I’m still here

I don’t know why it happened, but last night, while I was lying in bed thinking about nothing in particular, I was suddenly hit by the thought of what it would have been like for my children if I’d succeeded in taking my life.

Ever since the first suicide attempt, I’ve felt, at best, ambivalent about still being alive. I knew my kids would miss me if I weren’t there, but I figured it would be a bit like missing chocolate or their favourite TV programme: something they might have liked, but would ultimately do just fine without.

But yesterday, I realised for the first time how wrong I was. Why? I don’t know. But in that moment, my heart broke a little over the thought of what might have been.

I fall short in many, many ways as a mum. I don’t push my children (Tom especially) hard enough at school. I don’t like playing games with them. I let them have too much screentime because it’s easier that way. I shout at them when they’re dragging their heels over getting ready for school.

But I’m still their mum, and they still need me.

If I do nothing else, I can at least cuddle them. I can hold them and make them feel loved. I can stroke their hair and rub their backs.

I can love them with every bit of my heart.

Mental illness, suicide attempts and hospital have all chipped away at my identity. Even though I’m so much better than I was, I still struggle to feel as if I have any use or purpose or value in life.

That’s been particularly heightened lately, with the ban on me helping with church work and, more recently, my work hours being cut unexpectedly and with no specific reason, leaving me to think that I’m not doing a good enough job, and they’re letting me down gently.

But last night, I knew with absolute certainty that even if I do nothing else in life, I need to be here for my children.

The mental picture I conjured up of them, lost and sad and lonely without their mummy, made me feel sick to my stomach at the thought of how close I came to making that their reality.

The guilt I feel today is tremendous. I feel so guilty that at the time, they weren’t enough for me to want to stay alive. I feel so guilty that I nearly took away the most important relationship in their lives.

Please God, they will never know this about me. They know I’ve been unwell and in hospital, but they’ve battled through the hard times with incredible resilience, and they need never know that I tried to leave them – and not just once.

At the time, I thought I was doing what was best for them: freeing them from a life spent worrying about their unstable mother.

But I know now that it wasn’t. What’s best for them is for me to stay alive for them.

I may not always be well, although I’m so thankful that I am at the moment. I may not always be up to taking them out at the weekend or even helping with their homework. But well or sick, I can still be here. I can still cuddle them and be with them and show them how they are so, so loved.

I feel so sad for my babies today, and for what I nearly did to them.

I don’t EVER want to be in that place again.

 

Peace

There’s one big thing that I’m lacking at the moment, and that’s peace.

It makes me feel so guilty, because as a Christian, I should have it.

I trust in the peace of Heaven, and I trust that one day, I’ll feel it.

But right now, I really don’t.

I have this constant churning, uneasy feeling deep inside me. I feel anxious all the time. I’m permanently exhausted. I’m crying too much but pretending everything is just fine. I feel overwhelming guilt and shame.

And I can’t talk to anyone about it, because what I’m thinking and feeling is so at odds with what everyone tells me I should think and feel.

Maybe this IS all in my head. Maybe I AM dwelling on the negatives. Maybe it IS all my illness talking.

But maybe it’s not. Maybe I’m hurt and ashamed and confused and upset. Maybe I don’t want anyone to solve my problems, tell me what I should or shouldn’t do. Maybe a friend is all I need: a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on, someone to be there, someone to care.

I’m so much better than I was, and I’m so thankful for that. But peace still feels out of my reach. And it’s so hard living with this constant sense of being wrong: wrong in my brain, wrong in my thoughts, wrong in the very essence of me.

I long to wake up in the morning feeling totally on top of my game. I long to feel confident that my emotions are real, and not just my screwed thinking. I long to be able to talk openly to people without weighing up what I can and can’t say, or worrying what they’re thinking about me.

And I long for answered prayer: for that sense of inner peace that I so desperately need.

Strong enough

On Wednesday, we had a meeting to discuss my role in the church. I was prepared for it to be a difficult conversation, but I wasn’t prepared for just HOW difficult it was going to be.

The things that were said have shocked and wounded me to the core. They’ve left me feeling even more unsure about whether we can stay in our church, knowing now the sort of conversations that have been happening behind my back.

I spent the whole of yesterday alternating between tears and sleep. I wept my way through my psychology appointment; the first time I’ve cried in that situation. I cried on one friend in the playground, then on another. I did absolutely no work at all.

I didn’t eat all day, and went to bed before 8pm.

I felt like I was being pulled under again.

Today, though, I feel different. Yes, I’m still deeply hurt by what was said. Yes, I feel even more uncomfortable than I did about church. But outside of that hurt and sadness, I feel okay.

This feels like an enormous triumph, and a testament to how well the new meds are working. A few months ago, in this situation, I’d have withdrawn completely. Shut myself away. Hidden from the outside world. And yesterday, that’s what I did; it’s what I needed to do. But not today.

In fact, today, I’m having completely the reverse reaction. I’ve had a cry, but now I want to get out there. I want to go to Hotshots later and prove everyone wrong. I want to demonstrate that the things that were said about me may have been applicable back in October, when I was acutely unwell, but they’re not any more.

