Being ‘okay’

It’s a funny thing, this recovery business. It makes me question every emotion. 

I have a bad night’s sleep. Am I getting depressed again?

I wake up feeling tearful. Am I getting depressed again?

I start to stress out about work. Am I getting depressed again?

I shout at the kids. Am I getting depressed again?

But that question – am I getting depressed again? – makes me realise a very important truth.

I am not depressed any more.

I have come through it.

Not totally. Not unscathed. Maybe I will never be exactly how I was before. But I am not depressed.

If I think about it too much, I can start to believe that I am. Because I’m not completely fine. I still have black dog days. Sleepless nights. Days when I’m anxious or ratty or tearful or withdrawn. But I’m not depressed.

Depressed was when I couldn’t make eye contact with anyone, let alone laugh.

Depressed was when I barely ate for six weeks.

Depressed was when I had to extend work deadlines because I just couldn’t put the words onto paper.

Depressed was when my children lived on freezer dinners because I didn’t have the energy to cook.

Depressed was when my baby girl asked, ‘Why is Mummy sad?’

I am not like that now. 

Now I can take pleasure from cooking a nice meal again – and from eating it.

I can defuse an overtired toddler tantrum with love and understanding, rather than panic and rage.

I can send out feature pitches, get commissions, and enjoy writing them.

I can play-fight with my children and make them laugh. 

I can feel happy and relaxed with my friends, sitting and chatting in the park in the sun.

I can do favours for people because I love them and I want to, not because I feel it’s the only way they will like me back.

I am a work in progress, I know that. I don’t think there will ever be a straightforward answer to the question, ‘Why was I depressed?’ I know it is likely to bite me again, which is why I need to safeguard myself against that by seeing my counselling through, seeing my course of medication through. I know I will always have black days that make me fear that I’m sliding backwards again. 

But I am accepting myself more.

I am not perfect. But I’m okay.

I’m not a brilliant journalist. But I’m making a living out of it.

I’m not a brilliant housewife. But neither am I a complete slob.

I’m not a brilliant wife. But I’m better than I could be.

I’m not a brilliant friend. But I have a few people who I know are friends for life. 

I’m not a brilliant mother. But my children know they are loved. 

I’m never going to be everything I want to be, or everything that I feel is expected of me. I’m always going to be a bit shy, a bit introverted, a bit morose, a bit temperamental, a bit lazy, a bit fat, a bit slovenly. But I am okay.

I am going to be okay.

And in saying that, I know I am no longer depressed.

Not cured. Not fixed. But not depressed.

Okay.

 

More rambling

I’ve felt a bit rubbish this week. I sort of know why. My weekend with my father was really awkward. We can’t converse at all unless he’s falling-down drunk, and when sober, he barely says a word to me. He kept a 20ft distance throughout everything we did as a family, complained (in an oh-so-ironic way) about pretty much every single thing we did – from where we live to me ordering a glass of rose, rather than red, in the pub – and swore with staggering lack of abandon in front of Tom.

Another part of the equation is going back into counselling. After a break of a month or so, which encompassed two weeks of feeling really good but another two of feeling scarily out of control (A&E trauma with Katie, holiday with family, worst self-harm to date), there was a lot to deal with, and it felt like ripping off a particularly stubborn plaster.

I also felt stupid, and ashamed. Stupid for being back there, ashamed of cutting, ashamed of not being fixed.

Two things have struck chords with me this week. The first was this blog post, which really resonated. Particularly the following lines:

‘Deep depression is hard to understand, especially if you’ve never been there. It has manageable days that for me usually include writing something I don’t hate or spending time outside. In other words, I function and appear to be fine.

‘But then there are days — sometimes even that same day — when, like a virus, it flares up and all I can do is remind myself not to swerve my car over the center line or walk a little too close to the edge.

‘These are the times that I should reach out, but the thing about depression is that it comes with the sense that you shouldn’t have it to begin with, that it’s a bunch of self-indulgent navel-gazing and not an actual illness like those that everyone can see looking in.’

And, aligned to that and very much related, something that my counsellor said. I’m sure I paraphrase slightly, but: ‘Was there anyone you could confide in? Was there ever anyone who would just give you a hug and say, “Yes, that was a really bad day, do you want to talk about it?”‘

These two statements together have really hit home. As a child, a teenager, an adult, I have never felt able to say, ‘I feel a bit rubbish. Can I have a hug and chat to you about it?’ Partly because I was brought up to be the strong one, the carefree one, the one who never cried or got angry or ruffled feathers. Partly because everyone around me – first, my parents, and now, my husband – has this expectation of stability from me. And partly, as Abby Heugel wrote, because unlike a physical illness, depression feels selfish, self-indulgent, something I should be able to snap out of.

