O Captain! My Captain!

When I woke up on Tuesday morning and read of Robin Williams' death, I cried. 

My earliest memories are of finishing nursery at lunch time and coming home to watch Mork and Mindy on TV. I thought they lived on a Boulder in Colorado, and was worried they might fall off. I remember running around the house saying shazbot and nanu nanu and my mum having no clue what I was on about. I remember being really excited when my cousin gave me some rainbow braces because then I could be just like Mork!

Whenever a celebrity dies, there is a lot of media attention. Column inches are devoted to their obituaries, to speculation about the cause of death, to interviews with people who barely knew them. When Princess Diana died, it seemed like half the world was in mourning and talking about how she had somehow touched their lives; London was practically paved with flowers.

When it's a young star and drugs are implicated, everyone talks about what a waste it is, how they were such a bright shining talent whose greatest achievement was yet to come; they were taken too soon, blah blah. If they have died in an accident, we tend to get more of the same. If they die of a "real" disease then there is a lot of talk about new treatments, possible cures, how other people are living/coping with the disease.

Robin Williams seems to have divided opinions somewhat, though. I've seen some people saying we shouldn't be reporting his death as suicide but rather that he died from depression. Other people have said it was his decision to die.

I have to say, I'm not sure I know which side of that argument I agree with. Even having suffered somewhat badly with depression myself, and having been so horribly close to suicide more than once, I still find it hard to understand. I still want to tell people to just pick themselves up and get on with it. More than once I have wanted to give someone with depression a big old slap and say "nobody's going to get through this on your behalf, so get the fuck up!"

On the other hand though, I understand. I know that depression is like an evil, stinking bog monster that sits on your shoulder and offers proof and reasoning as to why the whole world would be better off if you were dead. Although many see suicide as the selfish option, I think the majority of people who kill themselves do so because they genuinely believe their friends and family would be better off without them. At the depths of my depression, people used to say to me "but wouldn't your family be devastated if you killed yourself?" and my response - the response of the bog monster - was always yes, they would - but they would grieve and then get over it, rather than spend the next 40 years having to try and hold me up as I drag myself through this life. I felt myself unable to cope with life, and a burden on those who tried to help me do so. I spent huge amounts of time having impassioned conversations with people, explaining that people with mental illness should have just as much right as anyone with a physical disease, to go to a clinic in Switzerland and end it all. I genuinely believed that someone who has suffered for years with mental illness should have the right to assisted suicide. 

The man who wrote the blog post about it having been Williams' decision to die has received a lot of negative comments, and even more trolling, for his opinion. But realistically, I think he's probably right. I think I agree with him. The thing with depression is that it's not just a chemical imbalance, and you're very lucky if your depression is "cured" just by some pills to iron that bit out. My personal experience was that the pills just made me able to cope with things like having a shower, getting dressed, putting on a front. They made it easier to pretend I was ok; they didn't make me actually ok. And the CBT I was offered on the NHS was no massive help either; I remember telling my GP, great, I can write a plan for doing the washing up, but I still want to fling the dishes on the floor and roll around in the sharp edges - they'll just be clean when I do. The actual being ok didn't start until I began to argue with that bloody stinking bog monster. And I don't think that was the pills; I think that was me.

There came a point in my depression where I thought to myself, if you're going to kill yourself, get on and do it. And if you're not, then get on and live your life. I felt like I had been living in limbo for months, waiting to see whether I had the nerve to kill myself, weighing up the pros and cons of staying alive. If I stay alive, I'll see that new movie that's due out next week. If I die I won't have to go to that big gathering of people I'm supposed to like at the weekend. I had these conversations in my head constantly, for months. 

Robin Williams' death petrifies me. He was rich and famous; he probably didn't have money worries or worries about being lonely or unpopular or that he wasn't loved; the whole world loved him. But I know that all of that counts for nothing at 3am, when that horrible, stinking bog monster is whispering in your ear.

To see that someone with seemingly no possible worries could still succumb to that stinking bog monster makes my position seem that much more precarious. My mental health is still very much a daily effort. I don't have internal conversations about suicide any longer - because I can't afford to ever let it get to that point again. I have S now, and am very conscious that I am the only parent she has. Therefore I am hyper aware of the first signs I might be heading in the wrong direction, and I try to do something about that.

I remember when I was an angsty teenager, reading a quote by someone (I think it was Ian Curtis' wife): how bad must one's life be, that death seems like the preferable option? To me, hearing of anyone's suicide is horrible. I have felt that pain; I know what it's like to feel that you are genuinely alone, that the world really would be better off without you. 

I think the thing with depression is that it chips and chips and chips away not just at your ability to stand, but at your desire to stand. and it's that desire to stand back up that you need, in order to survive. I have no idea where I found the strength to stand up, and I know there is no guarantee I will find it again next time. I cry for Robin Williams because he made it to 63 before he gave up. There but for the grace of God, go I.

Thinking About Depression

I've been thinking a lot lately about depression and my breakdown.

I was talking to a friend the other day; I don't see him very often, and when I do he likes to check up on my mental well being. He was one of the people who dragged me through my breakdown, often kicking and screaming and sobbing on the floor. He knows what I was like, and I don't think he fancies pulling me through it again so he has a vested interest in making sure I'm ok.

I don't often sit and ponder these things; whilst I don't actively try to Not Think about my depression, it's no longer at the forefront of my mind. As I've mentioned before, I'm not foolhardy enough to say "I've beaten it; it'll never be back." I know there's a good chance it will return; it's tried its hardest to get to me recently. I am fully aware that all of my struggles with body image and confidence are intertwined with the depression, a chemical imbalance in my brain that means my internal monologue often has a mantra of "Not good enough. Not thin enough. Not clever enough. Not pretty enough. Just not enough."

The other day, I watched this Ted Talk. It's half an hour long, but it's worth watching in my opinion. It made me both laugh and cry. Andrew Solomon had a breakdown in the 90s, and then wrote (among many other things) The Noonday Demon which is an amazing book about depression.

Practically everything Solomon says in this video is the sort of thing you want to write down and show to people in order to explain.  He explains depression perfectly. Everything he says is imminently quotable. One thing he says that really hit home for me is that his depression taught him how big an emotion can be; that it can be more real than facts. When you're depressed, it doesn't matter what the bare facts are. It doesn't matter if you're surrounded by loving, caring people who want to see you happy. It doesn't matter if you're beautiful, an ideal weight, have a high IQ. That nasty voice in your head is louder than any fact. Just like I can see measurements and clothing sizes and flattering photos and be told a million times that I'm not fat and not ugly, but that feeling in the pit of my stomach has often been louder.

Solomon also says that he loves his depression:

I love it because it has forced me to find and cling to joy.

