel perfect I'm embracing the way I look because it's what makes me, well me. Not the way I look. The way I think about it. Like my mind it has its flaws and imperfections but it also has aspects to be admired.

If I can find a positive in areas that others might see as negative that's a good thing right. Next time you see me in a skirt that reveals a bit too much thigh or a top that shows my arms may soon be ready for a night at Gala Bingo, remember many happy events have led me to this point. My body can change. So can my attitude towards it.

Hit mute. Unfollow. I don't mind because I'm proud of my kid.

I share a lot of pictures of Bea. Post a lot of updates about her. I've lost count of how many thousands of photos I've taken. For some of you this is probably what you think:

Fair play. By all means hit unfollow on Facebook, mute me on Twitter because I'm not going to stop anytime soon. When you suffer with low self esteem it's crippling. Deep down I know I do a good job at work, that I'm a good Mum but there's always this nagging voice in the back of my head telling me I'm worthless. These days it's a a little quieter than it used to be; still there though. Telling me I'm going to get sacked. That my Mum doesn't love me. That I'm failing at this parenting lark. How could anybody love me?

And then there's Bea. An absolute shining light in a world that's so dark. She's far from perfect, she can be hideous when she wants to be but I adore her. I can see that she's pretty but that's so superficial. She's so much more than that; funny, clever, thoughtful, argumentative, challenging, loving and the only thing that enables me to keep my head above water some days.

For good measure here's one more picture of her. Dozing on my knee as she waits for Muse (look at her Eiffel Tower earrings!). The love of my life. Bea.

Obsessing about obsessing

One of my most irritating character traits is having an all or nothing approach to life. If I'm interested in something this can quickly become all consuming. It could be a song that I can't stop listening to (Yuna - Lanes), a programme I have to keep watching (all of The Following in a matter of days), a piece of clothing I want to wear day in, day out (grey hoodie), a type of food I can't stop eating (salmon & tuna on a bed of rice from Itsu), having to organise the apps on my phone by colour rather than function (look how pretty it is!), or worst of all (for both of us) a new friend.

This obsessive behaviour isn't hugely problematic when it's a work project; in some cases it's helpful even if it means I work ridiculous hours due to an inability to switch off. However, if it's a someone; if you're the object of my attention (not affection) I can imagine it's a bit weird. Okay a lot weird. I've spent a significant amount of time in the past 9 months working this through in a bid to pinpoint where this comes from; to be honest I always suspected the reason and it's now more a case of changing my behaviours so that I stop freaking people out.

As a kid my Dad left. Early doors, when I was still a toddler. To this day I don't fully understand what happened and as he died almost 3 years ago I don't suppose I ever will now. I'm fairly sure this triggered my low self esteem. That probably sounds daft to most of you. How can a child suffer with self esteem issues? But imagine if one of the two people you expect to be able to rely on, whatever the situation, leaves you. Never sends a birthday card, or makes a call and yet you still spend time with his mother and his siblings, just not with him. Well sometimes with him and then it's even more awkward because he has a new wife and new children who don't want you to be part of their family. Now consider the deep routed sense of rejection this triggers especially because it's never explained to you what you did wrong. Or in fact that you didn't do anything wrong. That it's his issue, not yours. But still, if a parent finds you unlikeable/unloveable, what hope is there that anyone else can?

I thought life without my Dad was ok. I have many fond memories of my childhood although I do also hate a lot of it. It surprises me that it's taken me this long to work out why I'm a people pleaser - why I've regularly put myself in uncomfortable situations to try and make myself more likeable rather than doing what I really want to do. The result of which is usually that I'm less likeable, defeating the objective completely. I have an unhealthy need to be liked, loved even. Worse still once I feel someone has proved that they do in fact like me I often move on to someone else because self doubt begins to creep in and  I need to prove myself all over again. It's a relief to talk openly about it and make small changes - thinking about what makes me happy and going with it especially when historically I'd have ignored my needs for the sake of someone else's. If you've maintained any kind of relationship with me for the long haul - thank you - I know how hard that will have been at times. Plus, I must genuinely like you as history states that I'd have moved on by now if I didn't.

