I'm not okay... but that's okay

I’m okay. I’m okay. It’s okay. I’m okay. I am a-okay.

Words I have been repeating to myself for two months now. Words to reassure myself that my declining mental health is okay. It is just a blip. I am strong and can fight back and it IS okay.

But it’s time to be truthful to myself. Because I am NOT okay.

My depression is getting worse. My OCD more debilitating and my anxiety more overwhelming. On top of that my physical health seems to be hitting rock bottom again too.

And it’s starting to become too difficult to stand up and tell the world that I am okay. Too difficult to even tell myself it.

Yes, I have good days and I cling to them with everything I have. But they are few and far between at the moment. And that is worrying.

So I need to stand up and shout that I am NOT okay. I NEED to be truthful so that I can break down the stigma surrounding mental health - it isn’t about always being defeated, or about winning forever.

But also because once I am truthful to myself about not being okay then I can start working on fighting back again.

Something I am now already doing again. A long uphill battle, again. But one that will always be worth it because life is a gift and I have to remember that it is precious. I am not going to let my mental or physical health take that away from me.

Not now. Not ever. 

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There's More To It Than You Think

There’s something that I need to tell you all. I started going to online therapy. With all the posts on here about therapy and the way the pills were working and how I felt, I just knew it was time so I referred myself and that, as they say, was that.

And in my second session it came to light. My therapist officially diagnosed me with OCD. There’s a lot of talk about this mental health illness and with it, I always shrugged it away. I don’t have that, I’d tell myself because I don’t count and my room is a bombsite and I’m just not that obssessive…

Turns out, like with many other things, the media hasn’t been portraying OCD in all its forms. And once I read more about it and spoke to some friends about it and had more therapy sessions, I realised that yes, I did have OCD and I had probably been undiagnosed with it since I was a young teenager.

Because OCD isn’t just counting. The biggest part of OCD is the O which stands for Obsessional Thoughts. Now, everyone has thoughts and many people are likely to have the same thoughts as someone with OCD. It is just that someone who does not have the illness can shake the thought away. No, they’re not going to grab that pair of scissors and stab their friend. But someone with OCD latches onto the thought. They imagine doing it. Then they wonder what will happen next and then they ask themselves why they want to do it. And on and on. In a spiral of awful thoughts.

What happens next is the C part. Compulsions. To feel that they have some control and to stop themselves from actually stabbing their friend, they come up with a routine to make themselves feel better. In media this is represented as the counting or obsession with pavement cracks, etc. But it comes in many forms all unique to the individual and the situation. For example I mumble to myself, close my eyes, breathe deeply, wash my hands, clench my fists, rub my hands, tap… etc. Things that are barely noticeable to the naked eye and things I have been doing for so long, I didn’t even realise I was doing them until I was diagnosed.

So yes, I have OCD. And it’s been an odd revelation. Telling my mum has been the highlight because she just nodded and was like, yeah…. It was definitely an interesting moment. I had to ask her why she never told me!

But mostly now I am working on dealing with it. On getting better for the most part but also in embracing this illness. It’s going to be with me forever and I’m not actually worried about that anymore as I am now equipped with the skills to deal with it when it gets difficult.

Lastly these two books really helped me understand my OCD more so do read them if you want to!

Mad Girl by Bryony Gordon

Every Last Word by Tamara Ireland Stone

And as always, please don’t be afraid to go to the doctor or speak out if you think you have a mental illness of any kind. They’re here to help you. We’re all here to help you.

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10 Things I Wish I Knew When I Was Diagnosed With Anxiety

I’ve been living with anxiety for over ten years now and I’ve learnt a lot about it and myself along the way. When I was first diagnosed, I remember being very scared and was given very little information about what having this mental illness meant for me from health care professionals. Looking back there is so much that I wish somebody had told me when I was first diagnosed, so today I wanted to share with you the ten things I wish I knew when I was first diagnosed with anxiety.

Panic Attacks Can’t Kill You 
Even though it really feels like you’re dying sometimes, panic attacks can’t actually kill you. My first therapist told me that most panic attacks usually don’t last longer than 20 minutes. Knowing this made having a panic attack a slightly less terrifying prospect and made them lose some of the power they had over me.

Avoidance Makes Things Worse
When I first developed anxiety, I quickly learnt that a great way to not feel anxious was to completely avoid the things that made me scared which later developed into agoraphobia. Although it’s really tempting to hide away from the things that scare you so that you don’t have to deal with them, it usually just makes the anxiety surrounding the situation worse. Every time you avoid a situation that makes you anxious you are feeding that belief. In my treatment for anxiety, I have learnt that the only way to get over a fear is to become familiar with it and create positive associations and memories around it. It takes a lot of courage to take that first step, but every time you face a fear it loses some of its power and gets easier the next time around.

Medication/Therapy Won’t Change Who You Are 
I used to be so afraid of the idea of taking medication for my anxiety or telling a therapist my deepest darkest thoughts and feelings. I was worried that by treating the mental illness it would mean changing a part of me. I wish I knew how much taking medication and going to therapy would help me so that I would have done it sooner. Medication and therapy has not changed who I am, it hasn’t messed with my brain and made me into an unfeeling zombie. It’s simply made me a less anxious person who can better manage their mental illness.

Not Everyone Will Understand 
The biggest frustration for me when I was first diagnosed with anxiety was how little the people around me seemed to understand about it. For many years my family were at a loss for what to do to help me, they just couldn’t understand why I was terrified of such normal mundane things. Something that really helped things click into place for my family was when I explained mental health in metaphors and related it to the way we treat physical health. Give the people around you time, be as open and honest as you feel comfortable with, pull information from the internet and learn as much about your illness as you can so that you can better explain it. The people you love might not always understand, but them asking questions and wanting to know more shows good intentions and is a starting point so don’t lose heart.

Take Baby Steps
The best method in confronting anxiety for me has been to break things down into baby steps. Scared to walk down the street? Start by just opening your front door. Increase how long you can keep that door open for. When you start to feel more comfortable, take a step outside. Work up to taking three steps away from your house. When you’re ready, walk to the nearest lamppost. See what I’m getting at here?