I love it because every day I decide, sometimes gamely and sometimes against the moment's reason, to cleave to the reasons for living. And that, I think, is a hugely privileged rapture.

Talking to my friend about my mental state, and the last few years, I was hit with a dawning realisation. As the words came out of my mouth, I realised that actually, although I went through a hellish time, I wouldn't change it. In the same way that I can't say I wish I'd never met S's father because otherwise I wouldn't have her, I can't say I wish I'd never had depression because I would not be the person I am.

Things were really tough when S was born; in a way I think the fact it was so hard is probably a blessing. I was so busy trying to learn how to be two parents to my child, worrying about her being taken away from me, trying to keep us safe, that I managed to stave off the depression that spent months waiting just outside the door, without really noticing. Also, I had a tangible reason for feeling crappy then: I'd had a traumatic pregnancy, followed by a traumatic birth, followed by a traumatic first few weeks as a mother. If I felt sad, I knew there was a valid reason, rather than just a poisonous feeling of doom.

The last couple of months have been a little stressful. Several factors have combined to mean that I've been on a bit of a rollercoaster. The meditation is helping in a way I didn't think it would. I am able to take a more objective view of my emotions. I can tell that nasty voice in my head to kindly knob off. I don't ignore it; I acknowledge that it's there, I notice what it's saying, and then I decide I'm not going to allow that one voice to rule my day. That's something I'm still working on. Daily.

So here I am, living with depression. I have good days and bad days, and if I can keep the good from being overtaken by the bad, then I'm counting that as a win.

Mental Illness vs Mental Wellness

Have you ever heard the saying the holistic therapists always wheel out, health is not merely the absence of illness?

The same goes for mental health. 

It's all very well not having depression, not being on medication, not being of concern to your GP.

It's quite another to be mentally "well."

There is a vast chasm in between the two. A vast chasm filled with sticky, black treacle. It's hard to trudge through it and scale the cliff to the other side. Getting off the medication is just the start. And often, just when you think you're starting to reach solid ground on the other side, the treacle drags you back again.

I've written about my breakdown before. I make no secret of the mental health issues I've experienced. People have expressed surprise at my openness, but since the breakdown itself was fairly public (until I went properly cuckoo and deleted my Facebook, that is), I see no point in hiding it. Also for me, writing about how I felt formed part of my recovery.

One thing few people talk about, or possibly even give thought to though, is what happens once you're considered "recovered." Once you're off the medication, and you stop going to the counsellors, and people stop hiding the knives when you visit... it's not over. There's still a lot of fighting to be done.

A major part of my breakdown was the overwhelming feeling of loneliness. I was plagued by the belief that I was fundamentally unlovable; I believed I was just plain bad inside, and that I would be alone forever. I wanted to die, rather than face 60 more years of feeling this alone and disgusting.

If I'm honest, those feelings are still there. They've not disappeared. I've just grown better at coping with them. Or ignoring them. Pushing them to the back of my brain, and telling myself they're wrong. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn't. There have been times in the 2 years since I fell pregnant, that S has been literally the only thing keeping me alive. If she weren't here, neither would I be.

This blog is more successful than I ever expected it to be when I started it.

I have a blog on my local newspaper's website.

I've been invited to speak on radio shows on the issues I write about, and have written guest posts for several websites.

People tell me I am good at writing. People whose opinions I trust and respect; people I know would tell me if they thought something was shit.

I still don't think I'm good enough. I still don't understand where these readers come from each month.

I'm not depressed all the time, but I have waves. And the waves are still pretty bad. Before, when I was properly ill, the depression was more of a sustained period of absolute, soul crushing, abject misery. 

This is more a couple of days or a week here and there. I am still horribly lonely. I still feel dejected and fed up and not good enough for the friends who make so much effort with me. 

I'm nowhere near bad enough to go back to the medication, but I know I need to do something pro-active myself, to make sure I don't slip any further. Make sure those waves don't get any longer than a few days. 

What I'm wondering is, will I ever reach the other side? Will I ever feel good enough? Will this bloody black dog ever die?

Two Years Down

The other day, I was scrolling through some older posts, and stumbled across this one, about having been off my medication for a year. Looking at the date, I realised that now, I've been off my medication for two years.

I've had periods in my life where I've ended up on medication, then come off it and foolishly believed all that depression nonsense was behind me, all in the past, not to be thought of again.

Then, in 2010, I had a massive breakdown. After over a month signed off sick, I ended up feeling I had no choice but to leave a job I'd been in for six years, and had usually enjoyed and even loved.

While I was still recovering, and still very much on my medication, I met S's father - and any headway I'd made was wiped out by what went on over the course of that year. Falling pregnant meant I came off my medication a lot sooner than anyone would have liked. I had a somewhat traumatic pregnancy, and the first weeks of S's life weren't much fun either.

From the moment my twelfth week of pregnancy passed, to as recently as two weeks ago, my GP has made me aware the medication is still there for me, should I need it; that nobody would think any less of me for it. This has gone from "I really do think it would be best for you if you did this, and it wouldn't really harm your baby" to "only a little of it will come through in your milk, and weighed up against the risks of not taking it..." to "do you think you might need them?" to just "I can write you a prescription if you want one." She knows I won't accept, but she offers any way, so that I know the option is open to me.

This time, I am determined never to go back. I am not so stupid or naive enough to blithely wave goodbye to the option of medication. I know that what happened before could well happen again. It is something that hangs over me on an almost daily basis. I take supplements to keep the demons at bay religiously; every time I remember the supplements just as I'm going to bed, I think to myself, "no, it doesn't matter how tired you are; you need to take them because the alternative is not an option now you have S" and I trudge back off down the stairs to fetch them.

If I'm honest, my abject fear of ever going back there is probably a good thing. It means I am a lot more self aware than I ever was before. Before, I was convinced I was "cured," that my dalliance(s) with depression were more teenage/early 20s angst than genuine chemical imbalances or emotional issues to be dealt with. I think it was this cavalier spirit that ultimately did for me: I was so busy being convinced I was not a Depressed Person, the warning signs crept in and danced a jig under my nose. By the time I noticed them, they were no longer warning signs; they were waking at 3am and fantasising about taking as much Temazepam as I could get my hands on. They were sitting on the stairs, drinking shots of Pisang Ambon because that was the only place in the house I could be, and the only booze in the house I could find.

I never, ever want to go back there.

These days, I am much more self aware.

I notice the warning signs, and I try my best to do something about them.

I feel more like an addict in recovery, where the first bad day could send you right back to hell, than someone who has been cured of depression.

And that is why this time, I will succeed.

Mental Health Care and Abusive Relationships

When I was pregnant, I came off the medication I had been on since my breakdown.

