TW: Dementia, End of Life Care, Death, Bereavement, Depression, Generalised Anxiety, Separation Anxiety, Panic Attacks, Suicidal Thoughts, OCD, Intrusive Thoughts (violent/sexual), Sectioning under MHA.

It’s a long one!

Recovery from my first long depressive episode came about in 1998, at which point I was discharged from the psychiatrist and CMHT, and was followed up for a period of a further year under the close scrutiny of my GP to reduce my anti-depressants. In October of 1999 I became med-free, for the first time in nearly 6 years.

It wasn’t until the Autumn of 2013 that I conceded defeat (in my mind at least) and admitted that I was depressed again and that I needed to be medicated once more. I can now see that accepting tablets was not a sign of weakness, but an essential step in proactively helping myself. It was my own impossibly high standards that caused me to feel I had failed.

Back in that recovery period of the late nineties, I had vowed I would never let myself get into a depressive state again, and in fact for many of the subsequent years, I did actually believe that I had sufficiently learnt more effective coping strategies and self-care principles that would sustain my mental health come-what-may. And to be fair, my track record, over 14 years had been pretty good. It certainly wasn’t an absence of stress that caused me to remain well, so it did appear that I was coping better. It is only recently when I have meticulously scrutinised that seemingly illness-free period, that a few doubts have began to niggle at me, but that will, I believe, become a whole other blog at some point. On the whole, I coped during that time with parenting, caring, working, volunteering, studying, physical disability and a hugely significant bereavement. However, that ‘bit in between depressions’ will also become another blog in its own right at some point, if not several!

In the Spring of 2013, I was approaching the final semester of my Foundation Degree. I had applied and been accepted for the following year’s BA Top-up course. I had been volunteering in a pre-school for over two years previously, which appeared unlikely ever to evolve into a paid position, so when a fellow-student at uni suggested I apply for a vacancy at her nursery, I decided to give it a go. It would mean working all year round, rather than just term times, but the post was only actually contracted for one day a week, the rest would be made up of casual hours (which I was under no obligation to accept in school holidays unless I wanted to). I had chatted with my son, and he was confident that being home alone one day a week was manageable, so I went ahead and applied, very much impressed my friend and the other manager at interview, and I believe the expression used was, “Blew the other candidates out of the water!”

I was feeling like life was going pretty well for me. My biggest concern was my mother’s health. She had been diagnosed with Dementia, and my dad was caring for her full time at home. I had encouraged him to contact Adult Services to see if they were able to offer him any respite care, at least when he did his shopping each week, as he had been asking me to sit with mum, which was becoming increasingly difficult when I was trying to get my final Fd(A) assignments completed. He seemed to be coping ok though, most of the time, and I helped out when and where I could between parenting, work and uni.

As the summer holidays approached, and my assignments were handed in, life suddenly decided to bowl me a curveball. My son, just turned 13, had an unexpected return of the anxiety symptoms he had suffered from periodically since age 8. There didn’t appear to be an apparent reason, he was happy at school and doing well there, wasn’t being bullied or feeling worried about anything in particular, he was just anxious. Especially where being separated from me was concerned. This didn’t bode too well for the imminent long summer break where I was going to be working one day a week. I determined not to panic, and hoped that once the holidays started and we would be able to spend lots of days together, plus our week’s break away, that things would begin to improve. I even managed to work my one contracted day on the first week of the holidays, and although my son wasn’t too happy about it, the following week we would be together at the seaside, nicely chilled, enjoying some quality mum/son time in the sunshine. Surely a lovely relaxing holiday would put the world to rights?

Well, sadly not, it appeared. Despite it being a very familiar, and safe environment, my boy’s separation anxiety was only getting worse. The more time he spent with me, the less able he seemed to do anything without me. He also appeared to be experiencing a sudden, massive influx of growing-up hormones, which he found unsettling, distressing even, however much I reassured him that it was very normal for a lad his age, and that even finding it daunting was not an unusual response. His anxiety was just spiralling more and more out of control.