When it comes to facing your fears you don’t have to dive in at the deep end. Start with the step that feels the most doable to you and work your way up to the bigger stuff at your own pace. It doesn’t matter if it takes a week or a month or even longer to achieve your goal, you’re still kicking anxiety’s butt. Make sure that you celebrate your successes no matter how small they may seem, they’re each a step in the right direction.

Bad Days Are Allowed 
I used to worry so much if I was having a bad day/week/month with my anxiety that it meant that I was going backward. Now I’ve learned that it is completely normal and okay to have a bad day. Even people who don’t have a mental illness have bad days. Life isn’t perfect and there will be ups and downs along the way. These days, if I’m hit with a bad bout of anxiety I try to ride it out like a wave and if I have to take things back a step because everything suddenly seems too hard that is okay. Go back to your easiest step and start building yourself back up again.

Put Yourself First 
Like any illness, when you are unwell it is important that you prioritise and put yourself first. I used to feel really terrible if I had to cancel plans or let somebody down because my mental health was bad but now I realise that on the grand scale of things your health is more important. Never push yourself to do something you don’t feel ready to do for somebody else. Respect yourself, your boundaries and your health and don’t be afraid to take time out to rest and look after yourself.

Mental Illness Does Not = Crazy/Dangerous 
Oh boy, when I was first diagnosed with a mental illness I was so afraid to tell anyone in case they thought that I was crazy and/or dangerous. There is a really negative belief out there about people with mental illnesses and that they might pose a threat or be a danger to society. I used to be really frightened of myself and what I might be capable of. Having a mental illness does not make you dangerous or crazy. You are not about to go on a murderous rampage just because you are ill. So many people are living and functioning in this world with a mental illness. If having a mental illness turned us all by default into the crazy killer stereotype that horror writers are so fond of portraying then the world would be apocalyptic right about now.

Living Life Trumps Fear
Something that I have learnt only recently is that fear is not a good enough reason for me to not live the life I want to, not anymore. Every time that I have felt like I was going to pass out from panic but carried on anyway it has been worth it.

Every. Single. Time.

When it comes to doing the things I want to and living my life, fear is not a good enough reason to hold me back. I would rather be terrified and get to do what I want to, than let anxiety dictate what I can and can’t do. My life is of more value to me than fear.

You Will Get Better 
You know, people used to say this to me and I never believed them. I couldn’t imagine ever getting rid of this albatross that I carry around with me everywhere. Here’s the secret, when people say you will get better they don’t mean that your anxiety will get better, they mean that YOU will get better at managing it.

Ten years on from my diagnosis and I am still living with anxiety, it hasn’t gone away completely and to be honest, I don’t think it ever will. But *I* have gotten better. I have gotten better at dealing with it, I have gotten better at putting myself first, I have gotten better at riding out a panic attack, and I have gotten better at facing my fears. It takes time, but you come to learn your illness and how it affects you and at first you begin to cope and then you begin to thrive. Anxiety doesn’t get better, but you do my friend, you do.

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My Journey with Anxiety

About 20 months ago, I dropped out of University. There were a multitude of reasons this, but the biggest was probably my rapidly deteriorating mental health and anxiety.

I had my first panic attack on the evening of the 8th of January 2015. I won’t go into details but due to also being a hypochondriac I came to the conclusion that I was dying, went to a hospital less than 8 hours before my English exam for them to tell me that no, I was not dying, and that my body had just panicked a bit. It was probably due to my exam and other things going on in my life at the time, and that it would probably be a one off experience.

For the next 6 months, I had a panic attack almost every single day.

There were days when I would have up to five or six in a day, days when all I would do is go from my bed to the sofa downstairs and back up again in the evening. I was terrified to leave my house, terrified to be separated from my safe place and my safe people. I was exhausted all the time due to my body being constantly on edge and my appetite decreased dramatically. I was miserable and scared, and what was worse was that nobody was taking me seriously. Doctors fobbed me off with anxiety meds but no diagnosis, my dad would tell me to ‘just calm down and stop worrying’. If you have any experience with anxiety, you know this is the worst thing to say.

Over those six months, through a combination of therapy and learning to recognise my thought processes, the panic somewhat lessened. I went from 5 panic attacks a day to one. I got a job in a fast food restaurant in my local town which gave me a purpose and something to keep my mind occupied, although there were many nights I ended up calling my dad on my breaks sobbing that I couldn’t make it through my shift.

With time and therapy though, I began to understand what was happening to me. I learned that when the panic kicked in, my brain was thinking illogically and that by doing sums or counting I could force my brain to think logically to help me calm down. I figured out what my triggers were, things including large crowds of people in a small space, heights, illness and feeling generally out of control. By understanding my triggers and what to do when my anxiety was running high, my panic attacks became somewhat less frequent and more manageable.

In June 2015, I went to the USA for three months. I spent two months working at a summer camp and one month travelling. In my time there, I had one, very minor panic attack in a Walmart that I managed to get a hold of within 2 minutes. With the stress of camp dynamics and having a job where I was ‘On’ for 22 hours a day, I didn’t really have the time to panic, and so my anxiety took a back seat.

When I returned home in September of last year, everything was great. I managed to get a job within a month and I was much calmer and more relaxed than I had been before I went. Around December however, the panic attacks started returning.

They were small at first, things I could handle with two minutes and a sit down in the stock room. But then at the end of a shift in about April a major one hit. Luckily it came on about 5 minutes before I had to clock out so I rode it out and immediately went into the changing rooms to do my counting and breathing exercises that always brought me back eventually. It took me half an hour to calm down, and I spent the rest of the evening in bed because I was so exhausted.

Thankfully, I haven’t had a big one since then. I still sometimes can feel my heart racing or feel a bit dizzy, but I can usually intervene with the exercises I’ve learned help me before it escalates. However in about a month I will be returning to University, thrown into a city I don’t know with people I don’t know and I’m scared it’s going to flare up again. I’m well aware that these past few months have been a good patch and that I will probably be dealing with anxiety for the rest of my life. But that’s ok; hopefully through understanding my triggers, therapy and knowing what works to calm me down, I can take on University and life and not let my anxiety hold me back in the process.

