1066 All Stars

Dear work,

I can’t come in today because I have depression. I feel worthless, stupid and barely able to concentrate. I am tired (oh, so tired) and all I want to do is lie in my bed until the world stops.

I also have anxiety. Which means as much as I want to sleep, I can’t because there are too many things I am worried about. If I stop, something terrible is bound to happen, everyone will realise what a fraud I am. It is all so much and I feel like I can’t cope.

Of course you probably don’t know any of this because every day I slip on a mask to hide my true state. Despite my mind feeling as though it is stuck in heavy fog, and despite my insides feeling like they are going to shake out my organs, I maintain the pretence of being competent to make others feel more comfortable. It is very tiring pretending to be someone else all day.

Of course we would never actually write a letter like this. I wonder why not?

The trouble with mental health problems is that it sometimes feels as though you don’t have permission to be ill. Despite any declarations of empathy from those around, there is a sense that they don’t truly understand. ‘You have depression? And anxiety? Wow, must be awful. Now, about these important documents…’

The truth of the matter is that life goes on and if you don’t want to be left behind, you feel obliged to go along with it. And so you put aside your fears, your insecurities and your crushing self-doubt, tuck it away in a box and only peek at it when you think no one is looking.

I chose to be open about my illness, both as a means of confronting and understanding my own issues as well as hopefully helping others going through something similar to find some reassurance that they are not alone. Yet there remains a nagging doubt in my mind, a sense that if I raise the spectre of depression or anxiety, the response would be, ‘Still? Aren’t you better yet?’

But then who am I actually looking for ‘permission’ from? Friends? Family? Colleagues? Perhaps. But maybe the person who I really need permission from the most is me.

I’ll never be ‘better’ of course. Some days I feel on top of the world. Other days I feel crushed of all fight. But I keep going. In part because I have to but mostly because I want to. And that wasn’t always the case.

We can never truly know what another person is going through. Not all wounds are visible. Sometimes the most painful injuries are the ones we cannot see.

This week brought a test of my mental resolve and drew out into the open just how far I still have to go on the road to recovery.

For some time, I have been contemplating what the future might hold. I am quickly bored and become restless at work, feeling as if I have more to offer and that I am underselling myself. Juxtaposed with this is an underlying unease, a sense that my anxiety levels could not handle increased responsibility. It is a continual internal battle.

This week granted me an opportunity to do something new. I could throw off the shackles and delve into something different and challenging, test myself and prove myself.

Two days in and I asked to go back.

Immediately the thoughts came. I was weak. I was a failure. I was letting everyone down. I should be better than this. I used to be better than this. Why aren’t I better than this?

And yet at the same time came conflicting thoughts. I was not weak. In fact, I was brave for speaking out, brave to admit weakness and brave to ask for help.

Why did I find it so hard? It’s over two years since therapy, aren’t I all better now?

The truth is that I will never be better. Anxiety is a fundamental part of my character, symptoms that I have to manage every day. With time, I hope to be ready to step up and move on with an opportunity that is right for me.

But right now, my mental health is more important than my career. Duty does not override all, I need to be kind to myself.

There is plenty of time to learn how to run again. For now, I’ll just keep walking.

Whilst I try not to regret too many things in life, it is inevitable that some will occasionally bubble to the surface.

One in particular keeps coming up for air, clinging to the back of another thought. I often find myself consciously pulling away from others.

This manifests itself where the group is enjoying shared humour. I very often find that, instead of joining in, I withdraw, which in turns serves to make me feel isolated. Socially, I devalue my contribution, telling myself that I would not be missed if I wasn't there, effectively declaring that my presence is of little consequence. Invitations are viewed as the fulfilling of a duty, rather than a desire to share my company.

The regret? I didn't used to be like this. In my 'former life' I was the gobby one, leading the banter, acting the clown. Now I feel reserved, bereft of the confidence I once had, founded by familiarity and (relative) seniority. Two and a bit years later, I still feel the outsider, a 'plus one' invited to someone else's party. By exception I allow my sillier side to emerge but more often than not I suppress it, which in turn fuels a bitterness and resentment. I think to myself, 'If only they could have seen the old me.'

The irony of course is that the 'old' me ended up in therapy. Generally speaking, I much prefer the 'new' me. Yes I am more serious but I am also more empathetic, more emotional and, I think, kinder. And yet I very often find that, when others share happiness, my own mood sinks. Not in a grumpy, miserable way. Instead an inherent sadness as I feel almost a literal weight in my stomach pulling me down. There is no threat of them but I don't know how else to describe the feeling other than tearful.