We returned from our holiday mid-morning on a Monday. I telephoned my dad, as I always do after a journey to let him know that we were home. He sounded distracted and cross, which is not how my dad usually reacts to hearing from me. He was obviously not in the mood for a chat, so I took the bull by the horns and asked him what was upsetting him. I wasn’t really prepared for the onslaught that followed, which although not directed specifically at me came like a bolt out of the blue. “I’ve got a social worker coming this afternoon. I can’t cope with your mum anymore, she won’t take her tablets, thinks I’m trying to poison her, that I have her imprisoned here, and she is so nasty to me and keeps lashing out!” Somewhat taken aback, and slightly overwhelmed as I surveyed the mountains of luggage, just in from the car, but yet to be unpacked, my reply came without hesitation, “What time is the social worker coming? I’ll be there.”

Even given this conversation the scene that met my eyes that afternoon was worse than I could have imagined. At one point I had to physically put myself between them to stop my mum attacking my dad. In front of the social worker. Every time dad tried to speak to myself or the social worker, my mum would screech over the top of him, “Don’t listen to him, he’s telling the most wicked lies about me!” And she actually believed it. The haunted look in her eyes gave her away. Dad just looked broken, exhausted and so, so sad. He’d been her carer for a good while, but he’d never looked so old and worn out. It was just horrible.
The social worker was vague to say the least. I pointed out to her that my dad needed an emergency respite break, clearly they couldn’t continue as things were. The longer mum went without her medication the more paranoid she was becoming. Yet still the social worker left without giving any firm assurances that dad would get the break he desperately needed. They promised they would be in contact.
Tuesday came and went and dad heard nothing. When he still didn’t hear anything by Wednesday afternoon I called them for him. Still they were fobbing us off, and still mum was getting worse. Come Thursday, I told my son I couldn’t take the day off work, it wasn’t fair on my colleagues and that I had arranged for him to go to the house of a family friend. He wasn’t best pleased, but with a lot of my attention having been directed towards my parents in the previous days, he accepted that the friend, who always stopped what she was doing when my son visited so she could devote her day to him, was at least second-best to having me at home.
I loved my new job. The children I worked with in the pre-school room were truly delightful and I adored their chatter, their imaginings, their honesty, their wonder. It was a magical place to work and the staff had accepted me readily and wholeheartedly. At the end of the day, I drove home to get changed and freshened up before going to collect my boy.
Back home I noticed the phone’s little light was flashing to indicate someone had called, but there was no message. I scrolled up to see the call list – my parents’ number. I rang them immediately, but there was no reply.
My mind was racing, but deep down I had a feeling that my mum had been taken into the dementia ward so she could be assessed and stabilised and my dad could have a rest. I assumed he was still settling her in. When I finally got a call from my dad later, yes, that was the general gist of what had happened, but in the version in my mind I hadn’t really thought through the necessity for an ambulance, paramedics, GP, police officer and social workers because mum had point-blank refused to go to hospital voluntarily and had been sectioned under the Mental Health Act. My dad was clearly traumatised by the whole experience, but I did my best to assure him that it was absolutely in both their best interests in the long run, and that mum would be well looked after in hospital.
When I collected my son, he was distraught to hear about the plight of his beloved grandparents, and once more his anxiety went through the roof. He realised, as I did, that my dad was going to need a huge amount of support from me in dealing with the hospital staff and social workers in the coming days.
Balancing the needs of my elderly parents with those of an anxious teen was never going to be a walk in the park. Already I was beginning to notice how tired and stressed I was becoming. Our holiday felt a lifetime ago. I wasn’t sleeping terribly well and was getting irritable. I knew what I had to do. I made an urgent appointment with my GP and told him I was stressed, exhausted and needed a sick note for the time-being. He didn’t argue. I think at that point he asked whether I thought I was becoming depressed, but I was pretty confident that without having to worry about work for a while, and with mum now safely in hospital, hopefully things would settle down a bit and I would have an opportunity to rest up before the sandwich making and school runs recommenced.