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Finding The Balance

One of the things that is often mentioned when you talk about stress is that you need to find your work-life balance. You shouldn't be a work-a-holic because it impacts your social life. But you mustn't be too social as it'll impact your working life. You have to find the perfect balance to sort out your life and make you feel less stressed and more at peace with the world.

And I do agree.

To an extent.

As someone who is particularly struggling with work at the moment for many, many reasons, finding the work-life balance has been incredibly difficult for me. I want to go out and be social and have fun but I also know that work will stress me out and tire me out and actually all I'll really want to do is be on my own and sleep the evening away. And thus, if I let it, my life could easily become work, sleep, work, sleep and nothing else. Not exactly a great work-life balance, eh?

So, to counter this issue, I plan. I plan trips away. I plan evenings out. I plan trips to the cinema and meet ups with friends and day plans and weekend plans. I aim to keep my life from just being about work and sleep. I aim to see friends and family, to use these moments to keep my brain (as) sane as it can be. Because if I didn't then surely I would crumble. I would be too stressed. I'd overwork my brain and I'd have nothing to keep my mood from deflating back into depression.

The problem that I currently have with my life balance is that I am doing it all wrong for my personal circumstances. If you remember, I spoke in this post about how I'm currently chronically tired. I get tired more often, my muscles scream at me consistently and I am basically just struggling to function as a normal human being. Add in a healthy dose of anxiety and you might just see why my life balance needs to be more than just work and social outings. 

But I seem to be unable to grasp this fact.

It is almost like my brain is in a complete and utter state of denial over my current predicament. No, it tells me, you don't need that day to rest, you'll be fine. Make plans for that day or that evening and enjoy yourself. You can rest when you're dead.

And so I listen. And I plan. And I plan. And I plan.

And then, because my body isn't this amazing perfect shell, I usually have to cancel. A lot. And every single time I do, I feel guilty. I promised that I would be there. I'm letting someone down because my brain and body are not co-operating. And then I work myself up so that essentially I can't relax and give my body the rest it so badly needs in the first place.

So from here on in, I want to continue to strive to plan but now, I also need to plan rest days and rest evenings. I need to plan the time that I'm going to switch off from the world and just let my brain and my body re-cooperate. I need to before I ruin my body any further.

And then maybe, just maybe, I can find my life balance.

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The Power of Compassion and Empathy

For a while, there was a strong chance there wouldn't be a post from me this week. I was considering asking Jess if I could give it a miss; I'm going through a really hard time at the moment, putting the effort in to write any kind of post seemed impossible, and the thought of trying almost brought me to tears. But then a moment of inspiration, a gratitude post that required no real effort, only love.

There have been a lot of terrible things happening around the world lately; Orlando, Istanbul, Baghdad, and not too long ago, Paris. There's so much hate in the world, and it's leading to death. It can be all too easy, in our sorrow, to lose hope and wonder where our humanity has gone. But what we must remember is, there are so many wonderful humans in this world too.

In the two weeks following my last post, Listen to Your Body, my fears over my mental health have become stronger, with more mini/mild/almost panic attacks (whatever they would be called). After writing that post, our very own Faye sent me a message full of support and encouragement to see my doctor, as she could see similarities with her own anxiety. She became a huge help when I was struggling last week, telling me about Ieso Digital Health, a website for self-referral.

Without really thinking, I picked up Under Rose Tainted Skies by Louise Gornall to read, which is about 17-year-old Norah, who has agoraphobia and OCD, and frequent anxiety attacks. At first it seemed like a bad idea to be reading it when I was struggling, but I kept at it, and found it to actually be really helpful. In my review, I wrote about how it had helped me, and Louise Gornall ended up tweeting me - again, offering support and understanding. She told me she was proud of me for being honest about what I'm experiencing, and she told me to drop her an email if I needed anything.

I was supposed to be going to a book launch this week with the lovely Kathy of I am Kathy B, who invited me to be her plus one, but because of how I've been struggling, I cancelled, explained, saying I didn't think it was wise right now. Kathy was absolutely amazing, sending me a message full of raw honesty about her own anxiety, telling me she completely understood. She gave me so much advice, including recommending Anxiety For Beginners: A Personal Investigation by Eleanor Morgan, as well as support and yet another person for me to talk to.

And then there's Caoimhe, my penpal and very good friend, who opened my eyes in the first place. Because of the things I had written about, she gently told me she thought I might have anxiety, which prompted my last post. And have been told her next letter will include the things she does that help her with her own anxiety, on the off chance they might help me, too.

Because I was honest about what I'm going through, to individuals and to the readers of Safe Space and Once Upon a Bookcase, several wonderful people reached out to me in solidarity, offering support, empathy and compassion. Because I chose not to stay silent about what I'm feeling, I've found people who have helped, and have made my struggle a little easier. My reason for being so honest is because, even before my own struggles, I believed that talking about mental illness can only help remove the stigma. But in doing so, amazing, beautiful, incredible people reached out to me, and have helped keep my panic at bay. They've helped me to breathe. They showed me that I'm not alone, that I'd found my people.

The world is not full of terrible people. There are some absolute bloody diamonds out there, you just have to find them. And perhaps honesty may be the key to helping you find yours, too.



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Listen to Your Body

I was umming and aahing about writing about this topic for today, because I have no real answers, no real conclusion. But then I read Faye's post, When Your World Turns Upside Down (which is incredible, do read if you haven't already), and realised that sometimes talking about things even when you don't have the answers can be helpful - for yourself and for others - and maybe I need to admit some things to myself.

Ever since I was a teenager, I have known that my body reacts negatively towards stress, though it only ever affected my periods. If I had a presentation at school, or exams coming up, or, as I got older, had interviews for jobs, I would get nervous. Those nerves would guarantee I would miss a period - or rather, it would be a few weeks late. If, for example, my period was due in the second half of the month, and any of the above was happening, I wouldn't have my period until the first half of the next month. It would be late by two or three weeks. And, really, even silly things like working up the courage to talk to that guy would make my period late. It just became normal for me; my body didn't like being even a tiny bit nervous, and so my periods were irregular as a result. But over the past two years I've noticed my body is even more affected by stress.

