Repost, Feb 2016This is my second post for Depression Army; and I would like to thank all the readers for their overwhelming response to my introductory post. Not only was it a huge personal achievement to write and publish such an honest piece; but the support has made it even more beneficial. God bless you all.
"Life: knocks you down repeatedly; but can also save you, greatly. That's a vital lesson I've learnt this year." Six months ago, I would have never thought that I could be where I am right now. I've straightened my hair, whacked on some lippy, taken a risk with some brand new ankle boots—that I cannot walk in—and some sparkly top. My God, I look girly again. I'm wondering what drink to order, where to sit, and most importantly, if I will know anyone. Right this second, I am about to walk into a huge restaurant full of professionals; to share curry and conversation about social work. I can feel my knees trembling and my mind working overtime to convince me that “YES, I am going to fall flat on my face any second!” I'm queuing to greet the host whilst vigorously checking my purse over and over again. If I can control the environment, I will fit in. Well, that's what I tell myself. Six months ago, I stopped going out as much as I used to. I stopped dressing up. I hated everything about myself. I thought I actually started to hate myself. I could see why others would hate me, too. It finally made sense as to why I felt so alone. Of course, this was all in my mind. Life had knocked me down. Stomped on me. Roughed me up around the edges. Pulled at my seams. I tried to cope but in actual fact it wasn't that I didn't know how to get "back up on my feet"; rather I physically couldn't. When the lights went out, nights scared me. Feelings scared me. Until life forced me to LIVE, to find my purpose. I was on my own. Hurt. Isolated. Alone. I know now that I had a strong bracelet of people around me. Gold. Pure gold hearts. But at the time I couldn't reach into that reality. It was too rich. So, as the saying goes, I was forced to glue myself back together. I realized that no one else was going to do it for me. I was forced to "carry on". My job was important. I had to keep going. So, I finally heard a voice inside of me asking for help. I think it’s the best thing that I could have done for myself. I saved myself. I spoke out loud everything that was in my head. I started my blog. I started therapies. Just as I felt like the darkness was going to eat me up, I ate my toast and drank my tea. My job, my responsibilities, were important to me. That was my purpose—if only for now. Other people needed me when I didn't want myself. That was my strength. After wiping away tears and leaving my pajamas behind, I put on lipstick and faced another day. I spoke to my colleagues. I spoke to my friends. I spoke to my dad. And I felt alive. I finally felt alive. So what was I going to do to prove I was alive? I knew my strength lied within my professional duty so that's where I started. I signed into the guest list for a Social Care curry evening. And that's where I am right now. I'm sat with six people I have never met before. I've decided to stick to water so I don't have to double check my purse, walk to the bar (looking like Bambi in these heels) and simply because water is the best when you feel like you can't breathe. I decide to ask people where they work and focus on talking about similar interests so that I don't have to talk so much about myself. I carefully plate up my food from the selection in front of me, ignoring the visions of me with curry down my shirt and/or throwing up on the man beside me. Then, almost out of nowhere, a past tutor hugs me. I feel safe. Welcomed. Part of the room. In touch with reality. The other side of the glass. Anxiety all gone. I realised that no matter what is going on inside your head: good, bad, ugly, reality is still yours. That moment was mine—all be it, shared, but my memory to keep nonetheless. I realised that there was life around me and pouring out of me. Even if it didn't feel like it. So on my way home I told myself “S, you are going to do this more often. You have proven you can do it. Now you have no excuses.” Since then, I've made great steps to organise social activities; clear out my wardrobe and start fresh, become closer to 'S' who seems so far away. Okay, so I may not have made huge steps or huge changes, more like baby steps in reality, but a world away from the past. That's what I truly feel in my heart. I'm proud of myself. I can say that now and not feel guilty, foolish, ashamed, or like I'm attention-seeking. Let me tell you that it's okay to say we are proud of ourselves for making steps. It's okay to take one step and then three huge steps back. A step is a step. For each step we take, we know we are alive. And if we are alive, then we are on our way to our future. My future. Your future
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Repost, 22, DEC 2015I'm sure most of you will agree that when it comes to having a mental illness, we are essentially living our lives as two split people rather than a whole:
