I've moved over to medium

You can find all my latest posts here.

See you on a different side*.

* Last time I wrote 'see you on the other side' I had at least 5 messages from people thinking I was literally checking out. This was before I told anyone about my depression. Maybe it was more obvious than I thought.

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.

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 :)

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?

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. 

New is always around the corner

If new is always on the horizon, always just around the corner, why do so many of us still wait until January to start fresh? To join a gym. Change jobs. End a relationship. It's as if we believe January 1st is some sort of magical day when anything can happen. And that can only be good. As long as we don't wait 365/6 days if things don't work out.

I don't have any resolutions today. My resolutions started in July last year. Last year. Already my mental health problems are so last year.

They included the usual stuff - think about my health, plan what I really want to do with my career and spend more time with the people I love. But these are huge plans. They're too big. They need to be broken down into smaller goals.

I spent time looking at how I spend my work days and thinking properly about what makes me tick. And not just the tasks I enjoy and can do with ease but also the things that stretch me, in a good way. I began to change who I work with. One of the perks of being self employed is the ability to choose who I work with. For me that had to be people I respected and that were fun to be around. If I can't laugh at work there's no point me being there.

At home I asked myself a simple question "what will happen if I don't do this?" If the ironing isn't done will the family fall apart? I can't claim to have mastered this yet. On my Christmas list I asked for Marie Kondo's book - the life-changing magic of tidying up - even reading the first chapter left me in a better place. Small steps. Positive movement.

And spending time with the people I love? This is the toughest one. Because that group of people has to include me. I can give plenty to friends and family often to the point where I end up neglecting my own well being. Making others happy but not myself. I have a long way to go. I'm really hoping my counsellor can go the distance because I'm no sprinter.

My journey began in the summer of 2015. It continues today, on this first day of 2016. Without resolutions. However like a new notebook it holds the promise of a fresh start. A crisp blank page and a brand new pen.

If you've made resolutions, good luck with them but if they don't work out, make new ones. Every day, every hour, every minute or second is a moment in which we can make a change. A chance to make our lives better. To make ourselves happier. To love ourselves. Maybe love isn't all we need but life's much easier if we have it.

Small victories.

I've been off work for a few weeks. During that time I tried not to work at all. Emphasis on tried. I mostly succeeded.

Now I'm back I'm setting achievable goals each day rather than risk being blindsided by the enormity of some of the projects I'm responsible for.

Today I ticked one off. Actually make that two.

Small victories.

And it feels good.

Finding the words.

I have so much I want to say but it's all a bit overwhelming. If I start I'm scared I won't stop. That I'll open the floodgates/ Pandora's Box/ some other over used metaphor. Add to that the fact that I seem to be losing my words. The tools that keep me going. I hope someone is getting a kick out of this because there's not much enjoyment in it for me.

For the next 10 days I'm going to write down all the things I think of that fuck up my head and then share them with my counsellor when we meet.

I can't even think of an interesting way to finish this post. So I'll leave it there. And go to bed.

Larkin around

This Be The Verse has played over and over inside my head for the past few weeks. Ever since my counselling began in fact. Not because I'm looking for someone to blame for how I feel (what would be the point in that) but because I recognise that family traits and patterns can become ingrained in our psyche. Some times these characteristics are positive, other times destructive. Many of us have no doubt experienced that flinch inducing comment "You're just like your Mum/Dad" - especially when directed at us in a less than flattering context.

There may be some truth in Larkin's poem, written the year I was born, however that doesn't have to mean my future is set in stone. It's time to break the cycle. After all I've already had a kid; for her sake I need to make a change.

Perfection is the enemy of happiness. And control is the armour of the unhappy.

The best thing about real friends is they don't shy away from saying what they think, or from making light of a difficult situation. Such as "Well at least your posts on Facebook are a good way to get plenty of likes". If you're not one of my best friends, don't even think about saying this to me. My posts are not a cry for sympathy. Sometimes they are a whimper for help. But I don't need you to feel sorry for me. Honestly all I hope is that anyone who hasn't suffered with depression gains a little understanding of how it can affect people. And for anyone that has suffered to know you're not alone.

After feeling that I was making some progress over the past few months I had a minor set back this weekend. Triggered I'm sure by my first proper counselling session.

Each time I meet with a mental health professional I have to complete a questionnaire which determines the possible severity of my depression. The scale works from green, through blue, yellow, orange and red; the aim is to be in the green zone. I'm currently top red. Like many people my counsellor observed that my score wasn't reflected in the way I come across. That my exterior projects a happy, confident person. I've worn this mask for a long time and it fits so well that it's starting to shock me when I reveal what's beneath. In his words, "You really are a work in progress".

I need a lot of help but I still feel I'm wasting people's time. That I should just snap out of it. That there are so many people in the world who need medical attention more than I do. I have all my limbs. I can work. I have a family that loves me (in the main). I'm physically fit.

However mentally I'm broken.

Facing the reasons why I feel like I do is not easy. Actually, it's more about having to say them out loud to someone else. There's nowhere to hide.  My counselling session was emotionally exhausting. I had to admit to things that are hurtful, that make me vulnerable and cause me to feel ashamed. I felt embarrassed and upset. And that's why I need to do this because a lack of confidence can be a killer. Literally (that's for you PW...).

The good news is I like my new counsellor. He's easy to talk to. He has a sense of humour. That's important. My life is predicated on being able to see the funny side of something. I don't want to lose this. Although I do need to learn when and where to wear my clown mask.

The most used words in my 90 minutes of self reflection were control, perfection and worth.

For those of you walking your own black dog you might be able to associate with these. Each one I use in a negative way.

