Reality check

24 Hours in A&E is one of my favourite TV programmes.

Only, not so much now.

Having been on the other side, it doesn’t seem like such great TV.

It just brings back bad memories.

The panicked car journey to the hospital, with the motorway junction shut and the car out of petrol.

The urgency with which I was seen.

My husband having to leave to go home to be with the children.

My amazing friend taking over where he left off.

And then a blank, with just a few fractured recollections.

Lying on the toilet floor and wondering if I would be able to get up, or if I’d have to pull the emergency cord.

Vomiting into a cardboard bowl.

Being moved into a wheelchair for the transfer from AAU to ward, and passing out, and having to be pushed up there on a trolley, staring at ceilings and with no idea where I was.

The elderly woman on the ward sobbing about the noise, the noise, every time I unhooked my drip from the mains to go to the loo. It bleeped, loudly, regularly, until I plugged it back in. And thanks to all the fluids being pumped into me, I needed the loo a lot that night.

Being served an egg salad for dinner, and pushing it away, full as I was of paracetamol and cyclizine, and being told that if I didn’t eat, I’d end up with a tube down my nose.

Waiting, waiting for blood results. Feeling entirely ambivalent as to the results.

The auxiliary nurse asking what happened to me. ‘It looks like you’ve been attacked by a cat.’

The overt hostility of the ward sister. Obviously.

Eight weeks on, and feeling – not fine, but better – I cannot believe that was me. I can’t now imagine putting a razor blade against my skin, or taking an overdose.

How did it get that bad?

 

Reset

Pessimist that I am, I am hesitant these days to say that I’m feeling better. I know I have been here before over the past 12 months, and have had good days/weeks, and then ended up feeling worse than ever. But right now, I’m feeling okay.

October half-term last year was the point at which I realised I wasn’t just a bit low/grumpy/SADish. It had been a tough few weeks for various reasons, and I remember my prayer request at Bible study was that half-term would reset me a bit. It didn’t happen, and the 12 months since have been the toughest of my life.

This October half-term, though, I do feel has reset me.

That’s a bit facile. It’s been more gradual than just a one-week turnaround. But I feel like I’m a good few steps further on that I was even a week ago.

How do I know?

I’ve sat through a potentially triggering sermon and not cried (go, me!).

I’ve allowed my children to go and stay with their grandparents and not freaked out about it.

I’ve used my child-free time for me/us – going out for dinner, and to a comedy gig, and then for a lovely massage on my own the next day.

I’ve done lots of work, but also allowed myself to lie on the sofa and finish the book that was absolutely gripping me.

I’ve signed up to Weight Watchers again (not that I have actually started, but baby steps…).

I’ve teased my kids, laughed at them, tickled them, bundled them, and cuddled them when they’ve been overwrought and upset.

I’ve just watched 24 Hours in A&E, after my own 72 hours in A&E, and not lost the plot.

I’ve missed my tablets on a couple of days and have survived.

Most importantly, I have read my Bible and prayed. Properly. Not just desperate arrow prayers.

I’ve been following a lot of blogs about Christians with mental health issues lately, and emmascrivener.net in particular. Her book was recommended to me a while ago, and I read it – and sobbed through it, with recognition – while I was in hospital. Since I’ve been home, I’ve read it again, and one statement in particular speaks loudly to me. Recovery is…

‘About receiving: from God and from others. It’s learning to speak out instead of keeping it in. It’s resting instead of earning. It’s making mistakes. Most of all, recovery is more than choosing not to die. It’s about learning to live.’
Emma Scrivener, A New Name

I never let myself receive before. Not from people, and not from God either.

I won’t yet say I’ve recovered from depression. I think it has been a part of me since I was a little girl, and I’m reluctant to say that it will ever leave me completely. But even if it doesn’t in this life, I have been reassured that it will all pale into insignificance in the future. And more immediately, thanks to my friends, and to circumstance, and to prayer, and lots of other things beside, I feel like I’m learning to live.

 

 

Facing facts

My daughter has always been a confident little thing. Okay, she went through the normal separation anxiety phase at about 10 months old, but other than that, she’s seemed pretty secure.

She was happy to be left in crèche at church.

