2015 ends

This year has been one I’ll never forget, for all the wrong reasons.

Its conclusion has made me reflect on everything that’s happened.

I thought that blogging my thoughts out would be cathartic, but I’m finding that I can’t even write about it today without crying. It just triggers so many memories and flashbacks.

Facebook is full of posts about 2016 being a new start but as much as I would love to believe that the 12 months ahead will see some sort of resolution to this whole hideous period of mental illness, I know nothing is going to change as the clock strikes midnight.

Tomorrow is just another day, followed by lots more another days.

I need to remember that throughout 2016. I need to take the year one day at a time. One hour at a time, if need be. I need to remind myself that even in the darkness of this year, there have been good times – and there will be again. I need to make sure I tell myself that when the negative thoughts are threatening to overwhelm me.

There have been silver linings.

Amazing friends.

A more open and honest relationship with Ian.

An increased sense of my enormous need for the Lord.

A lovely summer holiday.

New work opportunities.

And above all, I’ve survived. Despite how close I came, 2015 was not the year that claimed me.

I’d like to say that I’ve come through it stronger, but I’m not sure that’s true. I don’t feel strong in the slightest. But I do think I understand myself better. I think I’m a bit kinder to myself. I know when things get too much, I need to take time out. And I’ve been more honest about not being well.

I don’t want to put too much hope in the year ahead because I don’t know how it’s going to turn out. I do, though, hope that the ACT turns out to be the thing that helps me get better – properly better, stable better.

As it is, today I’m a bit of a mess, but I’m going with it. I’m pretty much overwhelmed with sadness, loneliness, regret and fear, but I’m just going to let myself feel it.

Tomorrow is another day.

End of year reflections

As Christmas and the end of the year get nearer, I’m spending more time than is healthy reflecting on 2015.

Last New Year’s Eve I was at the tail end of a pretty horrendous 2014, and fervently praying that the year ahead was going to be better.

It hasn’t been.

The past 12 months have seen me become a person I never, ever imagined I would be. I’ve been in hospital three times after taking overdoses, have been on the brink of attempting suicide several more times. I’ve had to accept that I’m not well enough for real work, having been offered a job that I really wanted to do but losing the plot after just one day. I’ve been admitted to a psychiatric unit and been referred to social services.

Over the last few weeks I’ve been more stable, but just today I had a letter from the psychiatrist changing my diagnosis from severe depressive episode to severe depressive disorder.

I don’t like that. An episode sounds like a one-off, something that will pass. A disorder sounds more permanent.

Today has been a low day. I woke up feeling unsettled after a night of horrible flashbacky dreams of being in hospital. Then the letter came and unsettled me even more.

It’s been one of those days that leaves me wondering how on earth I got into this mess.

Although I’m ending the year in a better place than I started it – please God – I’m really struggling to come to terms with how things have been over the past 12 months.

It frightens me to think back on how bad things were. And while I’m thankful to God that I’m still here, I’m finding it very, very hard to deal with the enormity of everything that has gone on. I was so close to leaving my children without a mother and that is a terrifying thought.

I’m also wrestling massively with guilt. Even though I know in my heart that Jesus has wiped all my sin away, I’m finding it hard to cope with the fact that I tried to take the control into my own hands and take my life. And while God might have forgiven me, I can’t help feeling very, very judged in human terms.

That’s a difficult thing to deal with because I didn’t feel like I was sticking two fingers up at God when I overdosed. I just wanted the hideousness of being alive to stop. I didn’t feel like I was turning away from him; I wanted to be with him, wanted him to take me.

I have never experienced such an intense longing for Heaven.

As the year draws to a close, I feel many things. Not many of them are positive. I feel sad. Lonely. Lost. Ashamed. Depression has turned me into someone I hate. It’s put the whole family through hell.

I so desperately want 2016 to be better.

 

Stable?

I saw the psych this morning.

I almost didn’t go. Things seem to have settled to the point where I’m not okay, but okay.

I’m okay because I’m not having suicidal thoughts, or thoughts of self-harm.

I’m working (lots), coping with the children and the house, coping with playdates, coping (just about) with Christmas.

I’m not okay because I’ve still had to cancel two evenings out this week because I couldn’t face them, because I couldn’t handle an important school meeting yesterday evening, because I spent all of Monday wandering from room to room, not knowing what to do with myself.

But okay/not okay, there seemed little point going, knowing that he wasn’t going to do anything or change anything.

My instincts there were right. I’m to carry on with all the meds at the same doses, go to my psychology assessment next week, use the CPN if I need her.

But I’m glad I went. Because in one sentence, he summed up the okay/not okay.

‘It’s going to be a slow process.’

In some ways, that was hard to hear. I know it’s going to be a slow process, but there’s still a bit of me that wishes there were some amazing medication not yet tried, something that he could give me that would make me totally okay.

But in other ways, I needed to hear him say that. Because he acknowledged something that everyone else seems to have ignored or forgotten: that while I’m doing better than I was, I’m still not *actually* better.

He’s not lifting my diagnosis. He’s not discharging me. I’m better, but I’m not well.

Because I’m doing so much better than I was, no one really realises that things are still a huge struggle. No one realises that it’s a bit like working my way up a spiral – I may be on the up overall, but I’m a) not near the top yet and b) still slipping back a bit for every few steps I take towards the peak. And I don’t like to talk to anyone about it because I’m ‘okay’ compared to where I was a month ago. I feel like people are raising an eyebrow and thinking ‘really?’ if I say I’m not great. After how bad I was, I know that to everyone else, it looks as if I’ve completely recovered and therefore just attention-seeking if I say I haven’t.

The other person who has acknowledged this lately is – surprisingly – Ian. He seems to have tuned into how I’m feeling in a way in which he never has before. Last night, he put his arms around me unprompted and said, ‘You’re doing really well.’

That meant so much – not just that he’s appreciating that I’m doing my best, but that he’s noticed that I’m not in a great place. In the not so distant past, he didn’t notice until I was in crisis.

The psych said he would see me again in three months. Okay, but not okay.

Today ended with a visit to the GP to ask if he’d prescribe me more than two weeks’ worth of tablets to get me through the Christmas period without worrying about repeats. He agreed, and said he could tell that I was doing better than the last time I saw him. I could see the relief on his face; I could see that he’s been worrying over the past year that I would end up as a suicide, and that he would end up being scrutinised for how he’d handled my treatment.

So I guess that means I’m stable. In some ways, I feel far from stable. My sleep is all over the place; I still have to fight a battle every day to get out of bed. I’ve had days this week where I’ve struggled with difficult feelings. I’ve had days where I’ve got back from the school run and cried.

But I know that while I’m not where I want to be, I’m not where I was.

I just hope that I can keep taking more steps forward than back.