If you've been the focus of my obsession in the past and then been left out in the cold wondering where I went; I'm sorry. Hopefully this provides you with a bit of perspective. Not all of you mind. Some people I have purposefully turned the page on and now feel strong enough to leave it that way. I'm accepting that I can't be liked by everyone but it's nice to be liked by those who I care about. That's where I'm focusing my energy from now on. You know who you are and I'll try my hardest not to be obsessive about it... No promises though.

Is depression a choice?

I didn't sleep last night. I don't sleep well most nights but not to sleep for more than an hour is a rarity these days. It's been a difficult week with a lot going on in my head - more than usual - which is a scary thought. Imagine my head on a 'good' day can be like watching Sam Fox and Mick Fleetwood present the Brits; that gives you a sense of how bad a 'bad' day really is.

Whatever happened to Sam Fox?

My current period of reflection came about after my last counselling session. It was a weird session because I wasn't entirely sure why I needed it, I just knew that I did. Cue 50 minutes of me talking nonsensically trying to work out what was bugging me. We talked about what triggers my depression - it's not that straightforward but there are warning signs for me. I do feel I'm coping with it much better than this time last year because I can see when a down period is on the horizon and that's generally after a massive high. And then Jeff said something which has played over and over in my head for a week - he said it's almost like I'm choosing to be bipolar. Could I try not to be depressed after a period of high energy and almost joy?

Fuck, I wasn't expecting that. Is this self-inflicted? Is what I'm going through my own fault? I really didn't think so but I can see the logic in repetitive patterns becoming self-fulfilling. Am I so used to feeling like crap after a London day for example that it's become a habit? I've monitored my behaviour this week in a bid to see if this is something I can change and if it really is a choice; I'll do it for the next few weeks. This week has had some incredible high points and yes that's resulted in a fall but I do also feel depressed during my London days. I have to manage this the best I can whereas at home I can shut the door and crawl under a duvet. That does feel like a choice but a choice that I make when it's appropriate to do so.

Honestly? I'm not convinced at the moment. I like feeling buzzy. I love the spark I get from going to work. I really don't want to feel like shit. There are issues I'm still working through and I believe these have an impact on my general mood. I don't think this is my choice. But I'm open to continuing to test that.

Image: hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com

Feel the good, good creeping up on me

I don't write as much as I'd like to these days because a lot of the time it feels self-absorbed. Probably because depression is a bit fucking* self-absorbing and that's one of its most frustrating traits. Along with being really, really boring. I'm sure you're bored of hearing how boring it is. Well imagine that for hours, days, weeks, months on end. That's how boring it can be. 

I'm lucky that the flip side of my depression is I'm absolutely wired some days and can't get enough out of the day but for those closest to me I suspect (ok I know) that this makes me hard to live with. (BTW thanks for your patience because I'm not expecting to change anytime soon and those huge highs are what keep me hanging on).

Yesterday I tried vlogging instead. Much easier for me and much more palatable for you I think. 47 seconds of self absorption compared to however many minutes it takes you to read this. I thought about posting a second vlog last night after I'd seen my counsellor but I was a bit emotional and would either have cried into the camera or laughed manically - neither of which appealed to me no matter how entertaining it might have been for you.

So why this post? I'm still struggling to concentrate on reading books or watching TV - even if it's not as bad as it was last year - whereas my love of music is definitely back. The effort of picking what to play is a different matter which means I often end up listening to the same song on repeat until the repetition starts to drive me mad...

Justin Timberlake's 'Can't stop the feeling' is my go to song this week (closely followed by Kung - This Girl) and each time I play it I really can feel the good, good creeping up on me. If you haven't seen the video I have to stop myself dancing like this when I hear it - totally failed on the tube on Thursday but brought a smile to the faces of the other people in my carriage. Laughing at me not with me? Possibly but who cares I was loving it. And anyway as JT says "Feel the good, good creeping up on you so just dance, dance, dance" (man can that boy sing and dance).