As I've talked about before, my Nan died of cancer last year. In 2014, when we found out her cancer was terminal, I was distraught - completely devastated. For a while - until I decided I just couldn't think about it. It was inevitable, there was nothing I could do, so why spend the whole time worrying, fearing, and being upset by it. Of course, I was still upset, but I just decided to concentrate on other things, and enjoy the time I had left with Nan. But, despite not to dwelling on it - and actually genuinely not worrying - subconciously, it was affecting me, and my body paid for it.

For about three or four months, I would have several migraines a month. I was having such a hard time sleeping - not because things were playing on my mind, but simply because I couldn't go off, and even once I did, I would wake up numerous times in the night. More than once I'd go to bed at a reasonable time, and still find myself awake at 5am. I started experiencing numbness in my arms, which was a result, my doctor told me, of me taking quicker, shallower breaths I didn't even notice. And I started having panic attacks.

I got on the bus one morning to go to work, and two stops in, something just wasn't right. I started having difficulty breathing, and I was overly hot. The bus wasn't very busy, but I felt there were too many people on the bus, it was too crowded, I need to get off; something wasn't right with me, and I couldn't breathe! I got off at the second stop, sat at the bus stop for a bit, thinking maybe I was hot and needed to cool down. But no change. I had no idea what was wrong, but something wasn't right, something was happening, and I was so, so scared. Partly because I didn't know what was happening, but also because it was another symptom. I managed to make my way home, sobbing, running to my Mum, freaking out, and her telling me I was having a panic attack. Slowly, she managed to calm me down. Over the next few days, she had to travel in to work with me, because I couldn't stay calm - even though there were no problems at work that were worrying me, as soon as I started to get ready to leave, I could feel the panic rising.

I went to my doctor with all these various problems, and she told me it was very likely down to my Nan's terminal diagnosis. She referred me to a counsellor, but because of clerical issues (i.e. people not picking up the phone) nothing ever came of it. And I didn't really worry about, because by this time, all my symptoms of stress had gone. Migraines were under control, no more panic attacks or numbness or sleeplessness. I was fine.

The migraines crept up again, though, at the end of last year, the beginning of this. Last year was such a terrible year, and all the death and illness had really taken it's toll. And so migraines. Again I saw my doctor, and my medication was increased, and instead of having it when needed, I was to take it every day. And I'm pretty glad to say that on the whole, those pills are miracle workers.

More recently, there have been issues at home. Financial difficulties due to my Dad being ill. My brother and I were covering most of the bills, but I was worrying we wouldn't be able to pay for everything. Would we actually be able to eat? Can you imagine asking yourself that question? That being a genuine worry? The stress caused patches of eczema to form all over my legs for the first time in my life, and - surprise, surprise - another migraine. But that question would fly through my head while walking down the street, and I would feel a panic attack brewing. I'd have to try and slow my breathing and talk myself down; "Joanne, you're ok. You're fine. Of course you'll eat, even if it's not what you're used to, you'll eat. Everyone will eat. You'll all be ok. You're fine, Joanne, breathe." This happened maybe two or three times. Not full blown panic attacks, but still.

I've been talking about these recent events in much more detail with my friend and penpal Caoimhe in our letters. About these almost-panic attacks, about my problems at social events, and even some issues I have talking on the telephone. She has some experience of mental illness, and talking with her, I think I might have some form Anxiety. Possibly. And I think I might need to see my doctor to discuss it. But I don't know; when I'm not stressed, I'm fine? (Except when faced with social situations. Or certain phone calls.)

I don't know if they all tie in together - are migraines a symptom of Anxiety? Or are they both just caused by stress? - but what I do know is that my body is hugely affected by stress, and I really need to pay attention to it. I don't know what the answer is; there are a lot of things that are out of my control - I can't do anything about other people's health, and the stress that can cause. But I do know I can listen to my body, and know when things have to change. I can't stop the symptoms of stress when I can't control what's stressing me out, but I can look after myself a little more when my body is telling me things are just not ok.

Kathy Brown is a writer I really admire who writes such incredibly beautiful, insightful posts. In one of her recent posts, A Little List of Life Savers, she says:

"...I've learnt that there are things you can do: simple, tangible things that you can do to stop yourself from drowning: to take a small level of control over your life when the dark cloud creeps in: to distance yourself from that inherent, daily hum of fear, or the desire to run away screaming, nude and wreckless, because 'OMG, LIFE.' To do something, anything, with the day, because sometimes, that's all it takes."

Kathy reiterates this in her latest post, How to Love Yourself:

"On the days you feel like you're drowning, because there will be many of those, do at least one thing, one small, tangible thing that gives you a sense of control, a sense of something. Brush the knots out of your hair, do the crossword, wander to your favourite cafe and order yourself a slice of that cake you love: the one with the berries the same colour as your favourite lipstick and the fresh cream that lingers, like an unexpected kiss, on the corners of your mouth. It's there, somewhere, that little beacon of light, even when darkness blinds you."

I need to listen to my body, and go to the park by my house and sit by the lake, and watch the water droplets from the fountain dance in the breeze. I need to have a soak in the bath. I need to read a book and get lost in someone else's story. And I need to allow myself to feel, to cry, and to ask for the cuddle. Because maybe being scared and upset is just what my body needs me to feel, even if I think I'm wasting time. Maybe I need to voice my concerns about our finances, and get that reassurance, that actually, we will eat, we will get by, things aren't quite that dire just yet (which I did, eventually).

I don't know where this will lead for me. Maybe I'll discover I have a mild form of Anxiety. Maybe I'll need to learn techniques to cope with stress so I don't end up getting ill. Maybe this is just how my body works, and I'll just have to live with it. But I know when my head isn't in a great place, my body pays the price, so I need to start being gentle with myself, allow myself to feel, and get elbow-deep into self-care.



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The Big D

After talking last time about my anxieties, this week I wanted to talk you through my recent journey through Depression.

First of all, I wanted to say that Depression is sneaky. It's one of the worst things about the illness because you may not realise you are depressed, or be more depressed than you first understood.