S: the social worker; the girlfriend; the daughter; a carer. I’m recognized for the role I play and the people that I support. I work full time, I am in a long-term relationship, I am living with my parents, and I am a carer for my aunt, grandparents and mother. I refer to my anxious personality as S2. It's important to recognise that on my bad days, S2 has organised a shift swap with S without giving me any warning. You just have to accept that today you don’t feel great and try and manage as best you can. I am still getting to know S2 and everything that makes S2 struggle. I know this will take a while. S2 often likes to spend time in bed, curled up, drinking tea and cuddling cats. Whereas, S gets up every morning to practice as a social worker. S appears 'normal' and S2 just appears 'lazy'. My family would consider me to be S and S2 a stranger. They don’t see the whole me. They feel that the stranger in me is created by the antidepressant drugs I am taking. A stranger that is not in line with the upbringing and future they crafted for me. My family considers that I choose to be a stranger; when that is further from the truth. I am not a stranger. I am just sometimes quite simply S2 and not S. My partner would consider me to be S. He sees me as a whole person; the person I want to be. He is the light at the end of the tunnel that should be given to everyone in society. He may not always understand S2, but he sure as hell is there to support both of me. And yes, on paper, society does view me a stranger and to be someone with a lot of NEEDS and NO personality or characteristics. The media would probably have a 'day out' framing me as an incapable social worker; despite the fact that I am heavily supported and appear to be progressing in my role. But if people met me, out in the community, as S, they would probably question what the hell health professionals are on about. That I am perfectly normal. Whatever that is... Can you relate? Prior to significant life events and my eventual diagnosis, I had a large group of friends at school. I was a networker, confident in myself; a very girly girl. I suffered a death by suicide, many instances of bullying, took on a caring role and was exposed to changing family dynamics. It wasn't until December last year that I was diagnosed with depression and generalised anxiety disorder. I spent a lot of time on my own and now my biggest fear is ending up alone. Inside, I still believe that I am the Samantha from before, but that I am currently looking through a pane of glass and unable to reach those elements of myself that seem so jumbled up. That doesn't mean they are gone for good or that I want to change and move on. I just cannot physically activate that side of my personality at this time. That's the illness. "I AM A PERSON, WITH MY OWN STRUGGLES; WITH GOALS, AMBITIONS AND WISHES." I know that most of the time I don't really understand myself and how irrational fear has the potential to take over each hour and day of my life. To me, each encounter with anxiety disorder feels very much real. But I know that I shouldn't accept people viewing my illness as a 'mask' of my identity and as if anxiety is all that I am. I am a person, with my own struggles; with goals, ambitions and wishes; S. In the future, I could gain a new next door neighbour (let's just call him Pete for now). Pete could be physically disabled and has been for much of his life. Pete may go to the pub on a weekly basis and hold down a part time job. Pete may have lots and lots of friends. We would understand Pete as a person behind his diagnosis. But would Pete understand me? Or would he, like so many in society, wonder what I have to complain about? Would he argue that my illness is a choice? That thought scares me. That's why I have always avoided talking about it. That's why I have taken almost ten years to engage with services and want support. That's why I have only just felt comfortable talking to my partner about it and trying to explain without thinking 'oh he just won't get it'. That's why I decided to disclose to my family a few months back. I cannot possibly practice as a social worker if I am ashamed of my illness; one that I support people with almost every week. I guess deep down I have just felt that society has always thrown a blanket over people and ignored the fact that your struggles can be as painful and as debilitating as any other serious medical condition. I felt left behind and lost within the system. Going to work is the only part of my daily routine that stops me from analysing myself, hating myself, doubting myself, and getting caught up in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Don't get me wrong, each day is a complete and utter challenge. Each day is as exhausting as the next. But, I get there--in my own unique way. I'm not afraid anymore. 2015 seems to be the year so far that people are talking about mental health. Sure, it's not enough but it is a start. I am proud of S. S does not want to get out of bed in the mornings but she still gets to work. S who can go to work with a real fire and passion inside them. S is more than just S2, and is a person with a future despite her illness. I'm going to continue to blog for Depression Army and explore the person behind the diagnosis. I'll share with you some of my most personal occasions where mental health has affected but not won. We'll talk dates, interviews, fitness classes, counseling, cuddling cats; you name it. No matter how illness interplays with our lives we are still valuable human beings with goals like any other. They may be little goals, like getting up in the morning. But for all of us, that is an achievement as big as any other. Repost, 22, AUG 2016For those of you whom have not read my previous blog entries before, I’m S.