Above all, I want to show that I am NOT going to be driven away from the church that has been my community and family for the past eight years, my children’s family.

I’m surprised by myself, to be honest. I’m not a ballsy kind of person; never have been. But today, I feel ballsy. This illness has wreaked utter devastation in my life, but I’m not going to let the habits I’ve developed because of depression do any more damage.

This newfound strength may be a result of the medication, but so what? If I were diabetic and needed meds to function, no one would bat an eyelid. And if the combination of drugs I take every day is what I need to help me be my best self, then I’m quite happy to take them forever.

Yesterday, I felt like I was drowning. Today, I feel sad, but I’m strong enough to do this. And that feels pretty miraculous.

 

The fear I live with

I walked, just now, to the shop to buy milk. Yesterday, it rained all day; the sky was dark and the clouds loomed low. But today, the sun is shining. It’s cold and crisp, but it feels as if a little bit of spring is in the air.

A little bit of spring is in my soul, too. After months spent in the grasp of the darkest depressive episode I’ve ever lived through, the clouds have begun to part to let the sun’s rays shine through.

And yet, I’m still afraid.

For me, the scariest part of recovering from a period of depression is the knowledge that it might come back. It has before – and it can overwhelm me with terrifying speed.

The fear of relapse casts its shadow over every day. Each morning, I wake up and mentally test the water. ‘Am I feeling OK today?’ If the answer is no, it’s hard not to panic. I’m so scared of being pulled back under again. I’m so scared that I might not survive another episode.

Living with recurrent depressive disorder – because that’s now my formal diagnosis – means every bad day fills me with dread. I try to put my finger on what’s making me feel down, depressed, out of sorts. Is my period due? Is it because work is stressful, or because I forgot to take one of my meds a few days ago?

If that doesn’t lead me to a rational explanation, I try to justify it to myself. ‘Everyone has bad days,’ I tell myself. ‘No one is happy all the time.’ I know the truth of that, and I know that in depression recovery, bad days are to be expected.

But I’m still scared, so I start to analyse my own thoughts. Do I feel tempted to self-harm? Am I having suicidal thoughts?

The answer is no. But still, I’m afraid. My brain starts to lead me down paths of panic and self-doubt and self-loathing. My anxiety levels inch up and up. I feel on the verge of tears.

I can’t tell anyone how I feel. I don’t want to do this to them again: Ian, my children, friends. I don’t want to let them down, don’t want to be a burden.

So I hide myself away. ‘I’m just tired,’ I say to my friend when I cancel our coffee date. ‘I’m just tired,’ I say to my husband as I head upstairs to bed at 8.30pm. And it’s true; I am tired. I’m tired of living with this illness that clouds every single day of my life. I’m tired of never having confidence in my emotions. I’m tired of spending even the good days dreading the bad.

Today is a bad day. It’s probably just a one-off, a blip, a response to stressful life stuff. But what if it’s the start of another mental health crisis?

Today is a bad day, and I’m frightened.

I wish I could live my life without fear.

What I don’t want to admit

I’m struggling. Not massively, but enough that life is feeling like wading through treacle again.

I don’t want to admit it, partly because I don’t want it to be true.

Partly because I don’t want Ian to worry about me, start locking up my meds again and cancelling meetings, matches and evenings out to babysit me.

Partly because I’m just so sick of being a burden on everyone.

But if I’m being honest with myself – even if I can’t with anyone else – I feel pretty low.

I’m sleeping too much, ruminating over things past, wanting to isolate myself from everyone and everything.

I feel like sobbing over the injustice of this whole church situation. I don’t feel I can do another Sunday, sitting there pretending everything’s okay when inside, I’m so, so hurt. If it weren’t for the children, it’d be all over for me and this church. It may well be over anyway.

I feel like I need a cry and a cup of tea and a listening ear and a hand to hold, but I’m ‘better now,’ so no one’s there.

So I shrug and smile and say everything’s fine. Nothing to pray about. Just tired and busy.

Slipping backwards, even in a small way, feels like weakness, especially after raving about how great I was feeling, how amazing the new meds are.

It feels like defeat.

 

 

Trying to be okay with ‘not okay’ days

Today is a ‘not okay’ day, the second in a row.

It’s sure to be connected to the time of the month, but it’s still unsettling.

Yesterday, we popped to the shops in the afternoon and I felt on the verge of panic; I couldn’t get out of there soon enough.

Today, church felt extremely difficult. It was different over Christmas, when everything was festive and lovely, but today, it was all back to normal and I felt so out of place, so conscious of being the resident freak, the one who’s not acceptable or accepted.

I couldn’t stop myself having a few tears at one point, not that anyone noticed. Couldn’t bring myself to chat after the service, and instead watched the kids play table football.

I’ve felt pretty flat all afternoon, and very unsure of what to do next. I started the year feeling committed to getting used to being there in a different way, but I just don’t know if I can when I feel so marginalised.

This is the lowest I’ve felt since starting on quetiapine, and it worries me. It makes me fear that the tablets aren’t working any more, that I’m heading towards another mental health crisis.

