Why depression has made me a better person

Over the past week, I have been feeling so much better. I hesitate to say it, because I know it could change again, but it’s true. I have smiled. Laughed. Sung. Cried with joy rather than despair. Slept at normal times. And with this new-found clarity, I have been able to put a positive spin on this episode of depression.

Yes, it has been hideous. Yes, it has affected my children. Yes, I feared for my marriage. Yes, I now have hideous and embarrassing self-harm scars on my arm.

But it has helped me to become stronger, bigger, better in so many ways.

1. It’s shown me that I have amazing friends
Pathetically, for a 35-year-old married mother of two, I care what people think. I care that I’m not part of the in crowd. I care when I post something flippant on Facebook and the vultures descend to pick me apart. But the past few months have strengthened my true friendships. I have become closer to the people who matter to me. I have hugged and been hugged, talked and been talked to. Friends have sent me gifts just to put a smile on my face. I no longer stand alone in the playground as I know I have proper friends to stand with. Not cliquey fair-weather friends.

2. People think more of me than I thought
I have only ‘come out’ about my depression to a select few, but those who know have genuinely surprised me in their reactions. I have been told that I am a ‘lovely person.’ ‘One of the kindest people I know.’ I’m not repeating these things to blow my own trumpet, but because these statements really surprised me. I don’t see myself as lovely or kind; I see myself as a waste of space, a failure. But other people see a different me, and that is quite amazing.

3. I have learned to be less self-reliant – and more honest
I am the queen of brave faces. To the point that when I handed in my notice as a school governor (see point 6), everyone was stunned. But this episode of depression has forced me to be honest. I got to the point where I couldn’t keep it under wraps any more. Okay, most people in my life have no idea what I’ve been through since December. I have lived with depression before, but never has it been as all-consuming as this episode. Some people, though, noticed the change in me, and through them noticing, I have been able to talk to them. Ask for a hug. Cry. Rely on them. It’s not an easy thing for me to do, but it has been necessary, and now I know that I have this little nucleus of people who can get me through anything.

4. And deepened my faith in the Lord
My guess is that depressed Christians can go either way: they can lean on the Lord more, or fall away from him. I am so thankful that for me, the former is true. In desperation, I have called on Christ Jesus for support, comfort and compassion. I have opened up about my illness to my Christian sisters, and received their love and prayers. God never promised to make this life easy, but he did promise eternity to those who trust. That promise has given me perspective on the darkest days.

5. I am a better friend than I was
Through people being great friends to me, I have learned to be a better friend. I’ve learned not to run away from people, but to offer love and companionship, even if I don’t have the ability to solve their problems. I’ve learned that if I don’t have the right words, a cake or a bunch of flowers at least shows my concern. I’ve learned the value of a quick text saying ‘I’m thinking of you,’ and learned not to be offended if there’s no reply.

6. It’s okay to say no – and yes
One of the hardest things I’ve done over the past few months is tender my resignation as a school governor. It’s the first time I’ve quit anything (apart from jobs, when I had a better one to go to). I wrote and rewrote the email so many times. Put off sending it so many times. I expected to feel relief when I finally hit ‘Send,’ but instead I just felt guilt and fear. But I know I had to put my mental health first, and being harangued in the playground because of my efforts to sort out the mess that is our school car park was not helping. Nor was feeling patronised at every single board meeting because of my lack of education experience and lowly stay-at-home-mum status.

But I have also learned that at times, it’s good to say yes. If I can help someone out in some small way – listening while they offload; looking after a child so they can get to an appointment or just spend a day recovering from a bug – then I am more than happy with that, and it makes me feel better too.

7. I am more secure
I’ve spent the past 18 months walking around the village on eggshells. I’m not sure I will ever recover from my stupid, insensitive blog post and the fallout it caused. But I am beginning to put things into perspective. At one point, I was seriously considering moving house just to get away from the blog legacy. Now? No way. My kids and I have great friends here, a lovely way of life. What matters more: that, or the opinions of a couple of people who I have rarely – if ever – met? What, after all, can they do to me? They can hate me silently. They can hate me publicly, if they like. But they will not destroy me. I am certain that every single one of us has hurt someone at some point. I may have made my mistake in a more public way, but it was just that – a mistake. I know I was wrong, but we have all done wrong to others. That doesn’t make it okay, but I need to keep in mind that we are all sinful in different ways. And now I am more mindful of the things I say and do, which can only be a good thing.