My GP wanted me to go back onto it once I'd reached 12 weeks, but I refused. (I still refuse). As a compromise, she suggested I see a counsellor instead.

I had been through the self-referral system with CMHT before; I hadn't really rated it when I had been floundering in the abyss of my mental health. I knew they couldn't help me; they knew I was beyond their help, and referred me to the next level of mental health care (which also didn't really help).

Any way, I agreed to go. The way this works is, you call a number which goes through to the overworked secretary of what seems to be several different departments. The phone often rings through to voicemail several times before you reach a real person, and if you leave a voicemail it is often lost in the ether. When you eventually get hold of said overworked secretary, you're about ready to admit defeat and open a vein. She takes her time locating the relevant diary, and then makes you an appointment in about 4 weeks' time to see someone at your doctor's surgery.

The idea is that you speak to the counsellor for 45 minutes or so, they give you some "homework" or something, you go on your merry way and make an appointment to see them again in two weeks. Except the system doesn't work, because once you leave the appointment, you have to go back through the rigmarole mentioned above, and usually end up waiting at least a month between appointments.

I knew all of this, but I didn't want my GP to make me start taking medication again. So I made the call. The appointment they gave me was with a man, which was less than ideal, but it was the only one available so I took it.

At my first appointment I told the man my situation, which was this: my partner had kicked me out in the middle of the night, but when I found out I was pregnant, we got back together. The "fact" it was entirely my fault we had ever split up in the first place was brought up at least once a week; I was to take full responsibility. Eventually I got sick of this, and broke it off. He then went out and slept with someone else (probably more than one person). We got back together shortly after, but I was having a hard time dealing with the fact he'd slept with someone else and refused to share a bed with him until he'd been tested. It was at this point I had my first appointment with the counsellor.

Bear in mind here, that I was in an abusive relationship. This man had slept with someone else in order to punish me for finishing with him. He was still telling me it had all been my fault; I had caused him to kick me out the first time, I had so callously and heartlessly dumped him the second time we split, I had driven him to sleep with someone else by not taking his calls, and now I was deliberately causing drama and trouble by not just going back to normal.

I told the counsellor this. I told him I wasn't sure of my own mind, and wasn't sure if perhaps it was all me, and I was just painting a particularly bad picture of him to the friends and family who were telling me I should just stay away from him.

The counsellor told me he had previously been a relationship counsellor. He told me it wasn't usually allowed, but did I want to bring my partner with me to my next session, and he would try and help us work through this. I asked my partner, and - surprisingly - he accepted.

A few weeks later, we went to see the counsellor together. We sat in a room with him, and he agreed with everything the ex said. At times I felt they were ganging up on me: if we were going to be together, I needed to accept responsibility for what had happened, suck it up and get back to normal.

I remember leaving the appointment, and walking down the street, reeling. The ex was talking to me, but I wasn't hearing; I was walking along thinking, "oh no, I really am a terrible person; I really have been painting an awful, one-sided picture of this man to all of my friends, and now they hate him and it's all my fault!" I felt so guilty about the whole thing, I bought the ex dinner before we went home.

I really felt that since the counselling session was for me and not my partner, the counsellor should at least have tried to be on my "side" for some of it.

When I went to the next session, the counsellor asked me how things had been after the previous one. I told him I felt like they had ganged up on me, and that really it wasn't what I'd needed. The counsellor told me he had been aware of that at the time, but was also very aware that if he agreed with me too much, it might seem that we were ganging up on the ex, and that might make the situation worse for me once we left the session. I wasn't really sure that was a feasible excuse, to be honest.

I didn't go back after that session; I didn't see any point. By agreeing with everything the ex said, he had re-enforced his actions. He had made his behaviour acceptable in the eyes of "the authorities" and more importantly, he had contributed in a large way to the mind games the ex was playing with me. I really couldn't trust my own mind; a mental health professional had shown that to be the case, after all. More than once over the course of my pregnancy, the events of that day were brought back to me - "you counsellor told you about this... remember what your counsellor said..."

A few times since S was born, when I've been having a hard time with things, the GP has suggested I go back to counselling. She's handed me leaflets, and  I've smiled and put them in my handbag knowing I will never call that stupid number. I can't rely on that service to do anything to help me, and I feel that that man's actions were actually detrimental to my mental health and wellbeing. I have no idea if he still works there, and I don't want to find out.

Who Would Have Thought...

When I was in the middle of having my breakdown, I went to the beach several times. I think I thought the sun, sea and sand would make me feel happy and at peace, but it never really did.

Every time I went, I would look up at the balloon that goes up from the Gardens, and think, "you could just get in that, wait for it to go up, and jump..."

One time I went as far as joining the queue, but I didn't have enough cash on me.

The next time I was there, I was with a friend. I told her about my plan with the balloon. She looked at it and said, "you can't jump off that; there's a cage all the way round to keep people in!"

Fast forward three years. 

Today I went to the beach with S and two of my sisters. It was S's first trip to the beach, and I kind of expected her to not really enjoy it. Imagine my surprise when I took her down to the sea for a paddle, and she just kept on walking. I lifted her over the waves as they came, but I missed a few and they got her full in the face! No tears though - she just giggled and kept on kicking her legs and jibbering away to herself. 

In the end, I walked up to Primark to buy a cheap bikini so that I could take S into the sea properly. I left her with my sisters (with a list of instructions as long as both their arms), and set off up to the shops. That involved walking through the gardens for the first time since that time three years ago.

As I walked past the balloon, I looked up and thought, imagine if I'd done it.

My life now is far from easy. I'm constantly behind on my studying, the housework, blog posts, emails, Twitter. S is not sleeping brilliantly, I'm constantly knackered, am too tired and short of time to buy and prepare proper food for myself. But I'm the happiest, most contented I've ever been in my life. Instead of going to the beach in a vague attempt to pull myself out of the pit of despair, I was there to enjoy the sea and the sand with my beautiful daughter, who enjoyed the whole experience a lot more than any of us expected.

As I passed the balloon, I texted my friend saying, "hey, remember that time you told me I couldn't jump out of the balloon..." Her response? 

Who would have thought you'd be where you are now?

Certainly not me.

Feeling Fortnuate

When I first had S, and had to deal with the whole situation surrounding her father, as well as a tiny, jaundiced, premature baby, I don't think I felt particularly lucky.

But just lately, having spoken to many other women about their experiences in pregnancy, childbirth, relationships, childrearing... I realise just how fortunate I really am.

I am definitely the most lucky mummy in the world.

Here is a list to remind me of my good fortune...