This is essentially what happened to me, twice.

As a bit of context, I've suffered with Depression on and off since I was a teenager. I don't really know when it started, I just know it was there. And it could stay for months before finally leaving me and letting me get on with my life again.

So I thought I was

1. Able to know when it was about to strike
2. Capable of dealing with it when it did.

Turns out, I was not.

Depression snuck up on me in a way I wasn't even aware it was possible it could do.

But I thought I was aware. And that is the biggest problem. It started with an inability to read, and then a lack of motivation to blog. So I took a step back, did what I had to, to let my brain work through it. The way I always did. A bit of self-care. A bit of looking after myself and making myself finally feel better.

And so I got my reading and motivation back and I was certain that I was fine again. Back to my normal.

I was wrong.

This was my Depression lying and hiding from me.

On New Years, I suddenly worked out that I had not cried for months. Many things had happened in those months when I should have cried. When my emotions should have come tearing out of me but I realised that instead I had just brushed everything off. I thought I was being strong about everything. I wasn't. I then realised that as well as not being upset about things, my happiness never stayed for very long either. After I felt happy, I felt numb. The joy of happiness wasn't sticking behind to make my life feel better.

So I realised I was Depressed. And I decided that I would work on getting better. And I did. And I felt better. I felt happy and sad at times. I was on the road to recovery, I was sure of it.

And then I started Citalopram.

And now I know that I was still Depressed. It was still lying and hiding from me. I was feeling emotions but I wasn't feeling emotions. They weren't coming from deep inside of me, they were just there to hide what was actually going on in my brain.

I've now been on the antidepressants for over two months, I am finally aware that I am now getting better. I am now officially on the road to recovery.

I know this because;

1. People have told me I look and am acting better
2. I am getting on top of my workload and to-do lists
3. I feel happy, sad, angry, annoyed, irritated, excited, passionate, etc. And understanding that I haven't felt this range of emotions for a very long time.
4. I am just aware that I feel different; that everything is different.

Depression is not nice. It sucks you in an makes you feel nothing. You feel numb and empty. And people who have never experienced it may never understand what that feels like. It is also more dangerous than people realise because it can hide even from the person who has it. And if it hides long enough, it becomes harder to deal with. 

So I just wanted to post my journey to show you that Depression isn't just feeling sad. That people with Depression can be happy, but it's just a different kind of happy, a happiness that you may not really be able to tell is different until the Depression goes away.

For me, the light has returned to my eyes. I am a stronger person again. I am a happier person again. And I am so very glad for this.

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A Little Mentally Ill

It takes a lot for me to ask for help. Exactly three years ago, when I had completed my fifth week of working for a mental health charity, having hidden how much I was struggling with my own health, I was admitted to hospital for what would become a ten-week stay. I was 25, with no work history and no relationships to speak of, but I had a recently acquired degree, so I was so determined to do what I felt was expected of me as an adult. To do so, I suppressed my own needs, masking desperation with eagerness. I wanted other people to see that I was a productive human being. I did so at the cost of my mental health.

In the three years that have followed my hospital stay, I have had other, shorter admissions, crisis interventions, two years of therapy and at least fortnightly appointments with my community mental health team. I’m 28. Definitely an adult, but still feeling like a failure.

When I heard my care coordinator was leaving, the me who still has such a desire to appear well and capable decided that I could try to manage without support. After all this time, surely I should be able to manage living? With our last appointment being tomorrow, I was ready to try and support myself. Within days of making this decision, it became evident that it wouldn’t be a good idea. In fact, it would be dangerous. On a daily basis, I still struggle with keeping myself alive. I struggle not to harm myself. I struggle not to curl up into a ball and give up on life. “But you should be able to do this by now.”

In trying to look like what I think an adult should be, I push aside my mental health diagnoses. If I’m not able to work, if I can count my friends on no hands and if I’m reliant on regular support to keep myself alive, I can’t see myself as a worthwhile individual. I tell myself that my poor mental health needs must be hidden if I’m to do anything with my life. But this is where it went wrong before.

This week, I asked for help. I phoned my care coordinator ahead of our final appointment and told her that I need to have regular support in place for the foreseeable future. She told me that my psychiatrist had said he was “concerned” about me being without support. I can’t manage my day-to-day life without the guidance of mental health professionals. I’m not working. I have no salary. It feels like failure.

For the last eleven years, my life has been filled with the ups and downs of mental illness. It has seen suicide attempts, repeated self-harm, disordered eating and desperate sadness. At times, it has been unbearable. I feel so indescribably sad that I’m not able to do what I would like to do. But my decision over these last few days has been to accept who I am right now. I am a person with mental health issues. I don’t want to be defined by them. but they contribute to who I am and what I can do. To accept myself is to accept the state of my mental health.

It isn’t a sign of weakness to ask for help. Though my voice shook as I said I needed support, I felt empowered. It is strength to say that I can’t do this on my own. It’s strength to take who I am right now and still make it through a day. It’s strength to craft a story for my life that includes the challenges that mental illness brings. We are strong.

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My Mental Health Treatment Journey Part 2: Therapy

This is the second part of my mental health treatment journey all about therapy. Make sure you check out part one about medication here.

Like taking medication, I was very reluctant to go to therapy. I think I was around fifteen when I went for my first therapy consultation and I was very self-conscious. I was worried that someone I knew would see me go into the mental health section of the hospital and tell everyone I was mad. Back when I was a teenager mental illness was still a very taboo subject that had a lot of misinformation surrounding it. There was no Depression, Anxiety, PTSD and OCD known to my friends, there was just sane and crazy and nobody wanted to be associated with the mad girl.

That first therapy appointment was a bit of a disaster. Back then I didn’t have a diagnosis and just assumed that I was depressed. My GP had referred me to the children’s mental health services at my local hospital and I remember being very nervous. This was the first time that I’d ever told a stranger my story. At the end of that appointment the lady I’d poured my heart out to for the past hour basically told me that she wasn’t really qualified to treat me. You see, what triggered my mental health problems was being in a mentally and physically abusive relationship with a boyfriend. I was essentially a child with a grown up problem that that particular therapist had no experience in handling. After weeks of getting my hopes up and psyching myself up to tell someone, I was sent away and told that I would need to see an adult psychologist. Sorry.