8. I appreciate happiness more
A few weeks ago, I was looking back on my old photos. Not really, really old, but photos from when Katie was a baby. I was so totally, overwhelmingly happy then. I don’t feel like I’ve got back to that point yet, but I know I have come a long way from the despair I was feeling just a few weeks ago. There is laughter in our house again; sometimes it’s mine, sometimes I have incited it. I sang walking back from school this morning. At bedtime, I kissed Katie all over her squidgy naked tummy, and she giggled until she lost her breath. It felt good.

I may not be better, but I am a better person than I was.

I don’t feel bad

But I feel alone.

Where is everyone?

We all like sheep have gone astray.

Take away the stone, he said.

If you believe, you will see the glory of God.

The dead man came out.

Take off the grave clothes.

It is better for you that one man die for the people than that the whole people perish.

My Lord, crucified for me.

So why still so lonely?

 

 

A good day

I’m cautious about good days. Is it a one-off, or am I actually getting better?

On paper, it hasn’t been a good day.

I spent our Bible study session cuddling my friend, who has just discovered that her unborn baby has life-limiting, and possibly life-threatening, brain damage.

I spent this afternoon looking after my own daughter and her two three-year-old friends, helping their mums out of a sticky situation.

In between, I have cleaned the house, hung laundry, worked, taken in a (very late) Tesco delivery, etc etc.

At best, boring. At worst, heart-breaking.

But I feel okay.

Why is this? Is it because helping other people makes me feel better, takes my mind off my own troubles? Is it because normal life, in all its boring taupe, makes me feel normal?

I don’t know. But it’s good.

It’s good.

It’s late

There is no one to talk to.

I could ping someone, but they would think me needy and cloying.

Brave face.

This is when I want to cut. It makes me feel real. Real when I have no real people to talk to.

Help me help me help me.

Brave face

I have this brave face. A brave face that tells the outside world that everything is okay. That I’m happy. Fulfilled. Successful.

My brave face is strong. Defensive. Bright and breezy.

Shallow.

It’s been four months now since I admitted (to myself) that I was struggling with depression. But for most of that time, I have still worn that brave face. I have lain awake for hours in a barely suppressed state of panic, but pasted my brave face on the next morning. I have done a family Christmas wearing my brave face. I’ve paraded my brave face around the school playground, hoping that my smile would divert attention from the cuts hiding beneath my sleeves and the sick feeling of dread in my gut.

But then my brave face slipped.

Crisis point. Still doing my best to hide the truth, but wondering if this was actually a proper, real life breakdown. Whether I needed to be shut away somewhere until I was ready to face the world again. Cutting myself so deeply that I frightened myself.

My brave face slipped.

Something had to give.

I quit my post as a school governor. I spent several weeks unable to focus on work, worrying about it building up behind me but devoid of the mental capacity to focus on it. And people noticed. They had to.

Some people noticed, and some people I confided in. A few, a very select few. People I could trust. Some who I instinctively knew had been in the same dark place; some who I just felt safe talking to.

The brave face wasn’t working any more.

For a few weeks, I had so much support. So much love. People messaging me. Talking to me. Caring for me. Loving me.

I felt less alone.

But now. But now.

It’s been several weeks. My drugs have been increased. I’m going through therapy (ah, therapy, that great ‘talking cure’ that makes you feel a million times worse). I should be better. People think I should be better.

I am frustrating people. I know it. You take a pill, and it makes you well again, right?

It doesn’t seem that easy. Yes, I am better than I was. But I am not BETTER.

It feels very lonely to realise that the support I had has run out. But it has. I am boring, frustrating, aggravating, self-pitying. Other people are going through worse, far worse, than the self-indulgent pityfest that is depression.

It’s time to paste that brave face on again. Smile, laugh, chat. Post nonsense on Facebook, talk nonsense in the playground. Pretend to be fine. Pretend to be immune. Pretend to be me, old me, me how I used to be.

Brave face.

My friends

It’s funny. An awful lot of my depression comes down to people hating me.

And yet I have people who love me.

It feels odd.

I love them, but I don’t feel they should love me.

I am not worth their love.