S at work/in public and S2 when my thoughts are captivated by depression. Sitting here right now, I’m unsure what exactly motivated me to start writing posts about my mental health but if anything it was to have someone to talk to. And, it’s helped. So thank you to everyone who has read them so far. It is my ambition to become an Approved Mental Health Practitioner. I cannot advocate for people if I find myself oppressed and hidden in society. So here I am, speaking out, breaking my own stigma. Hopefully encouraging you to break yours too? So, since we are being honest right now - I have to be frank - I've been mulling over for some time as to what to focus on writing about in my third blog entry. I have very high standards for myself, and so was a little stuck on what to explore in my writing. With some guidance from my loyal Twitter followers, I've decided to review both my progress through this maze of uncertainty and the navigators I've cherished along the way. When I think back to last Christmas, my life in general was a little unsettled but not enough to rock the boat. My birthday was amazing. I was exploring Paris with my best friend, the person I loved more than anything in the world. The underlying thoughts of harming myself, ending my life, and not being able to cope began to surface again long after these wonderful adventures. I remember waking up one morning and I felt quicksand between my toes. Boiling hot sand, but the blood in my veins freezing cold. I didn't know what was wrong with me, but I knew this time it was potentially my worst encounter so far. It was the most “real” panic attack I had ever encountered and I felt so powerful I could die. The feeling of being paralyzed, sinking, and feeling heavier and heavier was at the point where my body disengaged and my everyday functioning became non- existent. "I REMEMBER WAKING UP ONE MORNING AND I FELT QUICKSAND BETWEEN MY TOES. BOILING HOT SAND, BUT THE BLOOD IN MY VEINS FREEZING COLD. I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT WAS WRONG WITH ME, BUT I KNEW THIS TIME IT WAS POTENTIALLY MY WORST ENCOUNTER SO FAR." Imuddled on. Things muddled on. Everything was muddled. And I do think it's fair to say that the relationship between myself and my significant other suffered initially. I had no diagnosis and no professionals around me to guide me through this maze I found myself in. So how could I possibly explain myself to my other half if I couldn't make sense of it all myself? I can vividly remember feeling anxious about the most ridiculous things. Wearing myself out over the most ridiculous things. Feeling like a ticking time bomb and trying to estimate if he, my significant other, would be gone before or after my brain imploded. I was full of fear and I was full of hate. I hated feeling so trapped in my mind, but I was scared of the detrimental effects this would have on HIM. I would obsess over things, clean like I was being paid in diamonds;, I was restless and I was miserable. I began to speak about things, slowly and surely, when I realized that I was projecting my misery onto him. He appeared to feel disheartened, and I didn't want things to escalate, because I loved him. "REACHING OUT TO HIM PROBABLY SAVED MY LIFE. AS THE QUICKSAND STARTED TO DROWN ME - I HAD TO OFFLOAD IN AN ATTEMPT TO SURVIVE. AND, LUCKILY FOR ME, IT WORKED." My approach was gentle. I didn't want any alarm bells to ring. I wanted him to help me understand myself and not forget the S he fell for. Reaching out to him probably saved my life. As the quicksand started to drown me - I had to offload in an attempt to survive. And, luckily for me it worked. I can't lie to you and say things will always be rosy; they won't. Your partner may not have encountered mental health in the past and he/she will therefore may be, quite simply, completely and utterly clueless about how the little things can trigger your spiral at a million miles per second. He took time to fully understand what I need and that was not in vain. I will admit that I push people away and I fear/obsess over being ‘left’. A crazy cat lady on her own in a shed in the middle of a field. That's what I picture every