I was on the NHS waiting list for a good six months before a letter came through with an appointment to see a therapist at the big doctor’s surgery in my hometown. The only problem was my mental health problems had gotten so bad at that point that I could no longer leave the house never mind go to a place near where trauma had happened to me. After months of waiting I’d hit another dead end. I remember overhearing my mum on the phone to our doctor in tears begging him for help “She can’t go, I don’t know what to do” she whispered into the phone. He said that if I “refused” to go to the appointment there was nothing more he could do. Even my doctor didn’t understand that I desperately wanted therapy but I physically could not leave my house.

Deciding to take matters into our own hands, my mum found a local domestic violence support group who we got in touch with. They said they could send a support helper to our house for weekly appointments. I was so relieved to find someone who could help me. At the time a lot of mental health professionals had stopped doing home visits because of safety reasons (so I was told time and time again) so I couldn’t believe I’d found someone who not only had dealings with people who’d experienced domestic violence but who could also come to my home so I didn’t have to go out.

A couple of weeks after contacting the group a lady was sent to my home to learn more about my situation. I explained about how I was in an abusive relationship and how that had triggered some sort of depression. I was so hopeful that day but again was left disappointed. The lady didn’t seem to know what to do with me. All of her information sheets she gave me to read were about women who were married or have children and not for a teenager like me. At the end of the session she suggested making an appointment for both me and my ex to talk about the abuse because she wanted to hear his side of the story. The last thing I wanted was to see my ex again after finally breaking away from him. I had a huge panic attack and when she left I spent the rest of the afternoon in my bedroom in tears. I can’t explain how disheartening and lonely it feels to get knocked back time and time again when it comes to something so very personal.

With another road blocked off to me I went to see a new doctor who wanted me to get a proper diagnosis. A couple of weeks later I went to the mental health building at another nearby hospital to get assessed by a psychiatrist who diagnosed me with PTSD, Anxiety, OCD and Depression. It felt so good to finally know what was wrong with me. I went back to my new doctor with my diagnosis and explained to him about what I now knew was my Anxiety and PTSD making it impossible for me to go to places locally that triggered panic attacks and flash backs from past abuse. He was really understanding and referred me to a quiet little practice an hour’s drive from where I live.

Once again I was put back on the waiting list and this time it took eight months for me to get an appointment. By this point with no treatment for over a year I had untreated PTSD, crippling Anxiety, OCD and Depression. I was basically a recluse whose days consisted of debilitating routines and safety checks that could go on for hours. On that first appointment I had to share my entire back story again and was so scared that I would be turned away and told there was nothing they could do for me. At that point I was desperate for help. When she started talking about the type of therapy she wanted to do with me and asked me to make another appointment with her I burst into tears. I was just so relieved that I’d finally found someone who could help me.

The NHS gave me 24 appointments with my psychologist and she decided to treat me with CBT (cognitive behavioural therapy) a type of therapy used to stop a cycle of negative thoughts and create positive associations with things that scare you. Having CBT is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I constantly had to face my fears and challenge myself. I described the fear I felt to my family as feeling the same way they’d feel if they were put in a cage full of lions. We focused most of my sessions on treating my OCD which was probably the most out of control at that point. It was incredibly difficult and I didn’t enjoy it one bit but I slowly noticed myself getting better and started to find things easier. I’m pleased to say that as I type this my OCD is now pretty much completely under control.

I was so disappointed when my 24 sessions were up because in that time I’d managed to tackle all of my little fears and was now ready to move on to the big stuff and we hadn’t even begun to treat my PTSD. I was advised to take a break from therapy for a while and put the new strategies I’d learned from CBT into place on my own. Both my psychologist and doctor thought that I’d really benefit from some counselling which at the time I wasn’t ready for. I knew that counselling was going to involve talking about the past and I’d just got to a point where I was starting to feel better and build a new life for myself. The last thing I wanted to do was to look back to where I started. I wanted to move forward and was determined that I could do so and I did. I spent a few years out of therapy putting the things I learned from CBT into practise in real life situations and continued to move forward on my own with the help of medication.

Last year I got to a point where I felt like I’d got as far as I could go on my own and now I needed some more help. I’d started to build a solid new life for myself and felt strong enough to look back. My doctor said that what I’d been doing was putting a plaster over the wound which fixed it for the moment and stopped it from getting worse but it was now time to take the plaster off, go in and clean it up and stitch it together properly so that it could finally heal.

Going to counselling was one of the bravest things I’ve ever done. I managed to find an excellent private counsellor. I didn’t want to have to be put on the NHS waiting list again, this time I wanted to do treatment my way and be able to have as many sessions as it takes. She knew my financial situation wasn’t great and so she very kindly charges me half her usual rate. Her house is in the middle of the countryside it’s so peaceful and I love going there. Together we’ve looked at my past and how that affects my present and how my PTSD being left untreated for such a long time made it dangerously worse. I trust my counsellor completely and have started taking my biggest steps in treatment under her gentle guidance.

For me, timing with counselling was everything. I think you can have the best counsellor to talk with who gives the best advice but unless you’re in the mind set where you’re ready to put the work in and be uncomfortably honest, you won’t get the most from it. It’s hard work and it’s so easy to miss an appointment or to hash over the truth. I know that if I was to start counselling back when I’d finished my CBT I wouldn’t have opened up in the way that I have now and said the things I needed to say. I was like the person who desperately wanted to be thin but didn’t want to do the diet or exercise to get there, it just seemed too hard for me back then, I wanted immediate results and none of the hard work. With therapy, unlike medication, the hard work is ultimately down to you. It’s difficult and leaves you feeling like your heart has been scrubbed raw some days but my god is it worth it.