As with all things, there is likely a balance between old and new that I simply haven't found yet. But I'll keep looking.

It is two years on but I remember the details like it was yesterday.

Walking over the bridge back to my car, the phone call that told me something was wrong. Packing a bag, driving that lonely drive, the tears already forming as I sped along the dark roads.

Walking into the hospital, attempting to compose myself, not wanting to break. And then walking into that room and seeing him there. And there was no holding back the flood.

I didn’t care who else was there in that moment. I would express my emotion with no sense of shame or embarrassment. As the evening wore on, reality set in. This would be his last night with us, there was no coming back. And even in these darkest of circumstances we found moments of light, an impromptu picnic breaking out as I quipped, ‘It’s what he would have wanted,’ the nurse having to come and tell us off because we were being too noisy.

The next day my dad died. He was 67.

I wonder what he would make of my life since. That he would be proud I have no doubt. But what would he make of the man I have become?

In our last conversation, he asked about my job. I know he wanted me to find fulfilment and stability. The letter has been achieved, the former still eludes me.

He knew of my desire to be published. I am far from being a paid writer but the self-publication of three of my own books, independent publication of competition winning stories and a regular gig writing about videogames gives me a sense of achievement.

And of course there are his beloved grandchildren. The girls still talk about him and tell me how much they miss him and want to feed him chocolate biscuits. We talk about him being up in the stars, looking after the ‘up’ balloon that Leah accidentally let go of once. He never got the chance to meet his grandson. Perhaps when he is old enough, the girls can help explain who grandad was.

Fundamentally I think my dad wanted only one thing for me; to be happy. He knew of my struggles with depression and anxiety. He knew of the time spent at The Priory. He knew of my internal battle to push my limits whilst wracked with self-doubt.

And it is here where I find myself still falling short. I am not depressed, yet I find that there remains an underlying sadness to my character. I make friends quickly yet just as quickly retreat, consciously pulling myself away from social interaction, creating my own divide so that I end up looking in from the outside. It becomes a vicious circle as I desire an invitation to join the group whilst at the same time waiting by the door to make a swift exit. This in turn feeds thoughts of resentment and bitterness, judgement and comparisons built up and framed in my own mind.

But then happiness is not a destination, it is a consequence of the journey and in many ways, mine has only just begun.

Who are we?

The smile that hides a broken soul.

The reflection in the mirror you can't look in the eye.

The voice that says you're too fat, too short, too stupid.

The voice that says you're no good, you're a failure, that there is no point in trying.

The realisation that the voice is your own.

When you feel different, out of place, flawed.

When life seems to be a party that everyone has been invited to but you.

When the world seems to look down on you and say, 'no.'

For those who fight a daily battle, unseen from the world.

For those who think they are they are weak, alone, that no one understands.

You are not weak, you are not flawed. And you are not alone.

We are the silent majority. But let us be silent no more. It is time to talk. It is time to change.

Because it is never too late to be the person you want to be.

Life is a journey. Let's walk it together.

Today I made the decision to go back on to anti-depressants.

It is something I have been considering for some time. My mood has been fluctuating wildly, including significant low points. My anxiety levels have been consistently high, setting me off at innocuous circumstances, in particular around the children.

And yet there is a sense of failure and regret. Over two years on from therapy, where I thought I had left the pills behind, I have a sense of having regressed. My blog writing, so often a source of pride and progression, now feels fraudulent. Who am I to shout to the world about how far I have come when I have slipped back into a reliance on drugs?

But this is of course nonsense. I have not regressed. There is no shame, no failure. In fact, quite the opposite. I recognised that something was wrong, saw that my behaviour and mood had fallen and rather than obstinately soldiering on, took steps to address it. This is not weakness, it is bravery. I am proud of myself for having the courage to recognise that I needed help. 

It was with a sense of conviction that I explained my circumstances to the GP, calmly and lucidly and found the support of a professional who understood. This is the right thing for me at the right time. A chance to press the pause button of my mind and take a deep breath before jumping back into the pool. In the journey of life, this is not a backwards step, merely a detour.

Mental illness is not something to be ashamed of. Nor is asking for help.