Happy with either Mummy or Daddy putting her to bed at night.

Happy to graduate to Sunday school.

Happy to start pre-school, with no wobbles.

Back in September, she moved on to school nursery. That, too, went well. We haven’t had any tears or trauma; she has scurried in enthusiastically since day one.

Tonight, though, I have had to face up to something that has hit me really hard.

My depression has damaged her.

Before September, although she’d never spent a night away from me, she was perfectly okay with me not being there at bedtime. If I was out for the evening, or just busy working downstairs, it was not a problem for Ian to put her to bed instead of me.

Then came my hospital episode. And since then, it’s all changed.

It started on my second night in hospital, when Ian phoned me at bedtime because Katie wanted me to sing her bedtime songs. I tried to oblige over the phone, but it ended with us both sobbing.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, I went to the London Women’s Convention, which again took me away at bedtime. At 6.10pm, I got a text: ‘Please call if you have a break.’ Not the sort of message you want to receive when you’re an hour and a half away from your kids. I phoned, and heard my poor little girl distraught in the background. ‘What’s wrong with her?’ I asked, picturing illness or injury. It was neither of those: she just wanted Mummy.

And now. We’ve been planning for both children to go to stay with their grandparents tomorrow night. It would have been Katie’s first time, but she loves Grandma and Grampy, and we didn’t foresee any issues.

But tonight, when I explained what was happening, she dissolved. Clung to me and howled. ‘I want you to come with me! I don’t want to go without you! You’re my favourite!’

I tried to reason and reassure, but she wasn’t having any of it. Only when I promised that she didn’t have to go did she finally calm down.

I’ve been hoping against hope that somehow, me being unwell wasn’t really affecting the kids. But now I have concrete proof, in the shape of my previously secure little girl’s sudden insecurity, that I have damaged them – or at least one of them.

She has learned that she can’t rely on me. That I’m not always there for her. That it’s possible for me to go and not come back.

Yes, I could have been in hospital with appendicitis or pneumonia. Yes, I could have had to go away for a few nights for work. But neither of those situations would have been my fault in the way that this is. This was my own doing.

It’s been a hard weekend anyway, but this evening, I feel awful. I feel sick with the guilt and responsibility of what I have done to my children. I have this sinking feeling that this period has changed the course of their lives forever. Perhaps that sounds histrionic, but it seems fairly inevitable right now. They may not know why I was in hospital, but how can those three nights – and, more significantly, the days/weeks/months leading up to and following them, in which I have failed so spectacularly to be the mother they need – not have affected them?

I’m finding it very difficult to see myself as forgiven just now.

Tired

I don’t know what to do with myself today.

I am so, so tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

Ian has had the children all day because I’m just not functioning.

I’ve told him I’ve got a headache but we both know it’s not true.

I’ve spent two hours asleep on the sofa.

I’ve picked up and put down my book about 20 times because my brain won’t engage.

I’ve tried to do a Tesco order but given up because I can’t muster the energy to walk into the kitchen and look at the cupboards to see what we need.

I’m scared.

This week has been okay. I’ve felt more stable than I have for quite a while. So to feel like this again is frightening.

Perhaps I’ve overdone things. Perhaps I’ve forced ‘normal’ too much. Perhaps a day of doing nothing is what I need to reset me, and tomorrow I’ll wake up feeling okay again.

But I can’t seem to shake that hollow feeling of dread.

It’s the weekend. It’s half-term. I should be out with my children, enjoying their company and the autumn sunshine. Not curled up on the sofa while their father takes them to the farm and then to McDonald’s for tea because he knows I’m not going to be up to cooking for them.

Even writing is difficult today, and that scares me too. Struggling to put words on a page is always a sure sign that my head is not in a good way.

I feel like I’m sliding back into the pit and I honestly don’t know what to do.

Onwards, upwards, sideways

I am so fed up of this.

Today was my fourth CMHT appointment in as many weeks.

Every time, I have seen a different person/people.

Every time, I have told the same story.

I’ve seen a mental health nurse and occupational therapist.

A psychiatrist.

A counselling psychologist.

And now a psychotherapist.

On every occasion, I have been asked the same questions. Told the same story.

