Why?

I seem to be spending so much time at the moment wondering, ‘why?’

Not, ‘why me?’ because everyone gets ill at times; there’s no reason to expect that I should be any different.

But.

Why is it so hard to get the treatment I need?

Why do all the mental health professionals treat me as if I’m putting this on? Is it because I turn up to appointments wearing decent clothes and with my hair brushed? Would they believe that I was ill if I wore a dirty tracksuit and greasy hair, like so many of the other people in the waiting room?

Why do they refuse to accept that I’m depressed because I can’t name a trigger: marital problems, family problems, financial problems?

Why do they keep making me talk about what’s wrong, what triggered my suicide attempt, what’s worrying me, when I’ve told them I DON’T KNOW?

Why does everyone assume that because my illness is in my brain, not my body, I must be incapable of looking after my children, or worse, a threat to them?

Why is the brain seen as different from the body anyway? Is it not a part of my body; arguably the most important part?

Why can social services act so quickly, while the mental health team act so slowly?

Why did someone I know take the liberty of reporting us not just to school, but also to social services? Why didn’t they have the guts to talk to me if they had concerns about Tom? More to the point, if it was who I suspect, why does she hate me so much that she feels justified in tearing our family apart?

Why am I not allowed to know who it was? Why do they get protected, and yet there’s no protection for me against their allegations?

Why is there still so much stigma around mental illness?

Why couldn’t the headteacher speak the words ‘depression’ or ‘suicide’ or ‘mental health’ out loud when we met her yesterday? Why did she talk euphemistically about me being ‘unwell?’

Why is it okay for her to admit that my mental health means they’re on hyper-alert for any signs of anything untoward going on with my children? Would they be scrutinising them in the same way if I had diabetes or a broken leg?

Why is she allowed to keep a file on us and not disclose their concerns until we literally turn up and sit in her office?

Why can I not just ‘man up’ and get on with the business of living with depression like so many other people do?

And most of all, why didn’t I make a better job of what I set out to do nearly two weeks ago?

Aftermath

It was not supposed to be like this.

When I drove to the riverside with enough tablets to end my life, that was what was supposed to happen.

Instead, we’ve all been thrown into a complete nightmare.

I was not supposed to be found by a dog walker, or to be picked up by the police and blue lighted, barely conscious, to A&E.

I was not supposed to spend four hideous, lonely days in hospital.

Sixty-plus hours on a drip.

Feeling more unwell, physically and mentally, than I ever have before.

I was not supposed to end up with social services conducting a formal assessment of my ability to mother my children: combing through our personal lives, inspecting their bedrooms, interviewing them in secret.

I wasn’t expecting school to suddenly produce concerns about Tom – concerns about him ‘gouging his arm with a stick and saying he wanted to die’ – that arose a term ago and were never disclosed to us, but now make us even more of a target for social services.

I wasn’t expecting to be banned from helping with kids’ stuff at church while I’m under investigation.

And, of course, there’s still next to no help for the underlying problem.

They discharged me from hospital when I was medically well, but what about mentally?

Sure, brains are harder to fix than livers, but none of us would be in this living hell if the right mental health support had been forthcoming a couple of years ago.

It’s all the wrong way round. Treating the symptoms and not the problem. Dealing with the consequence but not the cause.

I didn’t want to be admitted to hospital, I really didn’t, but equally, I’m shocked that they let me go home four days after a very close-run suicide attempt with no support in place, no plan, nothing to give me any hope of recovery or promise of safety.

‘Take your time,’ everyone says. ‘There’s no need to rush. You need to rest and recover.’

Well, yes, I do. But that’s not why they’re saying it. Everyone just wants me out of the way, out of sight, so they don’t have to deal with me. Messy, problematic, threatening me.

Life felt impossible a couple of weeks ago when I tried to kill myself.

Now it feels even harder.

The only thing that’s stopping me trying again is the knowledge of how much worse things would be if I had another failed attempt.

That’s not a great reason to be alive, is it?

 

Did I speak too soon?

Did I speak too soon when I said I was going into September feeling fine, strong, well?

Maybe I did.

It’s only four days into term and I don’t feel fine, strong or well.

I’m back to standing alone in the corner of the playground, avoiding eye contact and talking to no one.

I’m turning my head when I see a teacher approaching, because I don’t want, or trust myself, to talk to them.

I’m feeling insecure, lonely and rejected.

