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. 

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.