It was a nice thought. My dad found it hard to relinquish his caring responsibilities and it wasn’t long before I was accosted by the ward sister one afternoon when visiting mum. She was very concerned that my dad was still planning to have mum home with support from visiting carers, when their observations on the ward led them to believe she now needed 24 hour residential care. And could I have a chat with him? See if I could get him to see it their way?
In the meantime my son’s anxiety continued, gradually worsening as the beginning of the new school year approached.
I can’t remember the exact point in the Autumn I returned to my GP and said I had tried my self-care measures as best I could under the circumstances, but I was still feeling low and increasingly anxious. The anxiety had come to a head when I had to take a sick note into my managers at the nursery. As soon as I approached the gate I could feel my heart racing, chest tightening and tummy churning, and by the time I reached the front door I was having a full-on panic attack, hyperventilating, shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. It was my lovely manager (not the one I had studied with) who gently suggested perhaps now was the time to accept medication. I knew she was right.
I never went back to work at the nursery. I did manage to complete the first semester of my BA Top-up course, but the events of that Autumn term comprehensively sealed my fate.
My dad was utterly devastated that the ward sister was recommending residential care for mum, but when he asked what my opinion was, and I had to confess that I thought the sister was right, he just trusted me. He concluded, “Well you had better have the final decision on a care home, as you know about that sort of thing.” Thanks.
Actually it was the first care home we looked at that social services suggested may have a vacancy for mum that we were totally sold on. A friend who works in community nursing couldn’t recommend the place highly enough, and several other friends had positive experiences to share too, so we were decided. Except in the meantime mum had started to deteriorate due to the staff finding it increasingly difficult to get her to take her tablets, even covertly, as she wasn’t eating. May have had something to do with her mislaid dentures, but I am saying nothing. I have experienced working in dementia care and property does get misplaced. We also *nearly lost her engagement ring, too. I found that though, eventually, unlike her teeth. They never did surface.
It took a huge amount of time and energy to get my son back to school in the September, often I would have to physically walk him into the school office and wait for a trusted teacher or member of the pastoral team to receive him from me and take him to registration. I always did everything in my power to get him into school, and had a good open line of communication with his head of year. I worked with school and they worked with me to help my son cope with his anxieties. I think by the October half term he was a little less unsettled than previously.
The hospital persisted with mum, but she was very unwell. The place at the lovely care home couldn’t be held for her any longer, and it was suggested that due to her deterioration we would now have to find a nursing home, rather than just residential care. It was my intention to work on this after half term when the boy was back at school.
We spent the first weekend of the school holiday at Center Parcs in Nottingham with many friends old and new from WAY – Widowed and Young. It was the first time we’d participated in their annual pilgrimage to Sherwood Forest, and I was really excited. Sadly my son didn’t share my enthusiasm, at first at least, and not long after arriving I was being consoled by friends while he was given a bit of a talking to! Thankfully it did the trick, and a little longer into the weekend he was begging me to book for the following year!
While we were there, a violent storm was forecast for the Sunday night into Monday. We were due to be driving back to Hampshire on the Monday morning, and I panicked a bit. In fact I was so reluctant to attempt the journey home, that I went online and booked a budget hotel nearby for the Monday night. I called my dad early Monday morning to let him know we’d decided to stay another day, and was surprised when he said, “I was just about to ring you!” Immediately curious I asked why. He went on to tell me that mum had had a fall in the early hours, had broken her hip, been transferred to the general hospital, and was booked for a hip replacement op in a couple of hours. I was stunned. Again my mouth went into autopilot, and the words, “I’ll be home as soon as I can” tumbled out.