*Sorry Auntie Margaret but sometimes only swearing helps :)

Not by the hair on my chinny, chin, chin

Anyone else just a little bit pleased that the weather has turned colder?

I'm not ready to stop lighting the fire yet and after the diet I've adopted for the past 9 months, trousers and jumpers really are my friends. A cold spell means I can wear a hat when I can't be arsed to wash my hair. Throw a sweatshirt over my pyjama top when getting dressed feels like too much of an effort. And joy of joys, it means I'm saved from shaving on a regular basis. If you never embrace the au naturel approach to grooming you don't know what you're missing out on. I hadn't appreciated that full body waxing was a thing until this week; well it's not the sort of thing I'm keen to try anytime soon.

Why is it when men don't shave they become rugged and sexy but if women don't shave - legs and underarms in particular - they should prepare themselves for a life of celibacy? Neglect your bikini line and you might as well hit google with a search for wimples and habits.

I'm fast approaching the age where facial hair is likely to require year round attention. It starts with eyebrow shaping and upper lip hair removal and before you know it I'll be competing with friends to see who has the most impressive goatee; I've already had several conversations with friends about the single chin hair. What the hell is that all about?

So although I'm looking forward to long summer days I can't deny that I'm currently enjoying my low maintenance appearance - it's a godsend when I'm having one of my 'nope' days.

Guilt: the shackles on my feet

Guilt can be a nasty fucker can't it?

Sometimes it's completely appropriate - like when you've done something that you know is wrong or ill judged. That type of guilt is a great teacher. It provides us with markers for how we want to grow and how we should behave; usually once we've realised this we can move on and leave the guilt behind.

Appropriate, useful guilt.

The guilt I feel from my depression is very different. It's disproportionate and generally misplaced. I do know this but for some reason I can't process it. Not only does it compound my feelings of low self-esteem, it also leads to indecision and a belief that everything I do is wrong. This isn't uncommon.

People with depression, people like me, we're quick to blame ourselves for problems around us, even for those things that we have no responsibility for.

If someone asks to speak to me about something my automatic reaction is 'what have I done?' As a 44 year old I'm not prone to getting into trouble. Troublesome, yes. In trouble, no. So where does this feeling come from? That's what I'm trying to get to the bottom of.

Some of you will get this like that (snaps fingers). Some of you will think it sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous. That doesn't stop it from being real too.

I've discussed this in detail with my counsellor, Jeff. The seemingly infinite number of things I feel guilty about. Like how I've let down the person who believed in me for an MD job that I eventually walked away from; how I think I'm betraying family members by talking about them in our counselling meetings; even the guilt I felt about cancelling an appointment with Jeff when I was ill. It's a symptom that I've carried with me for years. It's unshakeable.

I still worry about things I did as a kid, even though I was just a kid doing the stupid things someone of that age does.

I feel guilty for feeling depressed when to the outside world I have nothing to be depressed about.

Too often I simply feel guilty for feeling guilty.

Like I said, guilt can be a nasty fucker can't it?

Let's keep talking

I knew her by reputation only but when I heard the news about Helen Stokes today I was completely blindsided. Not in a 'lets jump on the grief bandwagon' kind of way. Anyway if you want to jump on a bandwagon, jump away, life is short, do what makes you happy. Even if that involves crying.

My life is good. I won't even try to deny that. I'm more at peace than I've ever been before and I'm making decisions every day that have a positive impact for me and, more importantly, the people around me. Unfortunately that doesn't stop Padfoot showing up. Like the oversized hound of hell that he is. Seriously, if I get myself a living, breathing black dog will he perhaps fuck right off? Unless he really is Gary Oldman in which case, stick around, I'm all yours.

He appeared in the tube again. I'm starting to think I may have watched An American Werewolf in London too many times in my youth as this seems to be a recurring theme. "Don't stray off the path lads..."

