I don’t want to be here again

I was doing okay. I was two months into the new meds regime and doing okay. I had stopped thinking about self-harm and suicide. I was chatting to people – something I’ve not managed in two years – and laughing again.

Then it started to slip.

Why? Why, last weekend, when everything was okay? What messed things up?

I hate the randomness, the unpredictability of this hideous illness.

And then.

While I was feeling down, two awful pieces of news.

A friend’s tiny baby diagnosed with cancer.

An old school friend who’d committed suicide.

I’m triggered. I’m massively triggered. I was feeling vulnerable anyway but Aaron’s death has floored me.

I’m grieving for the boy I knew at school.

I feel desperately sad and sorry that he got to that point where he couldn’t keep going.

But most of all I’m right back there. Right back to how I felt then.

And I envy him that he succeeded where I failed.

Oh God, this is awful.

Staying ‘strong’

I don’t really like the word ‘strong’ being used to describe people who have depression. I don’t like the implication that if we try hard enough, we can be ‘strong enough’ to beat it – when it’s an illness that doesn’t quite work like that.

But I’m trying to be strong at the moment.

My mood is definitely lower than it’s been for a while, and I don’t really know why. Possibly I’m just tired. Probably having a cold isn’t helping. But it definitely feels like the bleakness is trying to creep back in. I feel generally uneasy, unsettled, anxious and exhausted and it’s not nice.

Recovery isn’t a one-way street, I know that – but it’s still not great to feel like this when I was hopeful that the new (ish) dose of meds had finally got things stable.

I know that I need to be strong now, to stop what is hopefully just a blip turning into a proper low. I went out last night; I really didn’t feel like it and almost cancelled but I made myself go, because I know it’s very easy to start isolating myself when I feel less than brilliant. I’m on my own with Katie this afternoon and we’ve baked cakes together even though I didn’t have the energy. I’m doing my best not to let Ian see that I’m finding things a bit difficult, as he’s so happy that I’ve been feeling better.

I’m praying hard that once this cold has gone and I feel better rested, the fog will lift again. And in the meantime, all I can do is try to be strong enough to get through what I really, really hope is just a short-lived low.

Even though I feel anything but.

 

Damage

Yesterday in the park after school, I sat on the grass and chatted to someone who I haven’t spoken to properly in a long time.

Not since I became really unwell.

Even though I’m feeling better, I still tend to keep my head down at school, keep out of conversations, stay near people who I know are real friends.

While the vast majority of my friends have been amazingly supportive through my illness, some have really hurt me, and I need to protect myself from that.

The person I was chatting to yesterday is not someone who’s hurt me, but she’s very good friends with the person who has probably done the worst damage of everyone. That’s why I haven’t been able to speak to her, or even exchange smiles in the playground. Because I didn’t, don’t, want her to feel divided. I know where her loyalties lie and I don’t want her to feel that she’s betraying her friend – who, for some reason still unknown to me, has barely looked at me since I became ill – by speaking to me.

It was nice, though, to catch up. Our girls are good friends and our boys are in the same class. I want to be able to say hello to her at the classroom door.

I messaged her this evening to say how good it was to chat.

She messaged me back saying she was sad we’d drifted apart.

I don’t really know what to say to that. What I did say was that I was sorry that my illness had affected our friendship.

But am I just making excuses? Am I using depression as an excuse for being rude and unfriendly and distant?

I’m sure I’ve hurt people, but I’ve been hurt too. Our mutual friend kicked me when I was down.

Imagine kicking someone who was down because of cancer. It just wouldn’t happen.

But mental health issues are fair game.

I want to forgive and not hold a grudge and I’m trying really hard to do that, but the truth is that it’s left me feeling very, very wary of anyone but my closest circle of friends. Which is why I’m consciously distant and reserved and disconnected.

I’m dwelling too much tonight. I need to stop before I get sucked in.

What you don’t see

This week is Depression Awareness Week. It’s actually been easier for me this year than last; last year, when I was really unwell, I found that everywhere I looked there were triggering articles, memes, Facebook posts. This year – well, maybe they’re still just as prevalent, but they’re no longer leaping out at me.

What I have seen, though, is the brilliant #whatyoudontsee campaign from the Blurt Foundation, where people with depression have shared their photos – normal, happy, smiling, crazy photos – on social media, with captions explaining what lies beneath the cheerful exterior.

I feel like I’m recovering well now – but there is still a lot that is not well. Still a lot that people don’t see.

#whatyoudontsee is…

As much as I love summer, I’m terrified about the thought of getting my self-harm scarred arms out in public.