It wasn’t a pleasant journey. I was worried sick that mum, being as frail as she was, may not even survive the surgery. And although the worst of the storm appeared to have passed, it was still very wet and windy, the roads were littered with debris, and some were closed completely – including the main A34, the final leg of our trip home. The first alternative the sat nav gave us was also blocked, and we ended up on a not-so-magical mystery tour of the country lanes of Oxfordshire and Berkshire. With a near empty fuel tank!
Eventually we made it safely back to Winchester and caught the tail-end of visiting hours at the hospital. Although obviously sleepy, mum seemed fairly perky for someone who had just had a general anaesthetic. She also recognised us and was pleased to see us (both of which were often hit and miss). I left feeling cautiously encouraged.
My caution, however turned out to be justified. Mum refused her tablets, even pain relief, refused food and drink and definitely refused to attempt her physio. By Wednesday she was attached to a drip when we arrived, and by Thursday morning we got the ‘come to her bedside’ call. I took my son in to see her for the last time. She had rallied a little since the nurse had made the call, and vaguely woke briefly when he spoke to her. There was a flicker of light in her eyes as she registered her grandson. I arranged for our church minister to come and collect my son shortly after that, as dad and I settled ourselves for mum’s final hours.
I had telephoned my brother as soon as we had ‘the call’ and he’d said he would get to the hospital within the hour. As the day progressed, mum was weak, but stable, but still there was no sign of my brother. At about 6pm, having sat by the bedside all day with only the odd warm drink and a couple of biscuits, dad and I spoke to the nurse. It was decided we would go and get a meal, and pop home and pack a bag so we could continue the vigil overnight. Apparently soon after we left my brother appeared, but according to the nurses ‘didn’t stay long’.
We spent most of the night popping mum’s oxygen mask back on, as she repeatedly pulled it off again. When left off, her breathing became so laboured and distressed. A number of times during the night she was peaceful, and I watched as her breathing became more and more shallow, wondering if that was the last time I would see her chest rise. I admit I silently prayed to God to release her at those times. Yet each time, I thought, “This is it” she would suddenly start, as if waking from a nightmare, rip off her oxygen, and so the process would begin all over again.
In the morning the doctor came in to review her. When he saw us struggling to keep her oxygen mask on mum, he told us to leave it off. I protested, but did as he said, and within moments she was noisily gasping for breath. Doctor said he would give her something for her distress. I knew exactly what that meant.
It was at this point my dad decided he needed to go home. I asked the nurse if this was advisable, but she promised to call us if things changed, so I drove dad home. No sooner had I got back to mine, than we got the call to go back. Except dad wasn’t ready and wasn’t going to be rushed. By the time we got back to the hospital mum had gone. It was 1st November 2013. Two weeks before her 80th birthday.
My dad leaned on me heavily to arrange her funeral (“Well, you’ve done it before”) and deal with all the other administration. I would battle the boy into school of a morning, go to dad’s, stay with him during the day sorting paperwork etc until school ended then I would rush back to collect my son, and spend the rest of the day making sure he was feeling as safe and secure as possible. He was really struggling to sleep at night though, which was tiring us both out.
Somehow everything came together in time for the funeral, and I survived in a bubble of disassociation and busyness. I continued the rounds of school runs, admin, late nights settling the boy, oh and going to uni on a Tuesday.