If medication is my shield then therapy is my battle plan. It’s knowing what areas are going to be difficult so I can prepare, it’s knowing my strengths and putting strategies in place to get through the hard times. Now I’m at a place where I have my shield in hand and my battle plan in the forefront of my mind. The war inside my head is not over but I’m in the midst of it now and I’m not alone. I have trusty allies by my side and confidence in knowing that when the battle is over and the dust has settled I have a future waiting for me on the horizon and it’s one worth fighting for.

If you enjoyed this post, you can find more on: 

 Bloglovin' | Twitter | Jess Hearts Books

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My Mental Health Treatment Journey Part 1: Medication

The other day I was talking to a friend about my experiences with medication for treating my mental illnesses. She was starting the same medicine that I’m on and wanted some guidelines on what to expect. After talking to her I realised that talking about what medication you’ve tried and what sort of therapy has helped you isn’t a common topic of conversation. 

When starting a new course of treatment it’s normal to have questions but other than talking to your doctor there’s nowhere to really turn to for these discussions. So I’ve decided to share with you my experiences with medication and therapy in the hopes of encouraging people to start having these conversations and also to hopefully shed some light on the different kinds of treatment out there. 

It wasn’t until I started writing this post that I realised that my story is a long one and so I’ve decided to split this into two parts, this first one is about medication and the second part which will be up later this month is on therapy. 

As a disclaimer it’s important to know that different medicines and therapy are used to treat different mental health problems and one set way doesn’t work for everyone. This is just my personal journey.

My first step in treating my mental health problems was with medication. My family noticed something wasn’t right with my mental health before I did, so when I was fourteen after a lot of coaxing (and the promise of a McDonalds after) my mum took me to see our family GP. I remember him speaking to her rather than me and them talking about my moods and how important it was for me to get through my GCSE’s. He prescribed me a low dose of Prozac and wrote off my moods as stress from school. The Prozac seemed to do the trick; it got me through the next few years although I did notice that I often felt happy or sad with nothing in between. When going for my medication reviews this was wrote off as typical teenage mood swings.

When I was sixteen my mental health got vastly worse and so I went back to my GP who put me on a higher dosage of Prozac. That’s when things went very bad. My moods were either very high or very low. I’d either spend my days constantly on the go or struggling to get out of bed and go to school. One morning I got out of bed and honestly felt the worst that I’ve ever felt in all of my years living with mental illness. In tears, I made it downstairs and collapsed on the living room floor hysterically crying. I was inconsolable and had no idea what I was crying about but I couldn’t stop. I felt deeply depressed and just wanted the dark cloud that seemed to be following me around, weighing heavy on my shoulders, to go away. I felt like I'd literally hit rock bottom lying on that floor. My mum couldn’t get me off the floor, never mind to the doctors, so she made an emergency phone call to him. He said I’d had a bad reaction to the Prozac and that I was to come off it immediately. Slowly, as the Prozac came out of my system, I started to feel better. My mental illness was still there but I didn’t feel as bad as I did on Prozac.

My doctor wanted to try me on a different medication but after my bad experience I was very reluctant to give anything else a go. Slowly my mental illness (which I didn’t have a name for back then) was steadily getting worse. My typical day consisted of waking up and feeling too anxious to leave my house so I’d stay in. Trying to make myself useful, I’d fight off the depression that was demanding that I stay in bed and force myself to shower, prepare meals and tidy up all of which required me to check certain objects or touch switches and door knobs repeatedly until the feelings of anxiety subsided - a ritual that could go on for hours. Then, mentally exhausted, I’d collapse into bed and sleep the rest of the day away. Something had to change but I was so scared of going back to my GP in case he wanted me to try medication again, which at this point I was really against. After much persuasion from my nearest and dearest I went to see a different doctor. Before doing anything he wanted me to get a proper diagnosis, something that other mental health professionals have since told me should have been done all along.

Two weeks later I had a one off appointment at the mental health branch of a local hospital and was asked some questions for about an hour by a psychiatrist. After the appointment finished she asked me “What do you think is wrong with you?” and I answered “Depression” it was the only mental illness that I’d heard of at that time that somewhat fit my symptoms. She diagnosed me with PTSD, Anxiety, OCD and Depression. I was confused, I said to her “I thought PTSD is what soldiers who’ve been to war have? And isn’t OCD when you need things to be clean and worry about germs?” She was brilliant and explained to me that the abusive relationship that I was in at that moment in time had created trauma in my brain and that OCD is more about the obsession behind the acts rather than what you actually do to stop the anxiety.

Having that diagnosis changed everything for me. My doctor now knew what was wrong with me, I could research the illnesses online and find people like me. It made me better understand my moods and  knowing what was wrong made it treatable. If you think you have a mental illness I’d strongly recommend asking your doctor for a referral to get properly diagnosed by a mental health professional so that you can get the right treatment. There are a wealth of mental illnesses and conditions out there that you may not have even heard of or considered. Knowing what you have and treating it correctly can make all the difference. It's like if you went to your doctor and were treated for eczema when you’ve actually got impetigo. Getting the right treatment for your condition is crucial.

When I went back to see my GP with my new diagnosis he then prescribed me Citalopram. I was very cautious about this but my doctor was really great asking me to keep in touch with him if it made me feel bad and saying that I could come off it or we could try something else. He told me that just because one medication didn’t work, doesn’t mean that none of them will. Those words were the real turning point for me and are something to keep in mind when going through treatment. Confident in my diagnosis and trusting my new GP I bit the bullet and tried Citalopram, because of the severity of my mental condition at that point I was put on a high dose of 60mg. At first it didn’t feel like the medication was doing much but a few weeks in and I started to feel very numb and a bit like a zombie. I hated feeling that way so in my medication review I was honest with my doctor who decreased it to 20mg which turned out to be the perfect amount for me.

Taking Citalopram certainly didn’t cure my mental illnesses but it did soften the sharp edges of my mind making the PTSD, Anxiety, OCD and Depression easier to live with. It also didn’t come without a trade; I put on weight, lost my sex drive and often felt lacking in energy. But to some extent I got my life back so guess who won that trade off? I’ve been on a 20mg dosage of Citalopram for the past ten years; it suits me and has improved my life so much.