I’m not sleeping well, I’m on edge and restless and having disturbing, flashbacky dreams.

Why? I don’t know.

I have to accept that it’s connected with the start of term, but am I really so weak and pathetic that everyday life does this to me?

I don’t WANT to be like this any more. I’m trying not to be.

I want to lose weight and I’m diligently counting my points, while hating my body and feeling that there’s no point trying.

I want to sing in the church music group, but am convinced that I’m not good enough but that everyone’s too polite to say, and they’re hoping that if they don’t mention it I’ll get the message.

I want to carry on doing Hotshots, but I’m full of self-doubt about my role there and whether I’m actually wanted.

I want to go out and enjoy good times with friends, but end up making excuses about being tired and coming home early.

I want to make happy memories for my children, but am dreading the thought of a day at Legoland this morning.

I’m trying, right? It’s good that I’m trying.

Maybe if I put enough effort in, mentally pull my socks up, I can stop myself going downhill. I can reinvent myself as the person I want to be and leave depression behind.

Positive mental attitude and all that.

I’m not sure how far it can go, though.

What I can do is pray, and man, am I praying. It feels selfish to pray to be well because I know that may not be God’s plan, so I’m praying for endurance and perseverance and strength as well.

At this point in time, I don’t know where this is going to go. I’m desperately praying that this is a blip, and that once I’m back into the swing of things, into the pattern of normal life, I’ll be back on track again.

But I know it could go the other way, too.

One thing that I am determined to do, though, is to cope with whatever happens on my own.

It’s very clear to me that I’ve imposed too much on some people.

I am NOT going to send desperate messages any more.

I am NOT going to cry on people, or demand their time or attention.

I’m going to respect their boundaries and that their everyday lives don’t include enough time for people like me.

I’m just not going to talk about it. I can talk to God about it, and that should be enough. If it’s not enough, if I’m relying on other people to fill in the gaps, it’s a sign that there’s something fundamentally wrong with my faith.

In the meantime, I’m going to smile and nod and say everything’s okay, and maybe if I keep telling myself and everyone else that, it will be.

 

 

 

September

I did it.

The summer that I’ve been winding myself up into a panic about for about 18 months.

Yes, it took a lot of medication and messaging of people back home, but I did it, and more than that, I enjoyed it.

I’m kind of proud of myself. Maybe I shouldn’t be, given that I only got through it thanks to diazepam, but right up to the day we left, I was seriously doubting whether I’d be able to make myself get on the plane.

I’m so glad I did. Apart from all the amazing experiences – holding a koala, cuddling a kangaroo, seeing whales out at sea, being up close to Sydney Opera House and Harbour Bridge – I wouldn’t have missed my brother’s wedding, and Katie’s star turn as the world’s most perfect flower girl, for the world.

I’m so glad, too, that if I gloss over the wobbly week in the middle, I’ve made some incredible memories.

It was a summer to look back on and smile.

And now September is here. Only a few more days until the children go back to school. I don’t feel ready for it. The summer has been amazing, but the consequence of our holiday of a lifetime is that there’s not been enough time for pottering around, seeing friends, going swimming, paddling in rivers, days out at Legoland.

I’ve missed all that, but am thankful that this week has given us a few opportunities to do it.

The start of a new term has a tendency to put me in a reflective mood.

Septembers have, over the past few years, been a bad time for me. Hospital bad. And naturally, I’m worried about the same thing happening again.

This time, the odds are stacked in my favour. I’m on medication that suits me. It’s been months since I had a proper dip, and that one wasn’t as bad as previous ones. I’m determined not to get sucked into playground politics. I’m going to try to apply all the principles I learnt during my short experience with ACT to tackle the insecurities I still have over friendships, church, family, work.

This September, I feel well. I feel strong enough to cope with back-to-school and back-to-work. I’m not going to take anything for granted and I’ll be looking out for the warning signs that things are going downhill.

But I’ve finally reached that point where, although depression is still very much on my radar, I don’t feel depressed. Anxious at times, yes. Down on occasion, yes. But not depressed. I no longer think about my suicide attempts every day. I no longer feel like hurting myself. I can look at the photos of myself from Australia and, although I hate my figure and the way I’ve ‘let myself go’ (all too easy with meds that make weight loss hard), can appreciate the special memories we made.

So, September. I think I’m ready for you. I hope I’m right.