I am beginning to work out what tipped me over the edge this time, but I’m also realising that I’m trapped in a vicious circle. I desperately need to be able to talk to people – just normal people – about how I feel, but I feel ashamed and guilty for having those feelings. So those feelings – probably quite common ones, of being a bit sad or a bit embarrassed or a bit stressed out – become internalised and build and build and build. And because they build, I get to the point that I feel so guilty about having them – when everyone else in the world is coping with them – that I really, actually hate myself. I feel so ashamed of the person I am.

I know that by recognising this, I’m one step closer to sorting myself out, but the process is painful. I woke up today feeling totally bleak. I went to playgroup with Katie and felt like I was trapped in a bubble, simultaneously wishing that no one would talk to me and that someone would hug me. Later, I sat and looked at my workload and went into full-on anxiety mode, so afraid of messing it all up. But I can’t can’t can’t tell anyone how I feel, which makes me appear moody and unfriendly and detached.

I feel so bad about being so self-absorbed with this stupid illness. No matter how many people tell me that I’m ill, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m malingering, attention-seeking, making a fuss out of nothing. If 25 per cent of the population suffers from depression and most of those still keep functioning, keep it under wraps, why on earth can’t I? And why on earth, after over six months of medication and getting on for four of counselling, am I still struggling to hold it together? These things are proven to make people better, and I still feel so far from fixed.

It’s a mess.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow I go back. 

After my GP’s surgery meltdown, tomorrow I go back into counselling.

I feel bloody awful about it.

I am not unwell enough to justify it. I should have done what she said and left a gap before rethinking.

I’m taking up resources that other people need more.

I am a total, prize-winning idiot. I am making a fool of myself.

I am going to go in there and tell her that I made a mistake and I don’t need any more sessions. I’m 80 per cent better and I can sort the other 20 per cent out myself. I am shocked that only two weeks ago, I deliberately went out and bought a knife that would leave permanent scars. I don’t think I will do that again.

Such a fool. Such a fool.

What a difference a week makes

At church this morning, someone grabbed me and asked if I was alright. Said she had meant to text me during the week, as I looked so distracted last Sunday. I thanked her, but shrugged it off. I’m sure I was totally fine last Sunday, wasn’t I?

But then I stopped to think about it, and I realised I wasn’t. I was just back from an excruciatingly difficult week away with my family. I had had a proper meltdown at the doctor’s on the Friday evening. I had been alone with the kids all day Saturday while Ian was at the rugby, and had been so tired, so numb that it was easier to let them trash the house by getting out every toy they own than to try to entertain them. And then, on Sunday morning, a blast from the very distant past at church that really shook me up. I was distracted and then some. I sat through the service shaking and trying not to cry.

It seems hard to believe that that was just a week ago. This has been a really good week for me. Whether because of the weather, or being back home after a stressful week away, or having lots of work to immerse myself in, I don’t know, but I have felt pretty blooming great. It hasn’t all been rosy – I have shouted at the kids (of course), got rained on, had case study issues – but I’ve coped with it, and enjoyed the good bits in between. I’ve had lovely times with friends, been happy in the company of my children, produced some good work and savoured the feeling of sunshine on my skin. My only real angst has been how to cover up my ugly scars now it’s too hot for long sleeves.

But. There is always a but.

The upshot of my GP meltdown last week, where I sat there in tears and showed him my self-harm scars, is that I have been referred back to my counsellor for some more sessions. At the time, it felt like an enormous relief. And again when the counsellor called me and we booked my next appointment for a week tomorrow. 

But as the week has gone on, and I have felt happier and lighter and more stable, I have begun to feel guilty. I am sure I will benefit from more counselling, but I don’t need it. I certainly don’t need it at the expense of the NHS, and of people who need it more than I do, who are in the state of crisis that I was when I had my first session. If I’m still feeling this good, I will feel a total fraud walking back into the counselling centre a week Monday. A fraud and an attention-seeker.

So what do I do? Do I go with it and admit that I jumped the gun, that I’m feeling much better and don’t need it any more? Do I accept this next run of sessions and try to use them to put my issues to bed, once and for all? Will going back into counselling stir up my emotions and make me feel worse all over again? Do I phone up and cancel on the grounds that I’m wasting NHS resources? 

It all comes down to what I confessed in my last counselling session. Even when I’m at my happiest, I feel guilty, not good enough. Only now I’m not good enough – or not messed up enough – for counselling. 

I have no idea what to do.