I’m so glad that despite my bad experience with medication I tried again. There is so much negative stigma surrounding taking medication for mental illness and I was someone who, for a time, believed that stigma and refused treatment that could have made me better sooner. For the record, taking medication hasn’t changed my personality - if anything it's made room in my brain for my personality to shine through now that it’s not so cluttered with obsessive thoughts and all that darkness. It hasn't dulled my creativity (hello blogging!) and I still experience other feelings vividly and intensely. For the longest time I truly believed that medication was my enemy. That taking it was weak and wrong and would change who I was. Medication is not my enemy. It’s the shield I use to stop the mental illness from hitting me so hard. Deciding on whether you want to take medication or not is a personal choice, but know before you decide that there is no right or wrong option and that there is no shame in picking up that shield.

If you enjoyed this post, you can find more on: 

Bloglovin' | Twitter | Jess Hearts Books

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Why I Choose to Live

Over much of the last ten years, suicide has been a very real option for me. When my mood has been at its lowest and I haven’t been able to see ahead because of the fog of depression, life, as clichéd as it sounds, hasn’t felt as if it is worth living. After attempts at taking my life, when medical professionals tried to keep me safe from myself, I was angry. I was angry that they were taking the choice away from me. I asked myself what right they had to make me live when they weren’t the ones living my life.

But today it is different. There remain times when I see ending my life as a means of ending my distress. I still get overwhelmed at the prospect of living for decades to come. Perhaps that will always be the case for someone who has seen suicide as an available option. What I have seen recently, however, are also the reasons to be hopeful. They are the little glimmers of life, the moments I laugh without thought, the fulfilment that comes with doing something I enjoy. Instead of having a list a mile-long of why I want to die, there are greater reasons for me to live.

I choose to live because:

There is the possibility of change and of progress.

I can be with the people I love.

I can see the world and explore new places.

I can read books and listen to music, old and new.

I can help to make the world a better place through my unique perspective.

I can have new experiences – meet new people, go to gigs and events, and do what scares me.

I can use my experiences, rather than wasting them, in order to support other people.

I can make my life what I want it to be.

We all have different experiences and reasons for the choices that we make. I don’t know what your life is like. You may be content, you may be muddling through, unsure what you’re doing, or you may be like me, wondering why you should live. What I do know, though, is that what I saw as permanent has so often been fleeting. Things change. We can utilise the very worst of life and make it count for something. That reality is my reason for living.  

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Hi, I’m Jess and I’m a Hypochondriac

Admitting to you that I’m a hypochondriac is a hard thing for me to do.

When I talk about my anxiety, I’m fine.

OCD? Not a problem. 

Depression? Sure thing.

But it’s hard for me to sit here and fess up to being a hypochondriac and that’s because being a hypochondriac carries a bad rep.

Over the years I’ve been called a “drama queen” and an “attention seeker” by my nearest and dearest. I’ve been told to “get a grip” and that I need to “stop worrying about nothing.” I think it’s hard for me to write this post because hypochondria is an anxiety disorder that’s hardly ever spoken about and therefore has a long way to go in fighting the stigma surrounding mental illness that we’re just starting to break.

In contrast to what has been said to me, my hypochondria is something that I live very quietly with, much more so than I live with my other mental health problems. Unlike common perceptions regarding hypochondria I rarely go to the doctor with my worries and I hardly ever discuss my fears with anyone for fear of being called silly.

For me, living with hypochondria is losing a whole night to googling symptoms and reading about various illnesses online spending hours trying to self-diagnose. It’s lying awake terrified that I’m ill or dying. It’s having intrusive thoughts about all of the big scary illnesses out there and the chances of me one day having them. It’s about worrying that even getting help for these illnesses, like having surgery, carry a risk of death. Truthfully, having hypochondria is terrifying and something that I often sit with alone.

In my experience, when people think of death they see it as a far off thing that won’t happen to them, or at the very least is something that they won’t have to face for a long time. I’m the complete opposite. I’m very aware that death is a part of life and that one day I will die and so will everybody that I’ve ever cared about. I know that death can sweep in and happen unexpectedly when you’re not looking and so I’ve made death my personal enemy.

I try as hard as I can to fortify myself and those I love from death by being a hypochondriac, by worrying and thinking of the worst possibility so that I can act quickly. I’m on constant high alert for the grim reaper knocking at my door.

There are so many health warnings these days, everywhere you look from posters to TV adverts. Now I’m not saying that’s a bad thing, I’m sure these advertisements save lives. But when you’re a hypochondriac being reminded that 1 of 2 people in the UK will be diagnosed with some form of cancer during their lifetime is not helpful. I look at those odds and I look around at the people I love and a wave of paralysing fear washes over me.

Every. Single. Freaking. Time.

And what’s worse is that I know that dying is inevitable and that for all of my worry and trying to protect myself and those I love against it ultimately there’s nothing I can do to stop it when it does finally decide to arrive.

Because as well as worrying about my own health I also am a hypochondriac when it comes to the people I love. My family get so annoyed with me when they’re ill. If they have an illness for longer than two weeks I’m certain that they’re going to die. I will nag at them to see a doctor and spend countless nights until the illness has passed crying myself to sleep and having panic attacks because I’m certain that something is seriously wrong with them.

In society hypochondria is a mental health condition that is still very much seen as a joke. It’s perceived as self-indulgent, dramatic and pathetic but in reality it is a terrifying condition to live with. On a regular basis I convince myself that I am ill and that I am going to die. I may not be physically ill but mentally I am there living it and experiencing it. I believe it deeply and wholly. To me, in my mind, I am sick and I am dying. Fact. And it’s not until my symptoms subside or I get a doctor's diagnosis that I believe otherwise. It’s petrifying and mentally exhausting.

Hypochondria is not a silly, frivolous or indulgent condition to have. It’s no fun to live with and is certainly no joke to be laughed off. I hope that one day it will be seen as the crippling anxiety disorder that it is and treated with the respect it deserves. But until that day I refuse to be ridiculed for a condition that I have as little control over as my OCD, PTSD and Depression. I refuse to be made fun of and refuse to believe that my very real fear is trivial, petty and insignificant.

My name is Jess. I am a hypochondriac and I will not be ashamed.

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