But I know I have to try not to catastrophise on bad days. A bad day – or two, or three – doesn’t mean I’m relapsing.

Recovery is going to have its ups and downs; I’ve been so lucky not to have had so many downs lately, but I have to accept that they’re going to happen. Sometimes, there’ll be a reason – like the church thing today. It’s okay to be sad in these situations; everyone is sad sometimes.

Sometimes, there won’t, though. And that’s okay, too. Because getting better isn’t going to be a linear process. I can’t be cured of depression overnight any more than I could be cured of a physical illness overnight.

So this evening, I’m going to look after myself. I’m going to accept that it’s been a difficult day. I’ll have a bath and a glass of wine and watch some feel-good TV. I’m going to let myself feel what I need to feel.

Tomorrow will be a new day. I don’t know yet if it’ll be a good day or a bad day. But either way, I’m going to be okay.

A test

So, the New Year has started brilliantly. The Polar Bear Plunge was a great, positive way to begin 2017, and I’m so thrilled and surprised by people’s support – to the tune of £675 raised for Mind. I’ve had a productive week with work, despite the kids being at home for most of it. And we’ve booked three holidays already for the year ahead – Paris, the Lake District and Center Parcs – and I’m looking forward to all of them, rather than worrying about how I’m going to cope away from home.

Today, though, was a test. The first Bible study of the New Year. I’ve only made it along once, maybe twice, since my hospitalisation, and although I’m feeling so much better in myself, doing anything church-related is still causing me so much anxiety because of this ongoing ‘you’re not suitable to be one of us’ situation.

I’d psyched myself up for it mentally, but then the last-minute rescheduling from parish centre to vicarage nearly undid me.

It’s one thing to sit in church; another entirely to sit in the living room of the person who can’t accept me as a proper part of the church family.

It was SO TEMPTING not to go. I started justifying it to myself: I had too much to do; I could get more work done if I gave it a miss.

But I knew at the same time that if I didn’t go, it would be a massive vote of no-confidence in my psychology sessions, which are focusing on not letting my feelings/insecurities/baggage from the past get in the way of my values.

So I went. I went, and it was damned hard. Not least because of the subject of our study: contentment. It felt a bit like it was all aimed at me: ‘what have you got to be depressed about when you have eternal righteousness and citizenship and forgiveness with God?’ I know it wasn’t, at all, but it felt like it. And then when the conversation turned to celebrity suicides, it was all I could do to sit there and not just walk out.

How can any of them comment on the desire to take one’s own life if they haven’t been in that place? Do any of them know how little – for me, at least – it had to do with earthly contentment?

‘Meh, life’s a bit rubbish; I haven’t got a big enough house, small enough waistline, clever enough kids, enough money in the bank, so I think I’ll kill myself.’

It’s just so far from the truth.

But I didn’t leave. And what really validated that decision for me was when, over lunch afterwards, Hannah congratulated me on being there and said it was a measure of how well I am that I could actually do it, especially at the vicarage.

It is. I am.

That leads me, though, into dangerous territory, when I start to think, ‘Well, if I’m well enough for that, I’m well enough to be doing Hotshots/Sunday school/whatever else I want to be involved in, and it’s not fair that I’m STILL not allowed.’

It’s dangerous territory because while I’m still so very hurt, and while I’m really struggling not to feel rejected and to feel like I still have a place in the church, I’ve made a decision that I don’t want to leave – which means that I have to get used to a new way of being.

I need to get used to a new way of being where I’m not one of the ‘inner sanctum’ of the church family any more.

I need to accept that I won’t be involved in any of the activities I once was, and as a result, I won’t be consulted about things, my opinion won’t be valued, I won’t be included in the same things that I used to be.

I need to try to see the positives in the situation (hey, I have SO MUCH more time on my hands these days, and won’t it be fab in the summer to just drop the kids at Hotshots and go home for a few hours’ peace?). I need to see it as a good thing that I’m no longer involved in Sunday school, because I can listen to sermons live rather than afterwards online.

Acceptance is, according to the psychologist (and I know she’s right), a massive part of my ongoing recovery. It’s not easy, and I shouldn’t expect it to be easy; it’s natural and normal and even *right* that it’s going to feel difficult. It was today, hugely so. But I gritted my teeth and stuck it out because I don’t want this frankly ridiculous decree about my suitability for church work to be the wedge that comes between me and my friends and, more importantly even than that, me and God.

It was a test, today. There will be many more. But I feel I’ve passed the first one.

I stood there

I stood there today, on the side of the swimming pool, waiting to do the Polar Bear Plunge.

I stood there, two stone heavier (at least) than I should be, because losing weight at the same time as tackling my depression was just too difficult.

I stood there in a swimsuit, knowing that everyone could see the angry purple scars across the tops of my legs.

I stood there, and I jumped.

I’m proud of myself, for more than just jumping into a freezing pool.

I’m proud of myself for laying myself bare in front of friends and family.

The photos Ian took are hideous. I am so fat and disgusting. But I’ve posted them on Facebook regardless.

I stood there, and I jumped, and it felt like victory.