I'd spotted a woman on the platform who seemed to have a look in her eyes that I recognised. So I checked up on her. Which means I kept her in my line of sight. She was fine. At this moment in time at least. The tube arrived and she got on. No drama. My greydar clearly isn't up to Bawdsey standards and my furtive imagination would be put to better use writing fiction. Perhaps because I thought she looked like a potential jumper it woke up the generally dormant, spring loaded thoughts inside my own head. And suddenly there he was. Hello Padfoot. You again?

It wasn't as bad as when I thought I might jump but I was having one of those days when I felt like an ant, a plain old worker ant, busying away in a colony. The world around me slowed down. I could hear every sound more clearly, colours were brighter, the air was thicker. I understood my role, my place in this world but I couldn't appreciate its purpose. It seemed futile. I mean really why do we stay on this treadmill? Work to live. Live to work. Is there any difference? They both have negative connotations. As I said, I was having one of those days.

And then I saw the tweet about Helen. There was a link to a beautiful, simple, heart felt message on her company website that said "Like many great people before her, Helen suffered in silence with her depression. Mental illness, like any illness, is part of being human and we are so very sad to have lost Helen to this silent killer." I was floored. A high achiever - Helen is, was, an inspirational figure in the industry. We all know how I like to repeat myself but seriously if you still believe mental health is about feeling sad because of the things we don't have, think again. For so many of us it's about how we feel, pure and simple. Sometimes we feel like crap. Sometimes we don't. And that pretty much sums it up.

I managed to keep it together most of the day until I was on the train heading home and then it was too much; I couldn't stop myself from crying. Here was a woman who to the outside world had everything but it wasn't enough. I was upset because I'm still in a place where everything I have isn't enough. Not yet anyway. I have everything I could possibly want except the ability to love/like/value myself. So I'm going to keep talking. I'm going to keep making choices that are right for me. I'm going to keep sharing how I feel because I know I'm not alone. It's tough I know but let's help each other through this. Let's keep talking.

The same but different.

The longer this goes on the tougher it feels to be honest. As I've said before, my experience of mental health is that it's often incredibly boring. Especially because I'm often repeating myself.

But I still believe this has been the right thing for me to do - be open. Addressing my illness in this way means I'm now taking positive action when I feel like shit - even if that's simply accepting that I feel like shit. No more, no less than that.

By being open I've cemented friendships that were at risk because it's hard to be friends with someone who blows hot and cold. Me, not them.

I've connected with other people like me. Many of whom are still in a dark place, trying to come to terms with this condition and trying to find the words to open up to the right people, at the right time. It's not easy. We worry about worrying those around us. Crazy right? All the best people are...

In an earlier post I talked about trying to make my life easier. So far so good.

I have the meds. For me that's a tick. I'm surprised how much they appear to be helping me.

I have the counsellor. Ok I cried off last week's session because I was full of cold, plus I'm back to that place where I think I should be better by now.

I have my family. Most of you rock. Some of you not so much but hey, that's life.

I have my friends. So many of you. It's overwhelming the love you've thrown in my direction and if anyone doubts the power of social media - this has been a life force for me. Relative strangers have offered words of comfort in a way that those close to you sometimes can't.

And I have my work. Great clients. An interesting job. Flexibility. Well paid. I've always had ambition and this hasn't changed. There's still plenty I'd like to achieve in my career. Plus if I stay away from high places and fast moving vehicles I should have a significant number of years left to make these things happen.

Seriously what more do I need?

A bit of space wouldn't go amiss. Some time to sit quietly with Padfoot on those days when it doesn't quite come together. There are still more of these than I'd like. I don't remember the last time I sat in my office at home. It's become an alien place to me. I work elsewhere. I'd really like to change that. And this is the first step.