time I panic, anyway. My first blog post for Depression Army was the turning point in our relationship. I'm really not just saying that either. When it was published I copied and pasted the link onto Twitter. I was crapping my pants about who and how people would respond. I waited. Deep breathing and pacing up down - up down. *ping* *ping ping* *phone got a little bit excited* People liked my blog post. People empathized and related to my blog post. Was this really happening? Well I had to be sure, didn't I? I copied and pasted the link and sent it to HIM. I asked HIM to read it. I felt slightly relieved that I didn't have to try and keep up the act of the person I once was (when we met). I wanted him to know me - all of me. To be honest - as soon as it sent I thought - ‘oh, f’ck. What have I done?’ BUT, he gave me a miracle. He said he was proud of me. PROUD. Since then, I haven't looked back. When I learn new stuff at counselling, I’ll share what I have learned. I want to teach him as much as I teach myself. This is so he can handle me. And in turn, I can try my hardest to control any relapse. With this achievement, I soon learnt that in order to stay afloat and maintain what is important to me, I needed to talk. Going into work has always felt like I had a bumble bee inside my ribs getting angrier and angrier. Puncturing every organ and ounce of flesh, muscle, and nerve. Scared to make mistakes and scared that they would sack me for my illness and label me ‘incapable’. Again, my first blog post and sharing it on my Twitter opened up doors for me. I was going through a really bad time. I had called in sick for a few days because my mind and body were not talking. So, from my bed I sent my boss an email - brief and to the point. Requesting one hour a week to attend clinical counselling for my depression. Please note the ‘my’; I have accepted ownership of my illness so that I can learn how to live with it and stop it from ruling my life. Bombshell officially dropped. Again, I thought, holy sh*t. You're going to lose your job. But her response was amazing. I guess what I'm trying to tell you all is that we are all human. My relationship and job are what keep me alive. Living. Hopeful. And I know that the only way to maintain these elements is through self-care. "I GUESS WHAT I'M TRYING TO TELL YOU ALL IS THAT WE ARE ALL HUMAN. MY RELATIONSHIP AND JOB ARE WHAT KEEP ME ALIVE. LIVING. HOPEFUL. AND I KNOW THAT THE ONLY WAY TO MAINTAIN THESE ELEMENTS IS THROUGH SELF-CARE."So, if I can offer you one bit of teeny tiny advice. It would be TALK to your partner. Because if they don't say they are proud and don't try to understand - you need to raise your standards. If they are arseholes about it then are they really going to aid your recovery? We are all love-able - with demons and all. Be open with your boss - so that you can take time out without it affecting your performance. You'll feel less pressure to wear that mask to work each day. Trust me. It's okay to still feel crap each day, or to not know what you enjoy or want to aim for. There's no incorrect way to have depression, have anxiety attacks, have suicidal thoughts. These things just are and will never discriminate against you or I. But having the resources and support network around you is what matters. Self-care isn't just putting the kettle on, having a bath, or stuffing your face with doughnuts (no? Just me?). It's about reaching out and making yourself heard. Reclaim the power over your mind and over this illness. The less afraid you are of it - the less afraid others will be. A little like Pandora’s box….. REPOST 22, OCT 2016 YouChoice: a boundary that can often be blurred by our state of mind. Or so the definition that I give says. When anxiety takes over, we lose the ability to make informed choices. As I sit here typing this now, I'm spending time with the most amazing human being I have ever met. I feel love in my heart. But there are flashbacks in my brain which are making me tired. My previous partner, the one who I thought understood me and could help me, took my freedom of choice away from me at the time when I was most vulnerable. He made my illness worse.