• My pregnancy, if you remove the ex from the picture, was actually fairly easy. I had a little hip trouble, but I didn't end up having to leave work early or confined to a wheelchair from it. I didn't have gestational diabetes. S was born before she was big enough to be anything but a pleasure to feel kicking me. I didn't have to endure a hot summer of pregnancy, I didn't get preeclampsia, I had water retention but not too badly. All in all, a relatively trouble free pregnancy.

• Although I was induced, and labour was painful (and ten and a half hours!) I have heard some real horror stories that have made me realise how easy I really had it. I didn't tear, S wasn't distressed, despite being early she was a good weight and healthy. I didn't need to have an emergency C-Section, and was lucky enough to be able to go through the process without drugs or epidural.

• S was born with no suck/swallow response, and was fed formula through a tube for the first few days. I was very lucky to have the help and support of hospital staff, who helped me to begin to breastfeed. They would say it was down to my hard work, but I really didn't put any work in, other than pumping before S's NG tube was removed.

• I have been so lucky with the breastfeeding! No mastitis, no bleeding nipples, no engorgement, no painful breasts, no low supply, no leaky boobs when I went back to work. Whenever S wants milk, it's there. When she doesn't want milk, I'm not in pain.

• Linked to the breastfeeding: S did not poo much before she started solids. For a while, she was only going once a week. At one point she went for 18 days without a poo, during which time she was perfectly happy and content. Apparently this is not unusual; breastmilk is so efficient, there's little waste from it. 18 days was a record for most of the health visitors I spoke to though!

• I was a high risk for post-natal depression. Everyone thought I would end up depressed, including me. I have more than one friend who has struggled with PND; I've seen how utterly horrible it is. I am so fortunate to have never experienced it first hand.

• When S and I first came home, she was still jaundiced, and I had to wake her to feed her. As she got better, she would wake for feeds; but she didn't cry unless there was something wrong. She didn't have colic and has only ever had a very mild nappy rash once or twice. It took me a little while to realise that actually, some babies do just cry a lot. Actually, I have been very lucky that S is just incredibly easy-going, and only cries when there is something wrong. And that something is usually fixable. Being on my own and lacking in confidence, if things had been different, and S had been a screamy baby, I'm not sure I would have coped so well.

• Seriously, I know I'm gorgeous and all, but how the chuffing hell did I manage to produce something that perfect?! She is so much more naturally happy and laid back than I am. And I don't think either of those is a quality the sperm donor possesses. I definitely lucked out where this child is concerned. Even when she cries at 2am, and she snots in my hair and digs her nails into my boob, she's still perfectly adorable. How the hell did I do that?

• Being on my own with S definitely has it down sides. For instance, my work is having its annual summer BBQ this week; it starts at 5pm and is infamous for all the free food and booze... and I can't go because I have nobody who could look after S and put her to bed without tears. BUT I also don't have to compromise with anything I do with her. As I noted in this post the other week, we get up in the morning, decide what to do, and go. When we come home, we have whatever we fancy for lunch, and spend the afternoon doing whatever we please. I don't leave her to cry, she still sleeps in my bed on a regular basis, I still breastfeed her, and I'm careful about what I do and don't say to her. I don't have to worry about someone else coming in here telling me I really should get her out of the habit of sleeping in my bed, or her cot should really be in her room by now, or haven't I given up breastfeeding yet, or telling her she's good or naughty or bad or telling her to say thank you.

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Recovery

This is one of a series of posts about a breakdown I had in 2010.

The first post is here.

Did you know, in Darlington, they have a train made from bricks?

By August, things have started to improve without my really noticing.

After a while, I realise there is nothing saying I have to stay at home all the time. I visit friends in Oxfordshire, Cardiff, Darlington. I see people I have not seen for years. I do the tourist thing. I get drunk. I spend hours upon hours on trains, reading books, listening to my iPod and looking out of the window. I miss Group Therapy and the one-to-one counselling, but my opinion is that visiting friends is better for my recovery any way.

I continue to work weekends at the local pub, waiting tables in the restaurant and garden. It's too hot and horribly busy on the shifts I work, but I enjoy it. The people there aren't really aware of what's been going on in my life, so they don't treat me any differently to any other weekend waitress. Once I am made properly redundant in October, I decide I will take on more shifts at the pub, and spend the rest of my time writing a book. I realise this is the first time I have thought about the future in months.

I begin to enjoy having enough spare time to be able to just go off on the spur of the moment. On the August Bank Holiday weekend, a friend comes to visit. We spend the evening drinking with my sister and another friend, then head into town and meet more people. The next day, with stinking hangovers, we agree that I will go and stay at my friend's place for a few days. I pack a bag, and we leave that evening. I spend about a week in Oxfordshire, splitting my time between two friends' houses, depending on when each of them is working.

This week marks some sort of change in me. I actually have fun; both when we are out drinking, and in the days that follow, just hanging about and not doing very much.

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More Psychiatric "Services"

This is the latest in a series of posts about a breakdown I had in 2010.

The first post is here.

Me, at the top of Snowdon -
better therapy than anything Psychiatric Services had to offer!

Although I am glad to have been allowed to take gardening leave from work, I am well enough to recognise that sitting about navel-gazing is not the best thing for me right now. At first I continue to go to Group Therapy, and to sit in cafes reading books.

A different lady from Psychiatric Services calls and asks me to go in for another interview. When I get there, she looks at my notes and realises I have already had a preliminary interview, which is what she had been planning to do with me. She tells me I have ended up with her through a series of errors. My GP originally referred me to Primary Care, and when that wasn't working she referred me to CMHT (Community Mental Health Team). CMHT then referred me back to Primary Care (no explanation as to why), and Primary Care referred me to this lady. She is Intermediate Care. If I ever get to see a proper therapist, that'll be Secondary Care. I resist the urge to point out that, since they are dealing with people who have a reduced ability to function, perhaps they should make these things a little more simple.

She tells me there is a 4-month waiting list for any one-to-one assistance, but I can continue to see Primary Care (the counsellor who seemed scared of me and was no help). There is a group called Working Through Depression that starts next month, and they've put me on the list for it. She thinks the course runs for 8 weeks. Meanwhile, I can join some Open Groups. I tell her I am already doing those, and they are not helping.

I wonder what a person has to do in order to get proper psychiatric care around here.

Having visited a friend in the locked ward recently, it seems even getting sectioned doesn't guarantee any sort of assistance to get back on one's feet.

The story continues here

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Up and Down

This is the latest in a series of posts about a breakdown I had in 2010.
The first post is here.