After 11 years working freelance - it was meant to be a bit of time out to think about what I wanted to do with my life - I'm heading back to the land of the employed. For 3 days a week. The other two days I'll do bits and bobs for O2 and some work on Metis, the start-up I'm involved in. Oh and I might sleep, read, sew and cook. And stay up late, drinking and taking drugs. Wait, I do that already. The drinking not so much.

From April 5th I'll be joining Transform as Head of Marketing, a client I've worked with for over 5 years, and a bunch of people who've stepped up to the plate a lot since last July. The job is pretty much the same, the people are mostly the same but oddly I feel different. I feel calmer. Excited by the challenge and despite always being made to feel incredibly welcome on the projects I've been involved with, I now feel like I really belong.

It's one of the missing pieces. Belonging. I never felt I fully belonged in my family. I made it difficult for myself to fit in with friends. This feels like the type of progress that's needed if I'm ever going to summit the mountain. For fellow Everest fans out there I've made it through the icefall. The Hillary Step however is still a long way off. To be honest I wonder if I'll ever climb it. Not sure it matters as much now though because the point is I believe that I can.

Not you again?

Making the decision to share my experience wasn't easy. It was something I really wanted to do for many reasons but I was realistic that this was going to have an impact on the people around me. I did it anyway. Selfish? Maybe. But I don't regret it.

Not just because it's a relief to be honest about how I'm feeling but also because of the people I've come to know. So many of you have messaged me to share your own stories and although I can't wave a magic wand to make your depression go away I hope by being there I'm able to provide some comfort because you now know you're not alone.

Here's where you non-depressives come in. (See what I did there? It's like me and my fellow depressives are on the inside and you're not. Maybe we're the cool kids and you're the ones on the sidelines hoping to be invited to one of our parties. After all we've got the moves and the pills. Or maybe it's time to get together as a united group of people with different health problems; some of them physical, some of them mental.) Where was I? Oh yeah. If you don't suffer with depression but you're one of the people who got in touch to say you know someone who does here's a common problem.

Depression eats away at self confidence. It's like Jiminy Cricket got smashed and turned into a drunken acquaintance who can't wait to point out all the things that are wrong with you. And there's only the two of you, in a trapped lift, for hours and hours. We feel like we're a drain on our friends. That we are demanding too much attention. Guilty that we're not better yet. This is a long haul and it will take all your strength to stick with us. 

If you do have a friend/family member with depression try and keep in touch. They're not suffering from some virus that will go away after a few weeks of rest. It's highly likely that they need you but feel too embarrassed to ask for help because they're worried you'll be thinking 'not you again'. 

We do understand that you have your own families and jobs to deal with but you could be the difference between a really shit day, and a relatively shit day. Who knows? You might even be the catalyst for a day that doesn't feature any shit at all.

I'm lucky. Here are some of the things my friends do - in case you're stuck for ideas - and if none of these seem right this might help.

1. One friend sends me email updates when she's up before the kids. She asks how I am and then tells me what's going on in her life. A welcome respite from the noise inside my head and reminds me that I'm in her thoughts. She never makes me feel guilty if I struggle to reply; she's just there. Thank you.

2. Several friends send me messages/texts to say 'I saw this and thought of you' or ask 'how are you?' or 'how can I help?' Might seem like it's not enough but it is. Thank you.

3. A friend I haven't seen for years but who I love dearly sent me an incredibly thoughtful book because she noticed I'd started reading again. She also included a bar of dark chocolate because who wouldn't enjoy that? Thank you.

4. A friend's husband shared the brilliance of Gemma Correll; I've since passed this on to many people. She is a very clever lady and her illustrations are fantastic. The same friend's husband - I should call him a friend really* - always lets me know he's read my blog and makes me laugh in our conversations on messenger. Thank you.

5. A gaggle of very special women invite me to join them when they walk their dogs. A walk is a really good one. No need to look someone in the eye. No need to talk about how I'm feeling. Fresh air, exercise and usually much laughter. Perfect medicine. And unlike Kayleigh and Ken in Car Share we don't call this dogging. We know the difference! Thank you.