Anxiety manifests itself in a way that forms a cage around every aspect of our lives. It prevents us from living and feeling every single aspect of a moment, second, or day. Some people are blessed with the strength to overcome battles. Others- you, me- are not so lucky. I wanted to explore something very personal in this post. Something that I have only just started talking about. Mental health and love, as we know it. As I knew it. A lot of you will see that my previous blog posts were written about my support network. I explored happiness and how love can be our strength. Now is the moment where I take off my mask (with bravery) and tell you that it was all a facade: love that I thought was strength and a support network was unhealthy. It was easier to believe something was real and magical than realize that I was heading on a downward spiral. Love doesn't make you suicidal. I know that now. For four years, I was dependent on someone else to relieve my anxiety and bring me happiness. This person knew every trigger and every aspect of my life. I loved them because my brain told me that I did. It became a self-fulfilling prophecy to try and please. To earn respect. To earn love of some form. That is the time in which I lost my freedom of choice. I confided in him about my health conditions and the trigger points. He said he would help me. Instead he ignored the warning lights and used my compliance to his advantage. What I couldn't see was that I was so eager to please and be loved that he would say ‘jump’ and I would say ‘how high’. I felt like he was the only one who would have me and even he wouldn't stay forever. Every anxiety I had manifested in my soul had begun to create an illusion that was so believable I couldn't walk away. Self-destruction took over, and I prayed that I would receive affection that night. The only way I could prove my worth was through sex. He told me that not fulfilling his desires for him meant that I didn't truly love him. He threatened to walk away. In a clear state of mind I would have punched him. But I wasn't seeing things clearly: I had to make him stay and prove my worth. The toxic cycle began. Sex with him. He had sex with whoever he wanted. He talked me into having sex with whoever he wanted me to be with. He would emotionally punish me afterwards. Telling me I had been selfish and that I owed him. When I thought I was pleasing him - I wasn't. So I began to blame myself for everything. I remember taking him to Amsterdam for his birthday, all expenses paid for; and visiting the red light district. He told me if we didn’t return that evening so he could visit one of the ladies:- then what was ‘the point’ in coming on this trip. He was a pig. But I felt that love had no boundaries. I didn’t want to fail. I began to learn that the voice in my head had begun to speak his words. My anxiety had a face. His face. Approachable and friendly on the onset; but something dark hidden behind those eyes. What I didn't realize is that the reason my recovery had come to a halt was because of him. He didn't want me to recover. I remember the times he had walked away, worked his way back, called me fat, said he preferred the appearance of my best friend, told me I needed to go the gym, said I couldn't dance, said I was boring, said I was selfish and even said I was EMBARRASSING him every time we were in public. I cut myself off from the world. He became my safety net. This voice in my head was not my mental health trying to break me, but another human being. I was in constant fear - I couldn't function. I remember the time I couldn't get myself out of bed for a week, so I took sick leave. I feel like a failure for doing that. I know now that it was important to take time out for myself and to allow myself to ‘feel’. I had begun to cut myself off from my emotions as a way of protecting myself. I realized that I had to grieve in order to grow stronger. Grieve I did. I mentally and physically drained myself. I let the black hole of depression swallow me up. I had faith that it would pass; and if it didn't then I would ask for help. Something inside of me was burning and gave me strength to let these feelings pass. I felt at peace. I realized that for as long as I feel I'm suffering - I still grow. For the days where I feel like I won't make it until lunchtime - I still grow. No matter how hard things are I am still evolving. Recovery isn't matter of a fact. It's a journey. It's a journey to get to know the person lost and ‘found’ again. Sure I had been knocked down during the relationship and my depression was again triggered by my experiences. But I had been knocked down before, and as I already knew, only I could rebuild myself as I had before. Brick by brick. My choice. Today, I am learning about myself. My favorite food, color, music, and holiday. The most irrelevant little choices that make up my soul. Sure, my anxiety is still a bitch, and I face her every single day. But I am learning to separate my thoughts. I'm learning that I have freedom of choice. We all have a choice each day about whether or not we continue our battle towards wellness or put it off for a rainy day. In the same respect, we also need to recognize that choices we make on our 'down' days can often be the wrong ones. Clarity comes when we accept that it's okay to make a mistake. Clarity comes when we own our mistakes. I want to tell you that even though when you feel weak and helpless; you are your own savior. Never forget that. You may think that someone can aid your recovery, but actually, no one else can. It's all you. Whilst support networks are necessary they cannot facilitate recovery. This will be your own success story. Love yourself, warts and all; don't let the illness manifest into something bigger. Don't let someone feed your anxieties further. Make that choice. No matter where you are now - you're still growing. Give yourself grace; choose to. |
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