A couple of weeks after the funeral, I had an essay deadline and presentation to give on the Tuesday afternoon. Just as I was getting ready to leave home, I got a call from my son at school on a friend’s mobile. He was really distressed and was desperate for me to go and collect him. I inwardly panicked, yet tried to reassure him as best I could. My mind was racing. Even if I collected him I still needed to get to uni, I couldn’t fail two assignments after all the work I had put in, even in the worst of circumstances. Children were not permitted on the uni campus. I told him to go and see the school nurse, who was very good with him, and to stay with her if necessary, and that I would see him at home after school, the minute I had finished giving my presentation. I am still unsure as to whether I made the right decision, but at that point in time, failing the assignments was unthinkable.
I handed in my essay and tried hard to keep my mind on the job in hand, which was introducing a new way of working, as if in a staff meeting to a group of early years colleagues. Giving presentations was always my least favorite form of assessment, as I struggled with my nerves. But I did my best, gave it my all, and got the heck out of there as quick as humanly possible to get home to my boy.
I was pretty shocked to see the state of him. He was utterly distraught. By all accounts it seemed he had suffered some sort of breakdown in school. I got him the next possible appointment with our GP and just sat soothing and reassuring him for the rest of the day.
I didn’t even attempt to get him back to school in the short term. Our GP concluded my boy was depressed, and had he been an adult he would be writing him a sick note, and that he would be happy to write a letter to school to that effect. He prescribed benzos to reduce his night time anxiety and help him relax and also made him a referral to CAMHS.
I was floored at how I had failed to notice how unwell my darling boy had been getting. I felt like the worst parent ever. I handed in my notice at the nursery, and determined to put his needs first from now on. I didn’t have to work out my notice as I was still signed off with depression myself.
Even without the pressures of school, and with me at home, by son’s health was still continuing to deteriorate. He became unable to sleep in his own room unless I sat in there with him until he was soundly asleep, which was often not before 3 or 4am. I was beyond exhausted myself, and in utter frustration and experiencing such horrendous sleep deprivation I started allowing him to sleep in my room, in the hope we may both get some rest.
All the while I was chasing up the CAMHS referral as well as hounding Children’s Services for support, given we were both suffering with our mental health. It felt a bit like climbing Everest given my own depression. My GP had referred me to italk, but after my first long assessment call, it was concluded I required more support than they could offer.
My son finally got an initial assessment appointment from CAMHS through. In communication with school, as the Autumn term was drawing to a close, it was decided we should forget attempting to get him back before Christmas, but start afresh in January.
Before the appointment with CAMHS, things worsened again though. My son began experiencing distressing thoughts of a violent and sexual nature about people he saw. He was absolutely horrified, as he was such a gentle soul and nowhere near as worldly-wise as his peers. It was highlighted particularly because we had arranged to exchange Christmas presents with family, and his thoughts became focused on his younger girl-cousin.
He was in such a state and I was useless explain to him what was happening. Because the thoughts were causing him to feel suicidal, I was advised to call an ambulance. We were taken to A&E. I remember we knew the nurse who received him from the paramedic. The sheer relief to see a friendly face was overwhelming. She also brought me a mug of tea and biscuits, bless her. After chatting with various A&E personnel, the duty child / adolescent psychiatrist was contacted. She wasn’t able to come to the ED but she spoke at length first with the casualty consultant, then with me. She told me that my son was suffering with OCD Intrusive Thoughts. I was amazed that his distressing symptoms actually had a name and were a recognised ailment. She even reassured me that it seemed to be the case that it affected those least likely to act on the thoughts, and it didn’t mean he would grow up to be a murderer or sex offender. He had already expressed such fears, so I was massively relieved to be able to reassure him. She prescribed Fluoxetine, stating it would help his mood as well as his obsessions.
At the subsequent CAMHS appointment we were seen by the Systemic and Family Psychotherapist. It was agreed he would start sessions with my son after Christmas. Finally, as 2013 was drawing to an end, it seemed he was being heard. Next was to get help for me!