An incredibly difficult week and one that I am almost reluctant to look back on. And yet I know that there are issues that I need to explore.

The details of the week are not important, I do not wish to trawl over the events any further. It is the emotional impact that they had that is important. With that in mind, the week found me at turns sad, angry, lonely, tearful, bitter and remorseful.

Things started with a sense of isolation, which in turn led to me feeling both sad and angry. Not knowing what to do with these feelings, I bottled them up and kept them inside, retreating into myself, withdrawing from those around me. Inevitably this withdrawal only increased the feeling, adding bitterness to the equation, feeding the cycle of anger and sadness. In the end, I felt I had retreated too far to come back to the point that any genuine grievance had long since been lost.

Whilst these events played out, on a completely unrelated note I found myself thinking about my dad as a song came on the cd that reminded me of happier times. I knew that the anniversary of his death was near (the fact that I had to look up the date causing another round of guilt and shame) and in a vulnerable mood, found my mind wandering to that which had been lost. This was compounded by a lunchtime walk, normally the highlight of my day, accompanied on this occasion by a Coldplay song whose lyrics felt so poignant ('Nobody said it would be so hard...') that I felt close to tears, more than once having to take in a deep, steadying breath to prevent them spilling forth.

Coming home from work, I could not even bring myself to listen to the radio. Pulling onto the drive, I switched the engine off and sat not wanting to get out, unable to share my internal pain, not wanting to face the reality of parenting that awaited me within.

By the end of the week, after days of anguish, anxiety, sadness and anger, I felt drained. It took me back to a time before therapy when depression and anxiety were at their worst. But there was one more card to play. Finally I opened up and shared the internal struggle and pain. And in so doing, I found a way forward and began the process of moving on. Yet even then the battle was not over, my internal sadness replaced with an external anxiety. Had I done the right thing? Had I pushed the wrong button? The cycle of doubt, guilt, recrmination and shame refused to stop pedalling. I do not regret my emotions for they were real within each moment, but I began to regret my actions.

If I knew how to write a big sigh, I would enter it here. It is frustrating to look back at these events with a clear mind and see the opportunites to resolve that were lost. But let's instead focus on the feelings.

Sadness and anger are of course healthy emotions alongside happiness and fear. It is only when they become sustained that they can become unhealthy and lead to the well worn path of depression.

Why though did I feel so isolated and why did it hurt so much? The answer lies in a recurring underlying theme of my mental illness, a crippling lack of self confidence. Fundamentally I retain a sense that I am flawed and, if not unlovable, then at least easy to dislike. I compare myself unfavourably to others, constantly looking for opportunities to support my theory that others are more popular, more wanted, more fun. I become resentful, unable to appreciate the achievement of another without seeing it as a knock on self. Like anything, if you go looking for something you are convinced is there then you are likely to find it, no matter if the evidence supports it.

And why could I not confront these issues? Partly perhaps because I knew that I had played a part. Mainly though through fear and embarrasment. If I confronted my fears, they may be confirmed as true. What would be worse, fearing the worst or knowing it?

As these issues began to subside, I started to ask myself a different question. Who am I? Am I the guy who wants to dress in a suit and sit at the big table sounding like he belongs? Am I the guy who wants to push on, improve himself and achieve? Or am I the guy who likes to listen to wrestling podcasts, fantasy booking my own promotion whilst daydreaming about which retro game review I'm going to write next? The answer of course is all of the above.

This continuous swirl of thoughts and self doubt leaves me wondering where I am. Why did I fall so hard? Why did I experience such depth of emotion?

Perhaps I am just being melodramatic. Maybe this is just life. But there is more going on here. For some time now, I have been conscious that I am struggling. The simplest of decisions cause me anxiety. I am constantly losing my patience with the children. Emotionally I feel all over the place, a snatched lyric or melody routinely evoking a sense of (swiftly repressed) tearful sadness. The week that was is not an isolated event but a pattern of escalating behaviour.

It is against this backdrop that I have decided to see the doctor with a view to being placed back on anti-depressants. There is no shame in this but at the same time I must be sure that I am not simply trying to run away from life. The tablets are a means to an end, not the end themselves, a chance to get back on an even keel, balance out my emotions and start to tackle some of the underlying issues again.

This blog is not what I wanted it to be. I had written this out in my head so many times that by the time I have come to put (figurative) pen to paper it is inevitably a disappointment. At least to me.