I guess it’s good in some ways. I am now completely desensitised to talking to shrinks (generic term) about the state of my head. I used to come out wrecked; today, I sat in my car afterwards and ate a sandwich, and then stopped at BP for a KitKat.

But I am fed up.

If this is crisis care, it’s a good job I’m not in crisis any more. It’s getting on for two months since I was in hospital. I don’t feel like I’m anywhere further in terms of getting help.

I am going to look at this positively. I don’t like to count chickens but I am feeling okay at the moment. Not great – but okay. I am not fighting razor blade urges just now. I am not lying in bed planning paracetamol shopping trips. That is progress, even from a week ago.

But I do still feel like I’m struggling still. Faking it. And it’s so tiring. Today, in particular, I have tried so hard to be relentlessly upbeat. I think I’ve done pretty well – and that is progress. But I am so tired.

As things stand at the moment, I’m being called back in another three or four weeks for another assessment appointment with the same person. There may or may not be another after that. Beyond that, I may or may not get long-term therapy, which may or may not be with the same person.

I am honestly not sure how much more I can do. Every time I have to do ‘my story’ with someone, it exhausts me. I can’t spend the next however many months going over ‘what was in my head when’ with an ever-expanding string of professionals.

I genuinely feel I would be better walking away from it right now.

Be normal be normal be normal

That’s been today’s theme.

I am exhausted now.

Tom’s parents’ evening was, as expected, pretty awful.

The issue of SEN has been raised, regarding his concentration, attention span, motor skills, etc etc.

I am being very deliberately upbeat and breezy and que sera, sera.

Of course, it may just be that he’s a lazy airhead.

Neither is ideal – but at least he has a proactive teacher this year.

At least.

A friend posted a video on Facebook the other day about empathy. One of the points it made was that no truly empathetic statement ever started with, ‘At least.’

It’s true.

When you’re feeling like absolute crap, ‘at least’ isn’t much of a comfort.

Ever since last weekend, I have felt under enormous pressure to be normal normal normal.

To go with the ‘at leasts.’

That ‘if all else fails’ optimism.

I’ve done it this evening. I was – go me! – honest with my mother about Tom’s parents’ evening, rather than pretending that everything was going just perfectly. But when she replied, ‘What a shame,’ I dressed it up as something positive, great for him that ‘at least’ he has a good teacher, everything may be fine but ‘at least’ we’re going to get it all checked out.

I know that this is what I need to do from now on. This neediness is just getting tiresome. Everyone has issues similar or equivalent to me. Everyone. No one needs mine on top of theirs. Especially when it’s all just run-of-the-mill stuff that I should be well able to cope with.

I also know that when Ian comes back from table tennis later, he will – as he did on Monday – switch on the bedroom light and check me, in my sleep, for signs of self-injury. He won’t find them tonight, but the fact of him looking is bad enough.

And then tomorrow.

First psychotherapy appointment.

I am inherently prejudiced against psychotherapy after my isolated teenage experience, but I know that when I was having counselling earlier this year, in combination with medication, I felt stronger than I have for a long while since.

It’s not going to be easy, though. And because of my normal normal normal act, I can’t go and sob on anyone afterwards. I can’t message anyone to debrief. I can’t even tell my own husband what went on. I have got to cope and be strong and be stable. ‘Broken me’ is tiresome, wearying, boring, irritating, draining.

I need to be ‘fixed me’ now.

I am so grateful that God takes me as I am.

 

 

 

Better/not better

Church was packed today. Our vicar and his wife are moving to a new parish, so everyone turned out to say goodbye and wish them well. It’s been an emotional day all round, mostly because it’s involved saying goodbye to two people who I will really, really miss (as will my kids – Katie came home from church and drew a picture for Clare and David, and is very upset that she won’t be able to give it to them. They may well not be quite as upset!).

It’s also been emotional for other reasons.

I’ve had some much-needed spontaneous hugs from people who know I’m all messed up.

I’ve had some people – who obviously know that I’ve not been well, but not (I don’t think) why – telling me I look much better.

I’ve had other people, who I haven’t seen for several months, telling me I don’t look good at all.

I am really struggling with the line in the sand that is better/not better.