I give the Sertraline a few weeks, and then I go back to the doctor, indignant that it’s not working. I’m still miserable, I’m still not eating, I’m still not sleeping, and I still want to die. The Sertraline has failed, and I am distraught. The doctor tells me not to panic; it can take a month or two to begin to really kick in. (A month? Or two? I can’t wait that long, I won’t survive!) And also, 50mg is still only a low dose. They can always increase it. Some really crazy people are on up to 200mg a day. This guy is not the doctor I usually see. He realises, after he’s made this comment, that it was perhaps not the best choice of words, and changes the subject. I go away under instruction to take my little white wonder pill in the mornings rather than the evenings, as this may improve my sleep. As I am currently averaging 3 hours a night, I am willing to take any and all advice where my precious sleep is concerned. I change my pill-popping routine.

After a week of the higher dose, I have a day where I am ridiculously manic. I get up early, bake and ice brownies, tidy the house, work a lunch time shift at the local pub, iron clothes, change bed sheets, work the evening shift at the local pub. Around 7pm, I crash and burn, and spend the evening at work drinking Coke and coffee, shaking. My eating is still an issue.

The sleeping is still a problem; I am still taking a lot of whichever pills are closest to hand before getting into bed each night. I know this is probably a Bad Idea, but I just really want to get a decent night's sleep.

One day a friend gives me some of the antipsychotics he's supposed to take but doesn't. I take one, and lose two days in blissful slumber. It is amazing. I am scared to ask him for more though, as I know I will end up just sleeping for months at a time.

The Sertraline doesn’t seem to have any side effects. Something seems to be sort-of working. I don’t suddenly wake up happy one day, but I do stop obsessing quite so much about killing myself. Instead, I am filled with apathy. I don’t not want to kill myself because of a new-found zest for life, but rather because I just can’t be bothered to make the effort. It’s as if I am standing outside of myself, watching. 

You know when you learn to meditate and they tell you to just sit and notice your thoughts like a passive observer, well I am doing that with my entire life, and I don’t even care. I’m not bothered that I’ve become the proverbial shadow of my former self, but I am slightly bothered about this lack of concern. Even in my addled state, I know that I should be bothered by the fact I’m on a slippery slope. I feel very much that I am walking down a road from whence there is no return, and have resigned myself to the fact that this is just fine; perhaps I will just keep going down this road, and never return. Perhaps I will just die. 

I am still unable to cope with social interaction, and have not answered my phone for weeks. I leave it on silent, in the spare room. I read some of the messages that come in, but rarely respond. I have deleted my Facebook account and feel bad that friends have texted asking if I’m ok, why have I deleted my account… and I just can’t bring myself to respond. I feel intensely guilty that I may have hurt people’s feelings or made them worry, but I still can’t get around to doing anything about that. During this period I will end up losing a lot of people I thought I could count as friends, because I simply cannot explain my actions to them. And I’m not entirely sure they’d want to understand any way. People steadily stop calling or texting over the weeks.

I begin to read every memoir of depression I can get my hands on. Even though most of what I read doesn't go in, I keep reading. I search Waterstones and then Amazon for books by people who have survived this, in the hope that by reading about them, I will somehow figure out how to help myself.

In one book I read, the author describes how, frustrated with the doctors and pills, she researched supplements. I take a note of everything she takes: fish oils, magnesium, 5-HTP. Then I take myself off to Boots, and buy a ridiculous amount of supplements. Surely the contents of one of these little pots will fix me, and I will be normal.

After the apathy comes the mania. It starts with a vague sense of purpose, and within a couple of days I am up at the crack of dawn, baking brownies, cleaning, tidying, moving furniture, doing laundry. Anything and everything, to an OCD-like level. I cannot sit still. I am suddenly super-productive, getting everything done. The house is spotless. This lasts a few days, and then I crash and burn. And suddenly this is worse than it was before. Because I thought it was over. I thought this was the magic cure-all pill that was going to save me from all my troubles. But it’s betrayed me, and here I am, back wallowing in my familiar despair. It’s like that line from that song: “If I hadn’t seen such riches I could live with being poor.” 

I want nothing other than to lie down and die. I feel lost and am convinced nobody of my family or friends wants to find me. While all this is going on I still have the tiniest modicum of self-preservation instinct. Alone in the house and scared of what I might do, I try my best to contact an acquaintance who lives on the other side of the park from me. He doesn’t work; I figure there is a good chance he will still be up at 2am, while I am having my crisis. He’s fast asleep and cannot come to save me. I drink more and go to bed feeling terribly alone. I have had 29 years of feeling that I am surplus to everyone’s requirements, and it does not matter what happens next; open the vodka, take some more pills. I take more than is strictly necessary (since none is necessary) and lose myself for a while. 

It is July now. This has been going on all year so far. I'm sick of it. The phrase "shit or get off the pot" keeps coming into my head. I am impatient with my own inability to get well; if I'm impatient, no wonder I'm losing friends left and right. 

You know that scene in The Beach, where the Scandinavian man has been bitten by a shark, and keeps howling in pain, and everyone just wants him to either miraculously recover, or get on and die? 

That's me right now.

The next part of the story is here

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Group Therapy

This is the latest in a series of posts about a breakdown I had in 2010.
The first post is here.

Mount Snowdon: a turning point

I have agreed to attend Group Therapy courses because if I turn them down, there is nothing else. No other help available. The GP thinks it will be good for me to have to get up and be somewhere three times a week. The lady from Psychiatric Services thinks Group Therapy will keep me going until she can get me into the "Working Through Depression" group. I would rather just stay in bed and wait to die. But I said I'd do it.

And so, the following Monday, I get myself up and wander into town. I stop in a cafe and buy myself the largest possible latte, with added syrup, and sip it on my way to group therapy. I try to look as inconspicuous as possible as I wander along a main road of almost stationary traffic, and turn into the grounds of the mental institution. In reality, they probably don't care one way or another. I'd like to think I don't look particularly crazy; it's entirely possible that even if I am noticed, people would just think I was a member of staff, or visiting someone. Or not even care.

I sign in at the reception desk, which is behind a glass screen as if the staff need to be kept away from us, lest they catch our madness. I am told to wait in the waiting area. There are some chairs and some magazines. I am early. I take a seat. More people turn up; the waiting area is tiny and packed with people who don't make eye contact with each other. Eventually a lady comes out from behind a locked door, and takes us through to another room. We all sit down, and don't make eye contact. I assume this is the first week the group has run, but actually most of these people have been coming for several weeks. I am the only new person; they just don't speak to each other. Except for one lady, who turns up late and talks enough for all of us put together. It basically becomes her own personal therapy session.

Group therapy consists of this: a group of socially awkward, horribly depressed and anxious people sitting in a small conservatory crammed with too many vinyl hospital chairs and some dusty plastic plants. The lady running the course goes off to get her folder, then comes back. We all get a handout about today's session, and then she sits and reads it to us. I sit there, incredulous. Do I have to sit through two hours of this? How is this going to help me with anything other than my insomnia? Ironically, this is the assertiveness group, and I am not assertive enough to stand up and tell them what a crock of shit this is. So I sit and sip my coffee while we read through the worksheet, pausing every couple of sentences for the loud lady to tell us all how this point is relevant to her life, her week, her dog. Sometimes the lady running the group tries to be assertive herself, and ask whether anyone else in the group has anything to add. Mostly, though, she lets the loud lady do the talking.