Firstly, I have decided to leave the blog nameless, because my original plan was to call it Sex and Suicide, but I was concerned it may attract readers who were seeking something, well, a little different, shall we say. I have already had it pointed out to me that pinkpalaceangel.com sounds like a porn site. I can’t help it if I am hopelessly naive! I still feel that says more about the person who made the comment than it does about me. And the Messy Girls agreed (knowing me in all my childish, ditsy glory as they do!)

I then briefly considered a title along the lines of, Don’t Know if I Want to Fuck or Die, but felt that was perhaps a little too full-on. Or rude. Or triggering. So nameless blog it shall remain.

Hopefully you may have caught my gist a little from the introductory discussion though. I seem to be going through a period of extremely severe and rapid mood swings again. I don’t have a ‘normal’ day at all. When things seem to be levelling out a bit, I quickly discover that what I was experiencing was a point of ‘somewhere in between’ a high and a low, or vice versa, and is just a brief glimpse of ‘what I call normal’ on another journey to an extreme. Incidentally, that second option for a title came from a rather frank conversation I had with my psychiatrist in December. He asked me to describe my extremes of mood. I said, that in its simplest form it went something like this; If I wake up, and my immediate overriding thought is, “I want to die.” I know it is not going to be a good day. On the other hand, if I wake up and my immediate overriding thought is, “I need a fuck.” I know its not going to be a good day either.

I don’t generally enjoy my highs. They are more agitated and distressing than elated. My behaviour tends to be rather out of character, apart from the obvious hyper-sexuality, there is the over-spending, the reckless and risky activity, talking too fast and too much, laughing inappropriately, inability to relax or sit still, drinking too much and frenzied busyness. The hyper-sexuality, along with the spending sprees that accompany it are, if I’m honest, the overwhelming feature of my high moods.

Can I just say, whole days of sexual arousal may sound delightful, and given a different contextual background they possibly could be, but in my current circumstances they are nothing more than frustrating, exhausting and cause me to make some really crap decisions. I hear things in a conversation that were not meant as I have interpreted them. Because, rather unusually, when high, I believe myself to be all-but irresistible to the male population. I spend endless energies pursuing the impossible. Not that it ever seems impossible at the time. With hindsight, it always seems downright ridiculous and embarrassing. The related spending, on an array of wonderful adult gadgets, potions and attire, are at best laughable and at worst rather shameful. No matter how much I try and logic that I am an adult, I am not hurting anyone else and so on, I can’t get away from, that before this episode of illness I wouldn’t have dreamt of buying such things. And I was a grown woman then, experiencing the same frustrations of being long-term ‘without-partner’ as I am now. Something has changed. It troubles me.

Sometimes, the extremes of mood can last a few days, sometimes a few hours. Yesterday I woke up feeling low, then spiked a high mid-afternoon, only to crash to the depths of suicidality by the evening. I cannot even begin to express how exhausted the range of soaring and plummeting emotions leave me. It is like hell on earth. It is all-consuming. Such intense waves of feeling are utterly overwhelming. DBT may advise me to ‘ride the wave’ but I’m no surfer. In fact, I’m not even that good a swimmer, and upon finding myself in the water at such turbulent times, I risk not only being overcome but potentially drowned. It’s not a life. It’s a terrifyingly seemingly unending existence and I want out.

I have considered many various ways of ending my life during the last month. I even considered setting my home alight, with me in it, obviously. Or driving my car high speed into a Iarge solid object. Or jumping in front of a train, or off a motorway bridge or from the top of a car park or taking tablets, or tablets with alcohol, or severing an artery when in the bath. The list goes on. The longer I try to fight the urge to act on these thoughts, the more they seem to increase, and mutate like a deadly virus in my mind. Faster and faster they multiply, leaving no space in my head for logic, positivity, even distraction. I fear one day I will succumb completely to the fatal infection. It appears there is no cure in sight. The medication is not touching it. The disease continues on its rampage, destroying everything in its path, confidence, self-esteem, memory and cognitive ability, strength, energy, even hope. Depression sucks. It has been stealing away days at a time from my life recently. Around half of the last week I didn’t even make it out of bed. The black dog has me well and truly under his paw.

I am feeling increasingly helpless. Even asking for support feels too much like hard work. I cannot keep up the fight anymore. It is futile. I am incapable of surviving an attack of such extremes. If I am not taken by the seas, or snuffed out by the virus, I still have to fight the dog, and he’s a hungry, savage beast. The odds are not in my favour, in fact they are stacked against me. Anyone care to place a bet?

Thanks for reading.