I may be better than I was a month ago, but I don’t feel anywhere near ‘better.’ More to the point, I’m losing hope of ever being totally ‘better.’ Is that negative, pessimistic? Perhaps. It’s just hard to see a way out right now.

Here is how it is at the moment.

I’m scared.

I’m sad.

I’m lonely.

I’m exhausted.

I’m fighting thoughts that I know I shouldn’t be having.

I’m going to take some time to adjust to the changed landscape of our church, and to losing a friend.

I am still trusting in God.

I still know that this is all a part of his plan.

I still know that he is rooting for me.

But it’s hard.

Ian and I argued. I slipped up last night and slipped back into self-harm. He is mad at me and mad at himself for not being aware and stopping it. I feel really bad about it. Really. But – it’s not him. It’s me.

I really need to shut up and get a grip and move on.

Why is it so difficult?

 

All in a mess

I’ve been feeling a bit ropey all day. Actually, a bit more than all day. Last night, I went to bed with some fairly concrete plans about how I would get up and go out on a mission to procure enough tablets to Do Something.

I didn’t, but the thought was there. So instead, on an unseasonably mild October evening, I decided to go out and spend an hour on my own in the summer house, with candles and a glass of wine and my Kindle and my latest ‘depressed Christian’ book.

Confession: I still have a packet of razor blades hidden somewhere no one knows about.

Confession: I took one of them out to the summer house with me.

I didn’t do anything. In the end, I threw it over the back fence into the woods. But the thought was there.

Earlier, we went for a pub dinner for Ian’s birthday. I’m not sure how we got onto the subject, but we were talking about my weight and how I want to lose some of it. That was when Ian said, ‘I don’t really care how you look; I just want you to be happy.’

It’s a nice sentiment, isn’t it? But all I heard was the last bit. ‘I just want you to be happy.’

No pressure, then.

I know that’s not how he meant it. I know he wants me to be happy because he loves me, and because life is much easier – for all of us – when I am. But my goodness, I am feeling the burden now.

It was a comment like this that led to my first, impulsive overdose. A comment that ‘wasn’t meant like that’ but still made me feel under so much pressure to be ‘normal’ and ‘okay’ that I decided that, rather than try and fail, it’d be better just to not wake up at all.

I am not surprised that people just want me to be happy. And it’s not just for my sake, but theirs, too. I am a horrible person to know at the moment. Gloomy, introspective, selfish. Snappy and irritable. Distracted and withdrawn. I drain their energy and time and resources and emotions. I hate that people can’t rely on me for help and support any more – that they shy away from leaving their kids with me. Understandably.

So. I find myself back in that overcompensating place. I suppose that’s a good thing; I am capable of faking it, whereas a couple of weeks ago, there would have been no chance. But it makes me feel slightly out of control. Slightly manic.

Tickling the kids until they scream with laughter.

Cleaning the house until it shines.

Going over work again and again and again until it’s perfect.

Baking cakes.

Initiating a bathroom tile shopping trip, and making a spur of the moment decision.

All good stuff, I know. But I feel like I’m doing it all to conceal the fact that underneath, I am not doing well.

I am faking it, and it feels so, so fragile. But what other way is there?

My latest ‘depressed Christian’ book has confirmed what I thought about how people see me. Sinner, drain, self-obsessed, hard work, purveyor of gloom, difficult, not a good friend, etc etc.

Everyone’s patience is running out.

I need to put that smile on and get on with it.

Blessings

Six years ago, we moved house.

Six years ago, having tried out – and not got on with – the nearest church, I decided to pay a visit to the one slightly further down the road.

Six years ago, I received a welcome that made me feel that it was somewhere I wanted to stay.

Six years ago, I had no idea quite how important that church – and I mean, of course, the people, not the building – would be in my life.

God is so good.

Six years on, that church is my safe place.

Six years on, God has used the church as a way to introduce me to people who I know I can trust and rely on no matter what happens.

Six years on, my children love going to church. They have great friends there – and great fun – and great teaching.

Six years on, I have heard sermons that have taken my breath away, made me smile in recognition, made me cry, given me a new and greater faith.

Six years on, even my non-Christian husband has learned that there is nothing quite like the church in times of need.