There is no Goal Setting group that week, so I am granted a few days' peace before the relaxation group on Friday. The loud lady is in the relaxation group too; as is my brother in law, who I barely know. We don't really get on. He usually tries to tell me what to do, and I usually bite my tongue so as not to start a family feud. Between the two of them, I don't feel very relaxed. The same lady comes in to lead the group again. She hands round sheets, and reads them to us. I am sensing a theme for group therapy. After an hour of discussing how the loud lady finds it hard to relax, we go into the gym and lay on camping mats with pillows under our knees. The lady puts on some relaxing music, and reads a text to us while we close our eyes and "relax." Afterwards, the lady tells each of us how well we did at relaxing, or whether we still seemed tense. And then I leave, as quickly as I possibly can.

The groups are the same the following week. I am not impressed. 

This week is my first time at Goal Setting group. The loud lady is there again. My heart sinks. The same lady is running the group, and seems powerless to stop the loud lady from taking over. We spend the first hour having a sheet read to us, like story time at school. Then we all get a "goal setting" sheet. Apparently in the second hour of this group, we review the goals we set last week, and set a goal for next week. This weekend, I am being taken by a friend to climb Mount Snowdon (more about that here). It's something I agreed to ages ago, and he is holding me to it as a way of ensuring I am ok and making me Get Out And Do Things. On my goal sheet, I put "to climb Mount Snowdon and get to the top." When we go around the room and read out our goals, I have my first ever inkling that actually, I'm not so bad; actually, I may be on the mend and not as hopeless as I thought. Everyone else's goal involves doing the washing up or writing a letter. Jaws drop when I read out my goal.

I attend Group Therapy for a few more weeks. Irritatingly, my GP is right - it's not the therapy, so much as having to get up and out of the house three times a week that helps. After therapy, I go back to the cafe, order another large latte, and curl up in an arm chair upstairs, alternately reading a book and watching the world go by outside. It's my own form of therapy. Sometimes I have two or three coffees, curled up in my armchair, reading endless memoirs of depression and madness.

After a few weeks, I start missing groups. I'm going away for the weekend, or the weather is nice and I want to go to the beach for the day. 

One day the loud lady is in a pub I am having a drink in with friends. She asks me, in front of everyone, whether I think Group Therapy is helping me. I do not return to Group Therapy after this. They call to check I am ok, and I say I don't appreciate being "outed" in front of people who may not have known I was attending Psychiatric Services.  She doesn't have an answer for that.

The next part of the story is here

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Psychiatric Services, and Other Jokes.

This is the latest in a series of posts about a breakdown I had in 2010.
The first post is here.

I have no idea how to live my life. I feel like the last couple of months I've been in some sort of weird stasis; whole days and weeks have merged into one. I couldn't tell you what I did last week with any certainty, much less how I spent the month I was signed off work. I don't know how to change this. I can't even think what to wear to work tomorrow. The simplest of decisions is beyond me; I skip meals for days at a time because I just can't decide on what I want.

I am aware that this has been going on for far too long now. Several of the people who were very sympathetic and nice when I first started showing signs of being a bit "off" have either mysteriously disappeared, or openly told me to just pull my socks up and sort my shit out. I don't know if they're right or not. I probably should sort my shit out but I can't even sort out doing the shopping. I can't remember anything I used to do, how I used to function. I can't decide anything, it's like I'm just stuck. And everything is black and sticky.

The lady from Psychiatric Services calls me. We discuss my situation. When I tell her I am taking 25mg of Sertraline, she suggests I increase it. I speak to the GP about it, and we discuss the potential side effects of doing this. I go away with my prescription for the stronger dose, and try to watch myself for signs of further mentalness.

A few days later, I have my preliminary meeting. It is in Fountain Way, the local mental facility on the outskirts of town. I sit in a room with too many chairs, a table and a box of tissues. The lady wanders off to get my file, then comes back. I tell her all the same things I have told everyone else: I am broken, it's not fixable, I want to die. She tells me I should think of my younger sisters, and how they would feel if I died. I do not find this helpful.

On the phone, the lady said it would take "45 minutes to an hour." It takes two hours. There is a lot of crying.

The lady is nice to me. She tells me she has to go back and discuss my case with the rest of her team, and then I'll get a letter. They'll send a copy of it to my GP as well. She tells me that with the increase in my medication I should see an improvement. I tell her I have been self harming a lot; she doesn't seem bothered. I leave, feeling drained, and cry on the way home.

I know that these people cannot help me. Even if they do decide they will refer me for "treatment," the lady has already told me they have a "fairly long" waiting list, so I won't get any help for a while. I feel like I've been tricked; I sat in this too-hot room for two hours, dragging up all sorts of crap from my past that I generally just deal with by not thinking about it. Now I am left with it all spinning around in my head, and no clue how to deal with it. I feel like I have gone right back to square one, feeling worse than I did when I was originally signed off work - except now I have to get up and wash and dress myself and speak to people every day.

For the last few weeks I have been "hanging on," waiting for my next appointment with the GP, or the counsellor, or for this assessment, thinking "ok, just hang on until this appointment, and then you'll be okay." And every time I get to the appointment, and I'm in the room, I have this thought, "well, you managed to hang on and make it to here - but nothing has changed, you're not magically fixed, things are not okay, and when you leave the room it'll all just be the same." Now I've spoken to Psychiatric Services, I'm back to sitting in limbo, waiting for the next thing to hope will offer salvation.

I go home, and sit and stare into space, thinking to myself, "what are you doing? You can't just sit here and stare into space." The lady from Psychiatric Services had suggested I go for a run. She has clearly never been in my position, sitting in the house, petrified of going out and bumping into anyone I might know.

A letter arrives from Psychiatric Services a while later. There are leaflets for "group therapy." I put them on the floor next to my bed, and forget about them. 

I tell the GP I think "group therapy" is not for me; it seems stupid and a waste of time. She tells me that perhaps it will do me good to have a reason to get up and out of the house every week, now that I'm not working. I can't find the words to form an argument against it, and I don't want to seem ungrateful for the only help being offered, so I say okay, and leave.

A few days later, the lady phones. She tells me she thinks I would benefit from going to the group therapy for depression, but that the group is currently full, so I am on a waiting list. In the meantime, what do I think about the leaflets she sent me? I quickly pick the leaflets up and blag my way through the conversation: "er yes, I was thinking I'd do the Assertiveness, the Goal Setting and the Relaxation..." She seems pleased with this.