But then maybe that says it all.

Over the past couple of years, I have used blogs and short stories to explore many facets of my mental health. Anxiety and depression have played a fundamental role in my life but therapy showed me that these were illnesses that could be treated and overcome and so it was important to me to understand them and in turn, understand how I could change.

Where did these illnesses come from? What events, situations or thoughts triggered my mental illness? I have looked back on some of them whilst my awareness of others formed as I wrote. But these are complex conditions, deep rooted and with many layers.

In this blog series I will attempt to trace the path of my mental journey, from present day issues, through years in mental wilderness, right back to childhood and beyond.

Well, no time like the present.

Christmas 2015 and a New Year

I have blogged about Christmas expectations separately and so will not repeat myself here, other than to say that the challenges I envisaged were present and correct.

More generally, I remain wracked by anxiety. Work is very much a means to an end, perhaps more so than at any other point in my life. I am not invested, I simply work the hours required of me and return home. There is no overtime, no working from home, no out of hours socialising. It is just a job, as interchangeable as a light bulb. And yet I find myself consistently stressed, obsessing about the most minor of details, paralysed over posting a simple letter or always assuming an error or omission must be down to me.

At home, life can often be even more complicated. I love my children, I adore my wife, I would not be without any of them and I consider myself blessed to have them. Yet I constantly find myself at my wits end, frazzled and out of energy, losing my temper, snapping constantly. Life almost seems to have become a series of parties that I have no interest in attending yet find myself constantly dragged to.

It becomes a vicious mood cycle; the stress of home left behind means that work, despite the drudgery, almost becomes more enjoyable at a certain level, this thought in turn powering a wind turbine of guilt and shame.

In Hastings, I take a moment to contemplate my life and where I came from. I retain an underlying desire to return to Hastings one day and yet this is no longer the town I left behind. I do not recognise the shops or the streets and yet Sutton has never truly felt like home. I feel out of place, mentally homeless.

Still, I recognise the progress made. That I am aware of these issues and can vocalise them represents a victory.

But my mental illness did not start here. We must go back further.

Parenting

This blog series will likely be a heavy one, filled with ruminations on a number of difficult and hard to voice topics.

So let’s start with some happiness.

Children bring a joy that is unmatched by anything else in life. The sheer wonder with which they approach life is infectious as they discover the world around them, fascinated by what we as adults take for granted as routine.

I was struck recently by how children demonstrate a natural mindfulness. Walking back from the park, one of the girls was thrilled to discover a new bit of pavement that she hadn’t walked on or a small kerb that she could balance on. Such simplicity, such unabated joy.

I find being a parent incredibly difficult. There are times when I wonder if I am really cut out for it. In a sense I am inherently selfish, the root cause of some of my anxiety and mood stemming from a sense of loss at the life I no longer get to lead. The grass, as they say, is always greener.

Being a parent causes stress, worry, anger, resentment and frustration. It makes me doubt myself and feel overwhelmed.

But it’s all worth it.

But my mental illness did not start here. We must go back further.

Return To Work – 2014-15

After the difficulty and uncertainty of redundancy, the security of a permanent job was very much welcomed. Despite my grandiose dreams of finally breaking into a sector that held personal interest to me, reality took over and so I followed the currents of the existing rivers, finding the dry land of employment in almost identical surroundings to those I had left behind.

Whilst this level of familiarity was helpful in one sense, it also served to highlight the differences, which on the face of it appeared to be positives. Shorn of management responsibilities, I could concentrate on myself, free of worries and strains. I had no system knowledge, no legacy roles for colleagues to draw on. I was an unknown, free to carve a new path.

And yet I found this freedom dispiriting. For a long time I could not resist the urge to compare and contrast. As stressful as my old life had been, now that it had been taken away I missed it. Where once I considered my role had a degree of importance, now I was just an anonymous cog in the wheel and I resented the drop in perceived status. I wanted more.

At the same time though, I was scared. Pushing myself had led to my previous collapse. I waged an internal struggle between feeling I should do (be?) more and yet wanting to stop and smell the flowers, just for a bit. When opportunities did present themselves I would outwardly embrace them willingly yet inwardly be a churning vortex of emotions, constantly worried that I was stepping out of my depth and would be found out. After a while, even the most innocuous of incidents or tasks would cause anxiety as I became disproportionately concerned about a potential error or drop in standards.