6. A friend regularly tells me I'm enough. In a variety of different ways but the core message remains the same: you're enough. Thank you.

7. After my last post the inner circle let me know I could call them. Anytime. You are truly wonderful. It's not an easy decision to be someone's 'talk me down from the ledge' person. I hope not to test you on this but it's good to know you've got my back. Thank you.

8. And finally the other two buzzy bees in my house. Who listen. Let me sleep. Forgive me when I'm inert. Enjoy me when I'm energised. Make me laugh. Allow me to cry. You are the best. Thank you.

Yesterday I messaged a few people who've been there for me. To let them know I was thinking of them for a change. It works both ways.

*Said friend's husband and I have since discussed this and agreed we are friends. Another win for today!

Good samaritans

I'm not really sure how to write this. I feel I've made a commitment to be honest about what I'm going through. The risk is this will either sound melodramatic - attention seeking - or will send family and friends into a tailspin because they don't know what to do for the best. I've talked this over with my counsellor and rather than making me feel  like a drama queen, he made me feel proud of how I dealt with it. Proud. Didn't think I'd be saying that yet.

I encourage you to read this like my other posts. A candid account that sometimes makes for uncomfortable reading. A moment in my life that doesn't wholly define me - it's simply something I've gone through, very occasionally. A rare event that happened and was incredibly scary when it did.

I've touched upon suicide a few times. It's something I've given serious consideration to. Almost gone through with. Once in 2005. Once in 2006. Once in 2007. And once in 2015.

I've lived for 16,312 days. Many of these have been joyful. An unreasonable proportion have been thoroughly wretched. Only 4 have left me so low I didn't feel I could go on. Until this month.

Indulge me for a minute as I digress.

Unless you’ve been in a media free zone you’ll have seen plenty of coverage this week about plans to invest more money in mental health services. Bea asked me yesterday, “Is that what you have Mummy?” If I've ever doubted whether it was the right thing to do - share my experience - moments like this convince me it was. She may not understand the nuances but at least she can see that being depressed is a condition. It's not as simple as feeling unhappy. I’m frequently happy, just sometimes it’s under the weight of Padfoot and his overwhelming, dog-loyal attentiveness.

I’m fully supportive of an increase in mental health funding. No surprise there. Since starting on this journey I’ve spoken with many people who have struggled to access the support they need. Medication? Here you go. Talking therapies? Maybe. If we really have to, and you really push for it, you can have 8 counselling sessions. Or could you attend group therapy?

Eight may well be an adequate number for some people. They might have talked through all of their issues and found the coping mechanism(s) they need to manage these day to day before they've used the resources allocated to them. I was pessimistic about beginning counselling and only began when I knew there was an option to carry on privately after I'd finished the NHS block. 

I landed on my feet when I was assigned Jeff; I've said it before but he’s a gem. Medication alone was never going to be the correct treatment for me. Thirty+ years of living with this illness has left me damaged. I've benefited hugely from talking through the profound effects of depression but last month I attended my last NHS funded session. If you asked Jeff he'd say I've made some significant progress. I’m beginning to accept the things in my life that I can’t change. Learning to view those days when I don’t move from the sofa not as wasted time, rather part of my recovery. Plus on the days I do leave the house and head to London I’m increasingly more productive as a result. I’m not over analysing everything I say or do (well not as much anyway) and generally things are heading in the right direction. However I definitely don't feel ready to stop my counselling. It would be like reading the first few chapters of a book that you can’t put down and then discovering the author isn’t releasing the rest of it. What happens next? How does it end? Will there be a sequel or will it sit in solitude, revelling in its completeness?

There is a point to this. What I'm trying to say is that up until last week I had considered ending my own life four times. Last Thursday it became five. Clearly I didn’t go through with it. For a number of reasons, the crucial one being that now I want to live. Much more than I want to die. So much more. 