I feel that because I’m doing better, I’m under immense pressure to *keep* doing better. I can’t tell anyone if I’m having a bit of a down amidst the ups.

I’m dreading getting to the top of the waiting list for therapy. I’m scared about it setting me right back again.

I feel fake. I feel like I’m overcompensating and being overly ‘up’ all the time because I’m frightened that if I don’t, I’ll slip down.

At least once a week I’m totally overcome by anxiety, to the point that I just want to email everyone I work with and say, ‘No, I can’t do this.’

I hate myself so very much for what I’ve done to my family. There’s still a social services file with my children’s name on it. But I never intended to harm them. The very opposite, in fact.

I feel so very, very insecure. I check myself before I message my friends because I’m so afraid that even a ‘How’s your day?’ text comes across as me being needy and burdensome. I deliberately don’t check my phone when I hear it beep with a Facebook message because I don’t want to seem so desperate for contact.

I retract and apologise whenever I ask a friend if they fancy a cuppa. They don’t want to be with me and I shouldn’t ask them to.

I’m dreading, totally dreading, going to Australia for my brother’s wedding. It’s too big and scary. Everyone says how exciting it’s going to be but I’m utterly petrified. I can’t cope with the thought of being so far out of my comfort zone. I’m in denial about it but am going to have to face up to it at some point.

I’m better but I’m not ‘better.’ I’m exhausting myself with the effort being okay. I just really want what I had a few months ago – support, listening, friendship, a hug.

But I can’t have any of that. Because I’m better. Even though#whatyoudontsee is that better is a slow, prolonged process – and I’m still only at the start of it.

 

 

Perspective

I’ve felt decidedly wobbly over the past couple of days.

Ruminating massively on things past. And just generally feeling low and anxious.

It’s not a good feeling, especially after several weeks of being in a much better place mentally. I’d got to a point where I felt my meds were at the right level, and felt hopeful that this time, things were under control. Now I’m having doubts.

The challenge now is keeping things in perspective. I know that recovery isn’t a one-way street; it’s inevitable that there are going to be setbacks along the way. It’s also not surprising that my mood has dipped a bit. It’s the tail-end of the school holidays. We’re all out of routine. I’ve been staying up late – and usually having a few glasses of wine – and then sleeping late. I’m not taking my meds at the same time each day. I haven’t had my usual dose of fresh air and exercise on the walk to school. I’m feeling under pressure with work to get done before going away for the weekend.

Much as I like the holidays, I know my mental health suffers when my days lack structure. Next week, I’ll be back to normal and it will help me function better.

I also know that while I’m not feeling brilliant, I’m a long way from where I was. I’m not having any thoughts of suicide or self-harm – just thoughts that I don’t want to be back there again.

Above all, I need to keep telling myself that it’s only been a matter of days – it’s not a sign that things are going to go horribly wrong again.

It’s frustrating and dispiriting because it makes me realise that depression is, most likely, always going to be a part of me. But I’m stronger than I was, and I’m going to do everything I can to not let it suck me down again.

 

And then…

And then, after a month or so of feeling *so* much better, of feeling more like me again, and of riding out the occasional blip without going into self-destruct mode, I got a phone call.

Children’s services. Again.

Okay, I’ve been here before. I’m not panicking about the outcome; if their previous contact is anything to go by, they’ll make a few enquiries of school and my GP and then leave me alone. I’m making a conscious effort not to give it too much headspace.

But it’s deeply, deeply frustrating and upsetting to have been contacted again.

Apart from anything, the call came completely out of the blue. Apparently, this is the fall-out from when I was referred to the crisis team in January, but it’s been such a long time since that happened – and I’m such a different place mentally – that it hadn’t even crossed my mind that I was still on their list.

It’s frustrating because I really don’t need their involvement or support now. I know safeguarding is a massive issue and they have to be seen to be doing their job properly, but I’m honestly fine.

The children are fine too. Even if they’ve been emotionally impacted in the past, they’re not at the moment, as far as I can tell. We’re in the middle of a perfectly normal Easter holiday with friends and parks and cinema and swimming. Things are more stable for us all than they have been for a long time, and I really, really resent social services for wading in – four months too late – and stirring things up again.

Above all, it reminds me that the scars aren’t just physical. No matter how well I am, and for how long, I’m never going to escape the consequences of my depression.

And that feels really, really unfair. I didn’t choose to be ill. I didn’t choose for my life to be shaped and defined by mental illness. But it’s a label and a stigma I’m going to carry forever.