Irony

The last blog I wrote talked about my self-harm and how other people were responding to it.

I wrote how, despite how obvious my scars are, no one had commented on them.

So how typical and how ironic that this evening, someone did.

I was picking Katie up from Rainbows. The rain was hammering down; I’d driven the half-mile to the parish centre through flood waters and got soaked to the skin walking from the car park to the door.

I was wearing a sleeveless dress but wasn’t giving it a second’s thought.

Until, as I was on the way out, the slightly elderly lady who runs Rainbows asked me if I had a cat.

‘Yes,’ I said, assuming that Katie had been talking to them about Poppy.

‘Is it feral?’ she asked.

At this point I was beginning to wonder what on earth she was talking about. As cats go, Pops is about the most docile I have ever encountered.

But then she nodded towards me. ‘Your arms.’

I hate myself for what I did next. I told her that yes, our cat had been totally wild when we got her, and savaged me every time I got near her, but had mellowed with age. She then told me about her semi-feral cat who’d died at the age of 14 never having sat on a lap. I nodded and laughed and agreed.

I am a liar. And I’m perpetuating the stigma of mental health.

Okay, so I know it wasn’t the right place or time to make a stand. Not in front of my daughter and her friends. But I feel ashamed for feeling ashamed and concealing the truth.

I shouldn’t feel ashamed. The scars are part of me. They’re evidence of my history in the same way that a mastectomy scar would be.

It’s a wake-up call. And it’s shaken me. I’ve become, even in a few weeks, so accustomed to having my scars on show that I don’t even think about them any more.

But other people are.

And as long as they are, I’m never going to go a day without being reminded of the sheer black despair of depression.

 

A weekend away

Things have settled again, praise God.

It’s been a good couple of weeks, with a lot more ups than downs.

It’s hugely encouraging that the low periods, when they come, seem to be passing quicker than they did before, and that although they feel terrifying and uncontrollable, I am managing to control them somehow – at least, a lot better than I used to.

Still, though, depression is something I think about every day.

Will I ever not? I don’t know.

I’m hopeful that in time, I’ll confidently be able to say that I’m – what? At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I’m not sure I’ll ever feel completely recovered. In remission is maybe a better term.

I’m hopeful because not so long ago, I was thinking about my suicide attempts every day, and now I’m not. So maybe time will give me that perspective on my depression, too.

It’s been hot lately, and being a hot person anyway, I’ve had to concede that I can’t keep my cardigan on all summer. So, I’ve had my arms on show – in the playground, at church, in the shops.

Time has, again, given me perspective there. Part of me is ashamed of my scars. They are ugly. At this point in time, where I feel reasonably well, I’m disgusted by what I did to my own body, even though I know it was a result of my illness, of my brain being unwell.

But part of me thinks, well, they’re battle scars. They’re not attractive, but they are a part of my story. They’re evidence of something I lived through and (thank God) survived.

And people are being very sensitive about them. I’m completely certain that everyone who’s seen me bare-armed has noticed them; it would be hard not to. But no one has commented. It may be that they make people feel uncomfortable, but if that’s the case, everyone has masked their feelings very well.

Even children don’t seem to comment, and the only ones who have, have been satisfied with my explanation: I cut myself, but it’s getting better now. Not the whole truth, but not a lie either.

This weekend, though, we’re going to Center Parcs – not with other people, but at the same time as what feels like half the school. And that’s making me feel pretty vulnerable.

It’s one thing catching a glimpse of my arms across the playground. It’s another to see me in my swimming costume.

I’m going to do it, though. There’s no way I can hide the scars, but there’s no way I’m not going to enjoy swimming and splashing and playing with my babies, either. The scars are going to be there for the rest of their lives and I refuse to sit on the sidelines because of them.

I know no one will mention anything, and that’s fine by me. I suspect that they’ll go back to their villas in the evening and say, ‘Did you see…?’ and that’s fine by me too.

Do I feel uncomfortable about it? Yes, of course I do. I’ve got to a place where I can be honest about my mental ill health, but it does feel like I’m literally wearing my heart on my sleeve.

But I can also recognise that the fact that I can show my arms, that I’m prepared to deal with comments and consequences, is a sign of progress in itself.

This whole journey is two steps forward and one back, but as long as I’m going in the right direction overall, I’m doing okay.

When it feels like there’s no point

Right now, I’m pinning everything on the promises in Revelation.

Promises of an eternal life with the Lord, a life where there are no tears, no sadness, no pain, no heartache.

Because it feels like there’s no point hoping for a cure or a resolution to my mental health issues in this lifetime.

The sun is out this week and for all that I love the summer, I’m hating it just now.

In Wales, it was okay walking around with my scars out, knowing that I was anonymous.

Here, it’s different.

People know me.

And I’m sure people judge me.

For all the statistics on self-harm, you just don’t see grown women with scars from wrist to armpit.

I’ve seen the occasional teenage girl with arms like mine, but 30-something married mums? No, never.

I know they’re around, but not in my circles.

Especially not in church circles.

And yet again, I feel like I’m being sidelined, hidden away because I’m not a good reflection of the church.

I feel I’m gradually being shuffled out of Hotshots, with gentle coercion to hand my involvement over to someone else – and I’m sure it’s not for my benefit, but because I’m quite patently not a good witness.

Last week was so good. I felt better than I had in ages, spending time in a place I love, with people who I love and who love me and who know that depression is part of me but not all of me.

This week, all the old insecurities are back again.

I feel unliked and unlikeable, unloved and unlovable.

I feel like people are avoiding me.

I feel worthless and hopeless. My head knows that I have worth and hope in God, but my heart is struggling to feel it.

I want to serve the Lord but I know I’m the worst possible person to do it, and that because of my mental health, my service is most likely working against his word rather than for it.

It makes me so sad and so frustrated because I didn’t choose this, any more than a person with cancer chooses their illness.

And yet a person with cancer who was still serving would be called brave, courageous, strong – whereas I’m an embarrassment, an awkward problem that needs to be hidden away.

So maybe I should just stop. Maybe I should accept that I don’t have a place in the church or in God’s kingdom. Maybe my sin is unforgivable and my very presence in the church the work of Satan. Maybe that’s why I find myself on my own again.

But can that be true when I love God so much, when I’m clinging to him, when my thoughts of suicide are purely because I want to be with him?

I just don’t know any more.

 

Back to it

Tomorrow, after a half term holiday that I was dreading but turned out to be wonderful, we’re back to school.

I feel like this break has done me a world of good. I’ve relaxed, I’ve spent time in the sun, I’ve enjoyed the company of friends, I’ve swum in the sea.

I’ve pressed the reset button and I feel so much better than I did 10 days ago.

This whole up-and-down thing messes me up so much, though.

When we got back from Wales, there was a letter waiting for me – the psychiatrist’s letter to my GP based on my previous appointment, describing me as severely depressed, unable to keep myself safe.

That was true at the time. But now I feel fine.

I’m honestly the hugest fraud.

Properly severely depressed people surely don’t just get over it after a four-day holiday in Wales.

I don’t know where I am or what’s going on with me.