I recognised some of the ways I could address this behaviour. Part of my anxiety was driven by an absence of knowledge, both systems and people. Clearly these could be solved by being proactive and yet I resisted, unwilling to commit, giving into feelings of tiredness and timidity.

At the same time, I felt displaced. Even after almost 2 years, I do not truly feel a part of the team or the company. I feel like an outsider looking in. It was the little things too; how few people I knew compared to my former life, the unfamiliar roads on my lunchtime walk, washing my hands and instinctively turning left to reach for the dryer as it was at the old company instead of right as it is at the new. Little moments, insignificant in and of themselves yet taken as a whole they represented a life lost.

The irony is that during this time, I gradually increased my responsibilities, carving out a niche for myself in reporting and complex queries. I became a valuable member of the team, my input was pivotal in completing a number of high profile tasks.

But my mental illness did not start here. We must go back further.

Still To Come

In future instalments I venture further into my mental past as I revisit the birth of my son, the death of my dad and redundancy.

Each of us is on our own journey and no two are the same. There is no right or wrong, simply different routes along the path. Happiness lies in finding your way. In fact sometimes the happiest moments are when you are seemingly most lost.

And so we have a choice. To turn left or right. To stay the course or change direction. If life is a journey, do you want to be the driver of yours or a passenger to someone elses?

To extend the metaphor, our mind is like the engine that drives us on. Sometimes the engine stops working properly. Well I'm no mechanic, so when my engine malfunctioned I took it to the garage and the experts at the Priory identified the problem, fixed me up and sent me back on my way.

It turns out that the engine wasn't broken, I had just been driving too fast for too long and had run out of petrol. So these days I tend to drive a little more safely, stick to the speed limits and pay more attention to traffic.

I still like to put the pedal down occassionally. In fact I think it's a good thing to let the motor roar every once in a while. But I've also learnt the importance of stopping to refuel.

So take care of yourselves out there. And if you see someone who has stalled or broken down, why not stop and offer them a ride?

Inevitably at this time of year our thoughts turn towards Christmas, a time of family, happiness and celebration.

I wrote a blog last year, exploring why I found the season difficult, trying to frame a context around what often seems to be a time of low mood in juxtaposition to the season.

12 months on, what has changed? Those same feelings assail me, the same pressure to ‘perform’ or to get Christmas ‘right.’ Perhaps though I have developed a little more of an understanding of it.

The run up to Christmas is inherently stressful as we rush to get presents, put up decorations and remember to send a card to everyone we’ve ever spoken to. But I find that my stress level goes above the norm, anxiety kicking into overdrive. Why?

The root cause is perfectionism.

It is not sufficient to have a ‘good’ Christmas. It is not sufficient to be good enough. Instead I repeatedly ask what the kids want, first to ensure I get it, then to check they still want it. Being kids they change their minds as quick as the adverts appear on the tv and by trying to keep up I am playing a game I can never win. And so I enter Christmas day not with a sense of joy and completeness but a sense of fear that I have failed to deliver, scrutinising faces for a crack of disappointment, scouring the internet for Boxing Day bargains so that I can fill the void of disappointment and make up for my woeful parenting, all the while second guessing whether I have spent too much or not enough.

I understand the ludicrousness of the statement. I understand the irrationality. But the thoughts are there all the same, bubbling their way to the surface, constantly having to be squashed back down. Whatever I do, however much I buy, it can never be good enough for this self-imposed, intangible, unattainable target.

And then after the event, when the dust has settled, a new mood comes in. After the build up to the big day, a sense of deflation. I have experienced this before in the most trivial of circumstances. Cooking the Sunday roast, it is all hands to the pump as I serve up the meat, veg and gravy but instead of sitting back and enjoying the fruits of my labour, I am left with a sense of emptiness that I am at a loss to describe.

And so it is with Christmas. After the big build comes the sudden crash. Where I expect there to be satisfaction I find only absence. I do not understand this emotion. I do not understand my inability to live in and enjoy the moment.

This is not written as a means to wallow. These are not fundamental flaws in my mental make-up that cannot be touched up. I write to share, to explore and to understand. Perhaps others go through similar moods that they too do not understand. My mantra remains the same; I want to change.

And so I revisit the underlying message from last year. If I appear withdrawn, sullen, stressed or moody, I am not simply being a ‘grump.’ I want to be happy. I want to be festive.

But I need to learn how.