I’d travelled to London for a regular meeting with a client after dropping Bea off at school.  I was feeling neither high or low; a bit tired but pretty even keeled. Which is why it was a surprise when out of nowhere Padfoot arrived. Jumping on my back as I stood on the escalator heading down to the Victoria line. For the first time since I started counselling I felt the magnetic pull. That's how it feels, like I'm being uncontrollably pulled towards something. This time the edge of the platform. I could hear the words clearly in my head ‘you could jump now and it would all be over’. Not without significant effort I forced myself to walk behind the people already on the platform, well away from the yellow line. I looked at the floor. I concentrated on taking one step at a time. Each step heavy, deliberate and frightening. ‘You can’t jump. Imagine the driver and what it will do to them. Imagine the other people on the platform. It’s selfish. It might be all over for you but what if it sets someone else on this path?’ Slowly, steadily I placed one foot in front of the other until I was on the train heading for Oxford Circus. I was physically shaken. Practically in tears. I gripped the rail on the escalator as I left the tube station because I was terrified I'd be compelled to head back down and it would start all over again. 

On the street I wanted to call someone. But who? My parents? They'd freak. Ditto for my sisters. Will is a teacher. Not fair on him or his students. My Aunty? She'd listen but I was starting to feel a bit stupid. Jeff? Natural choice but not guaranteed that he'd be available. I found the number for the Samaritans but before I could call them I realised I'd reached the office. 

It took me a couple of hours before I started to feel calm again. I was glad that I was seeing Jeff the next day. It would be my first session as a private patient. 

We talked about how I'd taken control. Yes it was scary but I'd managed the situation. The situation hadn't managed me. We agreed that I should call the Samaritans* if it happens again. Even if all they do is keep me company until my head's in a better place. That first session I paid for was money well spent. Just about paid for. Honestly I forgot to pay him. He politely chatted to me as I walked to the lift before I suddenly remembered. 'I wasn't worried,' he said 'I would have just left a comment on your blog.' You can see why I like him.

Not everyone is fortunate enough to be able to afford to pay for counselling. This is just one of the reasons more money must be invested in mental health. The support I've been given is invaluable. It has quite literally saved my life. 

*The Samaritans can be contacted on 116 123. More information is available here.

A (bad) day in the life of ...

You know those day in a life articles that can make you feel like your own life's a bit boring? About people who manage to hold down full-time jobs, exercise every day, dress impeccably and regularly dine at swanky restaurants with an impossibly glamorous set of friends? Well this isn't one of those. This is a day in my life. Inside the head of a depressive. Ok, sometimes there is more than a little bit of swank. And some of my friends are incredibly glamorous. But there are also days like this. Unproductive. Infuriatingly so. Not the worst ever but not the best either. 

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A day in the life of a depressive

Before the alarm goes off:  Wake up at numerous points. Panic that I've overslept. Remind myself that one of the side effects of my meds is night sweats so, no, I haven't wet the bed. Struggle to get back to sleep. Get to sleep. Wake up again. Repeat until...

Alarm call: Hit snooze as many times as I can by choosing not to:

• wash my hair 
• eat breakfast
• iron my clothes
• speak to the rest of my family
• clear away their breakfast things
• clean my teeth (isn't that what chewing gum was invented for?)
• use eye liner, or eyeshadow, or any make-up at all except perhaps some lip balm
• wear shoes with laces
• wear clothes with too many buttons

If I skip most of these I can be showered, dressed and out of the door in 10 minutes.

School run: Half an hour to chat to Bea and try to switch gear to work mode.

Arrive home:  Try to get out of the car. Seriously. Some days I get out in a matter of seconds. Other days it can take up to 30 minutes to find the energy to move. Chris Evans finishes at 9:30am, I've never stayed in the car past then.

The working day: Do everything I can to avoid getting stuck on the sofa. I have had days where I've made the mistake of sitting down with a coffee and then not moving until I have to go and collect Bea from school. Inside my head I'm willing myself to move, trying every tactic I can think of, but Padfoot is sat firmly on my chest and won''t be coaxed off.