To be continued.

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Voluntarily Redundant.

This is the latest in a series of posts about a breakdown I suffered in 2010.

The first part of the story can be found here

The pub garden where I spent my summer

As my time at work goes on, I realise I can't just carry on working only two hours a day for the rest of my life. I have to increase my hours, and start doing proper a proper day's work again. This thought terrifies me.

The whole company has been on notice for redundancy since January. It's July now. I could make all this effort to increase my hours back up to full time, and be made redundant any way.

I speak to my boss about it. He tells me that there are around ten people at my level, and only four jobs in the new structure at that level. 

I am tired. I am not enjoying my job any longer. I didn't want to come back, and I don't want to be here now.

I decide to ask if I can take voluntary redundancy. I speak to my boss again. He tells me that under the circumstances, the company may consider allowing me to take my notice period as gardening leave, something most other people have not been allowed. He tells me to leave it with him; he will speak to his boss.

So my boss speaks to his boss, and his boss speaks to HR. One Wednesday morning I am invited to a meeting with the nice lady from HR. She tells me that I can take voluntary redundancy, if I want. I can take my notice period as gardening leave, if I want. I can finish at the end of this week, if I want. I say yes please, and go back to my desk. 

I go and speak to the big boss, to thank him for getting the company to allow me gardening leave. He tells me that it's not a problem, and that I need to concentrate on getting myself well again; he can see that I was not ready to come back to work.

And that is how I came to spend the rest of the summer drunk and sunbathing in a pub garden, reading endless memoirs of depression.

The next part is here

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Turns Out I Wasn't Fixed...

This is one in a series of posts about a breakdown I had in 2010.

The story begins here.

This is what my life feels like... only without the light at the top.

When I return to work, I am still having suicidal thoughts on a daily basis.

One day, I have been plagued by yawns all day. You know that feeling, that if you just lay your head down and close your eyes for five seconds, you'll fall into a deep, delicious sleep? Except every time I try to go to sleep, I fail. That night, frustrated with feeling this offensively, mortally tired, I ransack my stash of pills, and take one of every type I can find. In the middle of my mad scramble for pills, it occurs to me that I could just keep going. I could just end it all now, just take every single pill I can lay my hands on and be done with it. Then that would be it. Then it wouldn't matter if I couldn't sleep. It wouldn't matter that everyone I love always leaves. It wouldn't matter that I'm alone. It wouldn't matter that none of my family gives a shit about me because they're too busy fighting amongst themselves. It wouldn't matter that I am utterly miserable in my own skin. The only reason I stop, and don't go through with it, is that I haven't written a note. I don't want to leave people without an explanation. I am too tired by this point to write anything coherent, so I just lay on my bed and fall asleep.

I am going to work every day, but I am still crying on the way home. I am still drinking vodka in the middle of the day, despite my promises to the GP that it would stop once I went back to work. I am still self harming. I am still turning up for work still dozy from the previous night's cocktail of sleeping pills and whatever else I can lay my hands on. I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, fixed.

As the days go on, I am taking more and more sleeping pills each night. Four, sometimes five. I don't always sleep any better, but I find that I am not so bothered by it; I spend large amounts of time in a weird state between asleep and awake. 

On one day in particular, tired of always being tired but not sleeping, I take five sleeping pills and go to bed. I still wake up at 3am, so I waste no time in taking another four pills and going back to sleep. When I wake at 9, only parts of me wake up. I don't trust myself to stand in the shower, so I tie my hair up and put on some clothes that seem clean. I catch the bus to work because I don't trust my wobbly legs. I buy a large coffee with an extra espresso shot, and wobble my way to work, where I pretty much collapse at my desk. I receive three emails telling me I look rough. My boss asks me why my speech is slurred. And I bump the door frame every single time I get up to go to the toilets.

The big boss comes over to speak to me. He tells me not to worry at all about work; nobody is cross with me and I am not taking the piss. I need to just take my time and things will get better. This is a gruff, middle-aged man from whom you are normally lucky to get a "morning" barked at you as he lopes past in the morning. I almost cry.

When my two hours are up, I walk home. It takes me nearly an hour to walk a journey that usually takes half that. When I finally get home, I lay on the sofa and fall asleep. When I wake up, I sit and stare at the wall.

I am vaguely aware that I appear to be going down hill. I am vaguely aware that the number of burns and cuts on my arms really can't be passed off as clumsy accidents any more. I am vaguely aware that I am taking the piss now. A friend emails me and basically tells me I need to pull my socks up now, and go back to work properly.

I know I am being irresponsible. I know I need to turn myself around and start behaving myself.

But on the other hand, what have I got? A doubled dose of medication, an inability to sleep without chemical intervention, a handful of people who say they are there for me, but are generally busy whenever I actually pluck up the courage to ask them to spend time with me. No chance of any sort of therapy or whatever else sort of help for at least a couple of months.

By this point, it's not that I want to die, so much as that I really can't be bothered to live like this any more. And I don't know how to change that. Everything seems so irreparably futile. 

This is going nowhere; there is no happy ending here.

The next part of the story is here

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Returning to Work

This is one of a series of posts about a breakdown I had in 2010. 
The story starts here.

Me, just as I was starting to get ill

Early July.

I can't imagine how I will go back to work when my sick note runs out. I feel like everything is just so much effort. Even just walking through town: all those people, the noise, having to pass people and make decisions and cross roads and smile and act like I don't want to just jump under a truck. How do normal people deal with this? How did I cope with my life up to a couple of months ago, when it started falling apart? Have I just dropped something I had before?

I feel increasingly like something inside of my head has simply snapped, and no amount of drugs or ridiculous cognitive behavioural therapy are going to stick it back together again. It's just broken, and this is just how it is now.

I feel like whatever happens next, I'm still going to be the girl who had a month off work because she couldn't cope with putting one foot in front of the other - a failure, someone you need to tread carefully around in case she goes mental again and starts talking to the pot plants in the office.

I talk to my doctor about going back to work. I know it will have to happen eventually. She says I should have a "phased return" and writes this on my final sick note. 

At first I am pleased I at least have a week to psyche myself up for going back into the office. But then, I am not. I feel like I am going back to my job, my desk, my computer, as if I am fixed and back to normal - and I am most certainly neither of those things. Once I am back, everyone will think I got sick, and now I'm better and everything is fine.

When I hand that last sick note to my boss, he says we will arrange for me to just come in for a couple of hours each day, no pressure. He says he will tell the people I work with not to make any sort of fuss or treat me any differently when I go back. Once we have discussed this, I go home and have a panic attack that lasts for 3 days. I do not want to go back to work, but I know that I will have to, sooner or later.

