The first half of 2019 was not a good time. One minute I was turning 40, with all the associated celebrations; the next – the weekend I was meant to be going to Paris with a friend to continue the festivities – I was in hospital.
From February until June, I was in almost constant crisis, with serious self-harm, suicide attempts and two long inpatient stays, missing Mother’s Day, most of the Easter holidays and May half-term with my children.
But then there was a change. A psychiatrist listened to my opinions on my medication, and agreed to start me on a new one – one that had never been prescribed before because it wasn’t in strict accordance with the ‘useful’ NHS flowchart that states what meds should be prescribed and when, but doesn’t specify what to do if options A, B, C and S, T, U have been exhausted.
And it worked. It really, really worked. Within weeks – maybe even less – I felt not just better, but happy. Over the following months, I enjoyed a three-week family holiday in America, theatre trips with my son, seeing friends, plus the everyday stuff that is so hard when I’m unwell: reading, eating, even sleeping.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t waking up with the cloud of depression over me. The first thought on my mind was no longer, ‘Is this a good day or bad day?’ They were almost all good. They just were.
Until they weren’t.
It happened with terrifying speed. My mood was slightly low, slightly off-kilter, but not so much that anyone really noticed. I posted a bit about it in private groups, but I didn’t tell anyone in real life. It was FINE. I was fine.
Then, on a Wednesday evening, I was routinely filling my pill organiser when the thought popped into my head, entirely unbidden and unjustified: ‘You could just take all of those tablets.’
It was a ridiculous idea. I wasn’t even depressed; why on earth had my mind suddenly gone back to a place of self-destruction?
But in the way that intrusive thoughts have, it took hold, wrapped its tentacles around my skin, needled my brain with its persistent claws.
Still, though, there was no need to tell anyone. I didn’t feel unsafe, and had no intention of acting on the thoughts. I was a bit fed up that my mood had slipped, but I definitely wasn’t suicidal.
On Saturday night it all went spectacularly off the rails.
I’d stayed up late watching old episodes of ER, while my husband had gone up to bed. I went into the kitchen to take my nighttime meds. And for some stupid reason, I decided to take them all. Every single tablet in my dosette box. A whole week’s worth of three different prescriptions, plus a bit more on top.
I don’t remember much from that point on. My husband found me unconscious perhaps an hour later. He called an ambulance. I was put into an induced coma on scene and intubated so they could take control of my breathing. I had a GCS of three: the lowest you can get without being dead.
I’m not going to dwell on the next few days in ITU. Let’s just say I’m very lucky to be alive, not to mention with no residual physical damage that we know of. Even my atheist husband grudgingly accepts that I was being watched over.
But while I’m physically recovered, now I’m having to put myself back together again mentally.
There’s so much going through my head…
Guilt about what I did.
Anger at myself for blowing six months of recovery by listening to those stupid obsessive thoughts.
Gratitude and relief that I didn’t die.
Shame that makes it impossible to talk to the people I usually confide in, because it’s all my own fault.
Embarrassment for causing such a drama.
Despair that I’m not actually recovered after all.
Grim resignation that I don’t think I’m *ever* going to be properly recovered.
Anxiety about Christmas and trying to be normal, while also not wanting anyone to fuss over me.
I’ll be okay. I’ve got a fantastic psychiatrist (at last!) who is wise, knowledgeable, considerate and respectful. We’ve talked about what happened, and agreed to treat it as a (pretty serious) blip and not ruminate on it, nor let it undermine six months of really good progress.
We have a plan for medication, a plan for exploring therapy in the New Year to help me get better at resisting intrusive thoughts, and a crisis plan to get me through until then if need be (although I don’t think I will need it).
Still, though, it feels as if I’m ending 2019 in the way it began: with a cloud over me. I’m back to waking every morning with ‘depressed/not depressed?’ as my first thought, and it’s exhausting. I was feeling so hopeful about the future, and now – well, I’m still hopeful, but I’ve had a serious reality check.
I just wish I could rewind the clock. Tell myself retrospectively not to be so stupid, that thoughts are just thoughts and don’t compel me to act. But when your brain has spent so many years trying to destroy you, those thoughts are so hard to resist.
I started 2019 determined to go a whole year without ending up in hospital. I failed in quite magnificent fashion. Will 2020 be any better? Will this really have just been an almighty blip that I can come back from?
I know I will always have mental illness, and that my treatment is just that: treatment, not a cure. I try to be pragmatic about that, and I’m still trying – despite this huge setback – to cling onto those six months of good health and focus on getting back to that position.
But it’s just so damned hard sometimes.
Lucy's Depression Diary 