You know the worst hangover you've ever had where you can't move because if you do the room spins and you feel ill? It's like that, but without the nausea, and the headache, and the fun night before that makes it worthwhile.

Lunch, if I can be bothered, usually consists of a bag of crisps (Wotsits are the current favourite) and a can of Coke Zero - zero prep, zero washing up and zero nutritional value.

School run: Collect Bea. I park on the village green to wait for her so that I can stay in the car and avoid speaking to any of the other parents. Even the ones I like. Because they might ask me how I am. And if I answered truthfully they might never speak to me again. (This could be a good strategy to use with people I actually don't want to speak to...)

The evening shift: Oscillate between guilt, inertia and catching up on the work I failed to do during the day. Desperately trying to stay awake as I'm now exhausted.

10pm onwards: Tiredness has been and gone and I'm now wide awake with no sign of sleep coming. Eventually fall asleep on the sofa watching ITV 3: Life's Over Murders or something else featuring a place that nobody would ever move to given the number of suspicious deaths that happen there. Eventually I make my way to bed to begin the cycle all over again.

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Thankfully not every day is like this. Just some of them. On a London day I feel much more energised - being in an office with people is hugely motivating. Although I do have to stop myself from staying on the tube or walking past the office - with no destination in mind, simply a need to not reach one.

Prozac continues to help. Friends, colleagues and my counsellor are all excellent cheerleaders. Each kind gesture, supportive shove and piss taking comment is just what I need. It may be one step forward, two steps back but while there's still the tiniest of movement ahead of me I'll take that as positive. And if there's no momentum, never mind, tomorrow I'm probably in London and that might be a different type of day altogether.

Image by Gemma Correll. Thanks for introducing me to her illustrations Ben Swift - they're fantastically insightful.

Shouldn't I be feeling better by now?

Six months ago I finally squared up to the snarling black dog that has accompanied me for decades. Looking it in the eye I decided enough was enough. I'd tried to ignore it. Tried to appease it. Tried to distract it with food and alcohol (dogs and booze don't mix well by the way). Despite all my best efforts I had to admit I didn't have the skills for it. I needed to call in the big guns. It was time for the Barbara Woodhouse approach, or whatever the 2015 equivalent was.

Since then I've become very well acquainted with Prozac, answered the question "Do you have any current plans?" over a dozen times and shared my inner most thoughts with a relative stranger every Friday, except over Christmas which is when I realised I really needed it the most.

It's been a hell of a ride and I'm ready to get off now. When I visit my counsellor, sometimes I fudge my responses to the mental health questionnaire I have to complete, to make it look like I'm getting a bit better. He knows I do this. I tell him. Because I should be getting better now shouldn't I?

One of the toughest parts of depression is the progress can be painfully, ridiculously slow. With every day that passes I expect to feel better than I do. I assume other people will expect me to be feel better than I do.  I say "I'm fine" so that I don't have to bore people with my crappy day, my current guilt or the number of times I couldn't get out of my car this week. That's something many people don't realise. Depression can be really boring. Mind numbingly boring.

Yesterday, a non-boring day, I was chatting with someone that I hope will be a friend in the future. Over Scandinavian apple cake we talked about families, work and the mutt. I felt compelled to say that I thought the meds and the therapy were helping. That I was starting to feel better. She said, "It's ok if you're not."

It was a moment of clarity. She was absolutely right. Why hadn't I seen this before? There's no timescale on this illness. To be honest I'm not expecting this to go away. It's part of me, my condition, and I'm learning how to live with it. That means the people around me are having to learn how to live with it too. I recognise this is a big ask. When the dog pins me to the sofa I'm no company. However when it's out for a walk - tail wagging, snapping at the air and barking with excitement - then you don't want to miss that Emma. 

It's time to accept that this is a long haul journey. 

With the people around me I'm travelling first class but it's still going to be a long time sitting in one place. If you could meet me in the arrivals lounge that would be nice. I'll be the one walking comfortably beside my (mostly) well behaved black dog.