All too quickly, that Friday morning rolls around, and I have to go into the office. I have to see my doctor beforehand, and end up turning up around 9:30, coffee in hand, just as everyone has settled down for the morning and will notice someone wandering past them. Just my luck that my desk is at almost the farthest point from the door. I feel everyone's eyes boring into me as I pass them, and will the ground to just swallow me up. I finally make it to my desk, sit down, and wonder what the hell I'm supposed to do, now that I'm here, being stared at.

I have a meeting with my boss who, true to form, is legendary. He says to start with I should only work 2 hours a day; we will have a brief catch-up each day to see how I am getting on, and whether I want to increase my hours, or cut back if it's getting too much.

I sit at my desk, and don't know what to say to these people. I've not seen or spoken to any of them for a month, since the day I just came back to my desk, picked up my things and left. None of them have been explicitly told why I have been off, but they probably know it's linked to some sort of "mental trouble." I don't know how I should act; I feel like if I carry on as normal, having a laugh and a joke with them, they'll think me a fraud. Should I sit here crying? Should I just not speak to any of them? What should I do? In the end, my friend Sarah, who sits behind me, comes and chats to me. I could not tell you what she said, but I was eternally grateful for it.

I do not feel ready to be back at work, but I know that if I waited until I felt ready, I would never get there.

I go home after two hours, relieved I went back on a Friday, and have the weekend to recover.

On Monday mornings our department has a get-together. This has always been around the bank of desks I sit on. The big boss has always come and stood next to my desk for the meeting. I have forgotten all of this until the big boss - the one who was so unexpectedly nice to me before - comes and crouches next to my desk. He asks how I am, tells me it's good to have me back. Smiles. Then he stands up, and the entire department are behind me, waiting for this morning's chat. I know they're staring at the boss, but I'm right next to him, and feel like they're all sneaking looks at me, wondering why I was away for so long, how come I'm still not turning up at 9am, how come I had such a short day on Friday. I am sure they must all hate me. None of them makes eye contact with me. None of them speaks. 

When everyone returns to their desks, one boy emails me to say it is good to see me.

To be continued

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A Week Between Two Drugs

This is one of a series of posts about a breakdown I suffered in 2010.

The story begins here.

Wishing I'd Stayed in Spain

I go back to the GP. It's neither of the two I've seen before; it's an older lady who's been there a long time. She tells me Prozac is not the drug for me. I leave with a prescription for Zoloft, and instructions to stop taking the Prozac, and leave a week before starting the Zoloft.

I haven't been on the Prozac for very long, and since it's made me go a bit bonkers as it is, there doesn't seem much point in coming off it slowly. The GP doesn't tell me to, either. So I just stop taking it, and wait a week, as per instructions. 

That week is, without shadow of a doubt, the worst in my life. When I look back, it is like a montage scene from a very bizarre movie. I go proper, unrelentingly, bat-shit crazy. There is no let-up. I cry, I wail, I scream, I throw things, I burn myself: deep, painful burns that will scar over int he weeks to come, the scars still clearly visible years later. I cut myself; I bang my head against door frames. I drink all day and night and feel like death. I don't get dressed or leave the house or speak to anyone for four days straight. Somewhere in the back of my head, I am aware that this is all caused by the withdrawal from the Prozac, but right now, I can't listen to that voice because I am convinced that everything is doomed and black and broken, and we will all die horrible, painful deaths. 

I can't even say what's wrong, what's different now than it was yesterday, last week, last month. I've just plain had enough and am done with it all. 

I feel so very alone... I can't even put it into words. I have five brothers and sisters, but few of them bother with me. People I thought were my friends have disappeared. People for whom I went to a great deal of trouble for their birthday, people I've made a lot of effort for throughout the year, people I've listen to complain and moan and let off steam about their problems... not a word. People I thought would come out for a mad night out on my birthday because they were such great friends of mine didn't even get me a card. I feel like I put in a lot of effort with people; if I like a person I will go out of my way to do things for them. Perhaps it's because I'm so desperate for someone to care about me. But I do all these thoughtful things to make people smile whenever I can... and it doesn't work. People can still see whatever poison I have inside of me, and they run away. 

The thing with side effects from this sort of drug is... Well, the likelihood is you were already a bit suicidal when you started taking them. So you don't really know if it's a side effect, or really you. Ditto that for every single thing you think or feel. When a drug is designed specifically to change the way your brain functions, how do you know which parts are you, and which are the drug? I am particularly worried about this, as living alone, there is nobody to say to me, "you've been staring at that wall for half an hour now..." I worry that I will convince myself to jump off a pier or something, but it'll just be a side effect of the drugs. And there's nothing more irritating (I should imagine) than jumping off a pier and realising just as the water breaks your legs, that actually it's probably just a side effect. 

I should probably have stuck with the original plan and not come home from Spain. Now I'm stuck here with no clue what to do to get me from now to bed time, much less through tomorrow or next week. 

I just want to go to sleep until this has passed. Or indefinitely. Because I really can't cope with how things are at the moment. You know when you learn to meditate and they tell you to just sort of sit and notice your thoughts like a passive observer. I'm doing that with my whole life. And I don't even care. 

I feel like with every decision I make at the moment, I'm moving myself that much farther away from "normal." Sending Facebook messages to people I don't know very well, calling people I barely know, texting people I know I shouldn't. I just don't want to be left on my own. I send Facebook messages to two people I vaguely know from the pub, because I know they are friends with a bloke who lives over the road from me (who I also barely know). I wanted his number so that I could call and go over and hang out with him. I don't want to sit in the house on my own; I don't trust myself. But it probably says a lot about me that I am. That even after I've exhausted every avenue, I'm still here, on my own. That there's actually nobody who thinks enough of me to be here.

The shiny new pills are called Sertraline, the generic name for Zoloft. In 2007, this was the most-prescribed antidepressant in the US. I can't remember if this is the drug that was in the papers because it made loads of people want to kill themselves. 

I begin to look forward to the day I can begin to take the new pills. I see them as some panacea wonder-drug in the distance, lit up by a glow of heavenly radiance, and here to cure all my ills. That first night, I take one before I go to bed. A little white 25mg pill that will fix me.

I wake at 3am and sulk. It hasn't fixed me. I'm still screwed.

Months later, when I am recovering, I meet my older sister for coffee. It is the first time I have seen her in months; I am not sure whether she knows what I've been going through or not. When I tell her the GP put me on Prozac she pulls a face, before telling me, "People in our family can't handle Prozac, we all react very badly to it. You shouldn't have taken the Prozac." Quite what use this information will do me months after the fact, I do not know. But this, unfortunately, is the nature of my family. We discuss everything months, often years, after the fact.

The next part of the story is here.

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