Sunday was exhausting. It marked the beginning of weekend contact with my son on a regular basis. Sundays were chosen so that we could go to church together, go out for a meal with my dad (as has become our custom since I came out of hospital last June) and then have some chilled time at home together before his return to the station at around 4pm. It sounded ideal, because basically I don’t have to plan or work too hard, it will just be relaxed time together. Wrong! It may have been relaxed and chilled for the guys, but for me it was stressful as ever. My anxiety seems to be at ‘potential threat’ level pretty much all of the time. I was constantly worrying what my son was eating, as his diet has been under close scrutiny since being with his foster carer. I couldn’t stop checking the time, for fear he would get back late. I felt I couldn’t relax and have a normal conversation in case I said something Children’s Services wouldn’t approve of, and lastly I had to remember not to push my sleeves up, regardless of how hot I was getting with the anxiety, because the dressing on my arm would arouse curiosity. In addition, regardless of how much I love my two guys, they are, at times, incredibly annoying! Probably, in all honesty, this is down to me being increasingly irritable at the moment, and feeling like I am holding a huge fiery ball of anger within me at the moment. I am constantly living in fear that one wrong word or action directed at me is going to spark off a massive outpouring of rage. The fact that I probably struggle to express anger the most of all the emotions, tends to make me very fearful of what I might end up doing. It could go four ways; my usual response is to cry, with optional shouting, swearing and stomping around. However at the moment I cant actually cry, so that is probably not going to happen. Secondly, my next popular option would be to damage myself, by cutting, scratching or head butting. Thirdly, I have been known to damage property (and potentially myself) by kicking or punching things, and fourthly, although fairly rarely, I have occasionally lashed out (verbally and/or physically) at someone else.

Anyway, I managed to keep the anger in check, and at least on the most part my other symptoms and anxieties too, presenting the ‘coping’ face that has been both my saviour and my nemesis in the last few months. Dad left, I waved my boy off on his train, drove home and fell apart. I was so tired I literally just crawled into bed as I was, and slept soundly for around three hours.

On waking, the low mood that had been nipping at my ankles all weekend launched its full-on attack. I was utterly floored. Every conceivable method of ending my life flooded my mind in graphic detail. I did my upmost to fight back, distracting, distracting. The urge to cut myself got more and more intense, and I found myself bargaining with the thoughts; if I cut up, will you quit telling me to kill myself? I already knew the answer though. Attempting to negotiate with an illness hell-bent on destroying you is futile. Keep distracting, it’s the only way. I contemplated ringing OOH. But, no, too risky. If the horrible one is on the other end of the phone, I will end up in a worse state, and the overwhelming urge to take myself to the top of the multi-storey may prove to powerful to resist. Distract, distract.

A number of hours playing the same mindless game on the iPad finally eased the intensity of the destructive urges. My eyes were starting to close. I headed back to bed. It was 3am.

Thankfully I fell asleep quickly and soundly. Apart from the disturbing dream, that once again seemed to last forever, I completely zonked out, only stirring briefly to turn off the alarm. When I finally awoke fully, it was past midday. Unfortunately, sleep had done nothing to improve my mood, and again I churned through the thoughts of suicide and harming myself relentlessly. Incredibly I just lay in bed, in the half-dark until 6pm, still too exhausted to actually get up. I sipped some water during those hours, and finally it was the need to pee that caused me to move.

Now up, I determined to do something positive, however small. I cleaned my teeth. Made a warm drink, and managed to eat a small amount. I even managed to hang some washing on the airer. However the moment I sat down to drink my tea, the thoughts overtook me again. I gave much consideration to which of the tablets I have available would be the most effective in overdose, but was unable to reach a conclusion. Just take them all then, better safe than sorry.

A little voice from deep inside me whispers, “No Angel, fight! Distract! You won’t always feel like this.” I manage to distract, but I argue with the positive voice. I don’t believe that things will change. I consider again handing my son over to Social Services permanently. I hate that he believes at some point he will be allowed to come home and everything will be wonderful, but actually I will still be the crap parent I was before, unable to look after him, and causing him untold psychological damage in the process. He would definitely be better off without me. I need to stop pretending that I am ok in front of him and my dad. Yes, it will worry and distress them, but better that than they suddenly hear I was found splattered on the pavement at the back of the car park when they believed I was doing ok.