Control because if things go wrong I only have myself to blame rather than being let down by other people.

Perfection is something I strive for in everything, and a part of my approach to life that I really need to change.

And worth - this is the root cause of my problem. It stems back to my childhood when my Dad left. Left and rarely showed any interest in me for the next 40 years. One of two people in the world I thought I could rely on. As a parent I can't imagine walking away from my child but we all know life is multiple shades of grey, not black and white. My self worth is almost non existent. After all if I'm not loveable to someone who should feel it unconditionally, why should anyone else love me, or even like me?

It's amazing I have any friends really. But I do. You know who you are and I'm so grateful to you for sticking around.

Bear with me. I'm working hard to make it worth your while.

Runnin' (lose it all)

Before I went to see my GP in July I was running 3-4 times a week. I'd completed couch to 5k and had registered for my first race covering this distance. He thought this was very positive, reminding me of the mental benefits associated with exercise as well as the physical.

Three months have passed since then and I've exercised once. Thought about it lots but indecision, tiredness and a general lack of interest have pinned me to the floor, sofa or bed. 

Like a subliminal message I can't get the song Runnin' (lose it all) out of my head. An earworm with a hidden message? Possibly. I decided to take notice and tonight ventured to the gym to start C25K again. It felt ok. Not as enjoyable as before but ok. I didn't lose it all. But I did manage to lose some of it for about 30 minutes.

I'll try again later in the week. That's as much as I can commit to at the moment.

A constant game of keepy uppy

I've had two exhausting but brilliant days running events for clients in Birmingham and London. Both teams are a joy to work with and they make me feel like I belong. The investment required to make an event successful is huge, but the rewards are worth it. I feel a natural high when an event goes well. A sense of euphoria. It's joyous. But maintaining the positive emotions can be like trying to play a constant game of keepy uppy.

I promised someone tonight that I'd concentrate on the things that went well. She knows I'm going to struggle not to crash and burn. I did well this week. I'll try to remember that.

It's not you, it's me.

I still have moments when I wonder if this is a good idea. Me sharing what's inside my head. Mainly because it's a car crash in there most of the time and who needs that? Apart from other people like me.

I know right. More people like me. Doing proper jobs, raising families and everything. Fucked up souls with responsibilities trying to keep it together and hoping to wake up just once feeling happy to be alive.

That paints a picture of every waking second being a nightmare. It's not. Personally I have moments of lucidity where the promise of how life could be provides me with the motivation to keep going. These glimmers of light burn a little brighter every day but when they're eclipsed the darkness is suffocating.

Taking the first step and coming clean about how I was feeling was hard. Having spent so long covering up the truth I'd almost forgotten what it's like to just be me except for the fact that the only me I can remember is miserable as hell a lot of the time and I'm happy to forget that. It gave me the opportunity to share how I feel. To accept that if other people have a problem with my condition I need to live with that. But in the main they don't. Some of you have been exceptionally supportive. That in itself makes me feel guilty. And reinforces why I'm in the place I'm in.

The reason for calling this post 'It's not you, it's me', isn't a cowardly way of breaking up with you. After all I need all the help I can get. It's because of some of the comments I've had about suicide. When I was 17 my boyfriend's uncle (in his 20s) killed himself. It was the first, although not the last, time that I experienced this type of death and the repercussions it has. It was heartbreaking to see the pain they were going through. Their inability to answer that most simple and yet complex of questions: Why? I can't speak for other people. My experience of depression could be very different from someone else's but I do know that when I was considering suicide as an option the why was all about me. It really wasn't about anyone else. Of course there are people who suffer abuse - verbal and physical - which can lead them to take their own lives. That's not the case for me. That's why I can't imagine that anything you might say to me would lead me to take this step.

I'm working very hard to make sure I don't reach this point. It's not easy. I remember sitting at dinner with two very good friends talking about the dramatisation of Lisa Lynch's battle with cancer. I had only just sought help and the world still felt a little hazy. I'm embarrassed to admit this because it illustrates my selfishness but it also highlights how the people who know you can really help. As we sat around the table talking about this incredible woman and the tragedy of her death I could feel myself growing tense. It was tragic. It was a waste. She was brave and bold. And all I could think was I wish that was me. I didn't want to say it out loud because I was ashamed. So my friend said it for me. We didn't talk about it anymore but I felt relieved that he got it and grateful that they didn't pussy foot around me.

Some people believe that suicide is selfish. I can see why. The people left behind, like my ex boyfriend's family, never truly get over it. But for me I thought it was more selfish expecting my family and friends to live with me the way I was. Happy one minute. Cold, angry and distant the next. It's not rational. Then neither was I.

What I'm trying to say is that I feel the way I do because of me. Not because of any of you. The problem is mine. It's my lack of self esteem, my guilt, my need to make other people happy before myself. If someone tells me I've done a good job I think they're being sarcastic. If someone asks to speak to me I assume it's because I've cocked something up. All of these factors are a result of my insecurities. That's not to say you should treat me like crap because it doesn't matter, that would be ludicrous. But here's the 'tell it like it is' moment: I'm not going to kill myself because of something you say or don't say; do or don't do. I honestly hope I'm not going to kill myself full stop. It certainly feels less likely every day*. Plus I have a really low pain threshold so my options are limited. I'm kidding! Not about the pain threshold.

Just keep doing what you're doing. Unless it's something you shouldn't. Being depressed doesn't mean I'll turn a blind eye to everything but the pills certainly make me less inclined to care.


*One of the questions my psych nurse asks me is if I have any plans. At the start I used to say no. Which was a lie. Now I say no and I usually mean it. I really hope it stays that way.