It’s been a really awful 12 months or so, and the past couple of months have been the worst of all. But – excuse the cliche – the Lord really does work in mysterious ways.

I am not very good at being humble, needy, dependent. It’s been hard for me to say, ‘I need help.’ Not just God’s help, but human help. But my goodness, I have received it in spades from my church family. Practical help: meals, childcare, lifts. Emotional help: hugs, conversations, Facebook chats. Spiritual help: prayer, Bible verses, book recommendations.

I realise now that, when I walked into that church six years ago, all independent and capable and fake-confident, God knew that there would be a time when the church – through his will – would literally save my life.

Now our church stands on the cusp of a new era (ugh – that sounds so pretentious!). Our vicar and his wife, David and Clare, leave on Sunday for pastures new. It’s going to be a time of upheaval for all of us. But while I’m sad that this period is drawing to a close, I am so, so thankful.

Had Clare not welcomed me when I walked into that church six years ago, I might not have stayed.

Had David not preached some blinding sermons six years ago, I might not have stayed.

Had I not met people who I really clicked with, I might not have stayed.

Had none of those things happened, I seriously doubt that I would be writing this now.

Yes, it’s melodramatic. But it’s true.

So – this is to say thank you to David and Clare for six years of brilliant teaching, friendship, fun, fellowship, prayer and care. And thank you to God for leading me to HT at a time when I didn’t think I really needed it that much. Because six years on, I realise just how much I did, and still do.

God knows.

Guilt and grace

One of the key characteristics of depression is guilt.

I definitely tick that box.

I feel guilty about everything. The here and now, the past, the future. I even still feel guilty about pinching my dad’s chocolate brownie from the fridge when I was younger than my son is now.

The worst guilt, though, is the guilt of being a depressed Christian.

It feels like, if I were properly trusting in Jesus, I should be filled with joy, joy that overrides any other sort of suffering or sadness. How could I possibly not be?

It’s a hard feeling to shake. No matter how much I read about and from Christians with depression, it still feels wrong. No matter how many Bible verses I’m pointed towards, I still feel guilty guilty guilty.

It feels as if, by being depressed, I’m saying that God’s love isn’t enough.

How arrogant is that?

This weekend, though, God put me in the right place at the right time on two consecutive days. On Saturday I went to the London Women’s Convention; on Sunday, to my own church. On both occasions, there were talks on Revelation – the eternal promise of a future with the Lord, whatever this life holds. And – most importantly – however undeserving I feel.

I grew up in a church where grace wasn’t a particularly prominent theme. I was brought up to love God, to try to live according to His will, to say sorry when I failed, to be a Good Person (yep – more guilt there). But grace – the idea that Jesus has taken on every single bad thing I have ever done, and in doing so, secured my future in Heaven – wasn’t a big focus.

Both of this weekend’s talks took grace and shoved it right in my face.

Yes, I am a sinner – of course I am.

But because of Jesus, God looks at me and sees perfection.

Nothing can get in the way of my future with Him. Not the blackness of my heart or my mind. The scars on my arms. Even the fact that I tried to kill myself – and what could be a greater sin than to try to destroy what God Himself created? – isn’t an obstacle.

I know all this in my head, but I’ve been struggling to feel it in my heart lately, especially post-overdose. I’ve kind of felt like I’ve gone a step too far, crossed a line, finally done the one thing that I can’t be forgiven for.

This weekend, Revelation, and the people who taught from it, showed me that this isn’t the case.

There is no sin that is too big for grace.

That doesn’t mean everything is okay. I didn’t wake up on Monday morning and think, ‘Hey – I’m not depressed any more!’ I’ve cried buckets over the past few days, been to two particularly difficult mental health appointments, struggled with some seriously destructive urges. But I have been reminded, twice over, at a point that I desperately needed to hear it, that I can be Not Okay but still trust in Jesus. I can be all messed up right now, but still have faith that in Heaven, I will see God face to face. He will spread His tent out over me (such a comforting metaphor) and wipe away every tear.

I’m fairly sure that guilt is always going to be a big feature in my life. It’s the way I am – always have been, always will be. But whatever I have done, I am forgiven, accepted and loved.

However much I hate myself, God has a place for me.

It’s a truth I need to hold onto.