Defectiveness

Today’s session was the hardest yet. We were looking at what’s apparently called my ‘defectiveness schema:’ the sense that I’m broken, messed up, worthless, unworthy of love or care, essentially just not a very nice person.

It was the first time that I’ve not been able to hold the tears back.

Why? I’m not sure. I think it’s partly because although I’m feeling so much better on the new meds regime, and have made so much progress through psychology, the sense of being defective is one I still can’t shake.

I still really struggle to see any good in myself. I feel vastly inferior to other people. I seem to upset people without ever meaning to. My heart, my soul, is black.

And thanks to self-harm, defectiveness is now written all over my body, in the fading pink and white scars on my arms and the livid purple slashes across my thighs.

As we were talking about how I feel so unlikeable, Claire said, ‘Well, I like you.’ That tipped me over the edge. Why? Why does she like me? What does she see in me, this fat, scarred, broken, clinically insane woman?

I can see how psychology is helping me in so many ways, but it still seems impossible that I’ll ever get to the point where I like myself. It feels like a mountain that I just can’t climb, for all that Claire says about it being more achievable than I think.

The things that have happened with church, with Penny, with Faye, have confirmed the way I feel about myself. I *am* defective. I *am* broken. I am *not* the sort of person other people like to have around.

It seems apt in some ways that my defective body matches my defective mind. It’s proof to everyone that no matter how hard I try, I can never be a normal, nice person. I’ll always be someone to be wary of.

Claire also said that if I open up to people, she ‘guarantees’ that they won’t reject me, unless they have issues of their own. But that’s just not true. People will and do reject me, and for good reason. I’m a mess, a complication. I’m not someone they want in their lives.

I feel emotionally wrecked this evening. I don’t want to be this person, but I don’t see how I can change it. I can’t be someone I’m not, and the someone I am is, without doubt, defective.

It’s not just my skewed thinking. It’s the truth. And it’s why I don’t think I will ever be completely better.

 

 

How it feels to be ‘almost recovered’ from depression

When you’ve been living in the fog of depression for months or even years, getting better can seem an impossible prospect. And when the clouds do finally begin to part – whether that’s because of medication, therapy, a combination of both, or some other unknown factor – it’s natural to want to grab recovery with both hands.

I know it’s something I’ve done in the past. At the first sign of feeling brighter, I throw myself headlong into life, trying to get back to how I once was. I spring clean the house from top to bottom. I host playdates for my kids and invite a different family over for lunch every Sunday. I take on more work than I have time for, and sign up to help with every school disco, bake sale and coffee morning.

But bitter experience has taught me that trying to live at 100 miles per hour when I’m only just beginning to emerge from a depressive episode never ends well. I burn myself out and often end up right back where I was.

This time, I’m playing depression recovery differently. My diagnosis of recurrent depressive disorder means I have to tread very carefully if I’m to avoid spiralling back downwards. And over the months of suicidal thoughts and attempts, hospitalisation and crisis team visits, I’ve learned that this means living life at a slower pace than I’m used to, and being a lot more forgiving of myself, too.

For me, being ‘almost recovered’ from depression means that I’m still taking a daily cocktail of medication, and am likely to be for a long time – maybe forever.

It means I can’t start crash dieting to get rid of the extra pounds the meds have caused me to gain; I can try to lose weight, but I still need to eat well, and eat enough, to keep me mentally healthy.

I get tired a lot more easily than I used to – partly because of the meds, and partly because of the condition. I need to prioritise early nights. I can’t accept every social invitation, or sign up to every rota. I need to allow myself longer to open my eyes in the morning.

Although I need to integrate myself back into normal life, I avoid situations that have the propensity to be triggering or challenging. This means taking a step back from certain friendships, or protecting myself by not reading the news every day.

If you talk to me about my depression, you’ll notice that I can’t look you in the eye, and will change the subject as quickly as I can. Because when you ask me how I am, I honestly don’t know how to answer. I’m almost better, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be completely better.

My house is not as tidy as I’d like it to be, but I’ve discovered that I can live with my kids emptying the Lego on the living room floor before school and save my energy by not clearing it away as soon as I get back home; they’ll only tip it all out again later.

I’ve learned that some days, functioning as a normal human being is more difficult than usual. Every now and then, I’m going to need to scrub out my to do list and go back to bed instead.

I need to take care to keep my stress levels under control. As a freelancer, I’ve had to learn that there’s no shame in taking a bit longer over a piece of work, or even turning it down altogether, if it helps me keep my head above the water.

I’ve accepted that I’m not, and never will be, Supermum. And actually, although I may beat myself up if my kids don’t have a friend over to play at least once a week or have every weekend packed full of activities, they’re perfectly happy chilling out at home.

As someone who’s always set herself the highest standards, and seen it as a virtue to be able to do everything for everyone, it’s not always easy to accept this new, slower pace of life. I get frustrated with myself when I’m lacking in energy. I resent the fact that I need to wrap myself up in cotton wool. Yet I’m beginning to accept that this is life for someone who’s ‘almost recovered’ from depression.

I’m not the me I was before, and I may never be again. But if this is what I need to do to keep myself well, it’s worth every sacrifice.

A mental pep talk

I’m feeling so well in general now that days where I don’t feel so brilliant take me by surprise a bit.

Not that I’m surprised to be wobbling today. In an hour, I’m off to the O2 to watch Tom sing with Young Voices, and I’m shaking with nerves already.

I’ve avoided it for the past two years, as I’ve not been well enough, so I know that the fact that I’m going today indicative of how much better I am.

But I still feel so very anxious about it.

I’m travelling there by car with six other school mums, none of whom I know very well. And when we get there, I’ll have to spend the entire concert sitting next to people that I’ll have to make small talk with.

I don’t ‘do’ people well, and I’m way out of my comfort zone.

I’m wondering why on earth I didn’t just decide to get the train, so then at least I could have spent the journey on my own.

Right now, I’m telling myself I can do this. I’m trying to breathe deeply and remind myself that it’s not going to kill me, and that in eight hours or so, it’ll all be over and I won’t have to do it again for at least four years, when Katie will be old enough to go.

I can take PRN meds to get me through it, if need be, and I know Tom will be pleased that I’m there, even though the chances are slim that we’ll be able to see each other.

It feels so difficult, though. And it makes me realise that despite how far I’ve come, and despite feeling like my illness is largely under control, there’s a bit of me that I don’t think will ever be healed.