Just carrying on seems an impossibility. The pain is too intense, the burden is too great. I don’t have the energy for this fight any more. My body clock is f*cked, I have no appetite, I forget to drink and take my tablets, just washing and putting on clean clothes is a mammoth effort, my home is becoming dirtier, simple tasks are near impossible and getting out the flat is a challenge. The anger I’m carrying feels all consuming. I can’t unburden it, because there is not the safe space to do so. I can’t trust anyone. I’m a laughing stock, poor pathetic naïve little Angel. No one knows how to help because she doesn’t help herself. I’m just a waste of space. And energy. And resources.

I consider picking up the phone. What’s the point? Warm bath, milky drink and bed. I know that without wasting NHS time and money. Maybe tomorrow things will seem different.

Thank you for reading.

Trigger Warning: Bereavement, Child Sexual Abuse, Mild Sexual References.

I am currently away from home at a spa hotel with a group of friends I affectionately refer to as the Messy Girls. We are all ladies in our forties and fifties who were widowed before the age of 50 whom I met through a wonderful peer to peer support group called WAY – Widowed and Young ( https://www.widowedandyoung.org.uk ). Many times friends have said to me, “A group of widows? Seriously? Do you all sit around in black and cry about your late partners?” Interestingly, although the occasional tear may be shed amongst us, it is definitely the minority of times, and more often than not our members are the ones in a venue who laugh the most, chatter and shriek the most enthusiastically, consume the most alcohol and are both the first ones on the dance floor and the last ones standing! We have found ourselves in a horrible place in our lives, but the support and cameraderie amongst members is second to none, and we have a shared experience that has taught us, above all, that life is far too short. On occasions, I have sometimes felt a little out of my depth with the Messy Girls. I don’t tend to drink a lot, if at all, and am not really a party person, but I have only ever been accepted for who I am, more recently, illness and all, and if I try to duck out of an outing, they always make it clear that I am very much one of them, and they want me there, but if I am not up to it, they totally respect that too. Last night, my mood was quite high. I drank rather more than usual, was exceptionally outspoken at the dinner table, and I made no secret of the fact that my aims for my time away were to get pissed and get laid. This behaviour is definitely out of character for me, and my Messy Girls made absolutely certain I was well looked after, not left alone, and was carefully supervised to make sure I got back to my room safely with just my (female) roommate.

Every one of my widowed friends I have spoken to understands the loneliness of having lost their partner at a time in their lives when they were not generally prepared to wave goodbye to intimacy. I apologise this is fairly blunt, and when you first lose a partner, it is not necessarily one of the first things you think of, but given time, the issue will inevitably crop up. Many miss having someone to snuggle up to on the sofa in front of the TV, someone to share their lazy Sunday morning lie-ins, someone to told their hand or give them a cuddle when times are hard, and dare I say it someone who fancies the pants off them and thinks them (with all their quirks and imperfections) the best and sexiest person in the world. It has been over six years now since my husband died and I have not been in a relationship since. It’s not through the lack of readiness or willingness, it just hasn’t happened. I have also witnessed a number of widowed friends start relationships whilst still grieving, and it rarely ends well. Not that, if I’m honest, I still expected to be alone this far on!

There are, I believe, two issues here, and confusingly there is a crossover of the two, which can sometimes be difficult to differentiate. It sounds simple in theory, but when you have experienced the love of a partner who has been able to meet both of these needs simultaneously, it can be a challenge to tease the two apart. So I will be blunt, and also personalise the scenario for simplicity. Is what I am missing the most, the sexual intimacy or merely physical human contact? Or both? Putting sex aside for the time-being, despite my rather outspoken hypo intentions for the time away, I believe it is probably simple physical human touch that I crave the most. I may seek that in unhelpful ways (eg. a potentially disastrous sexual liaison) but that is essentially linked to my own personal baggage and hang-ups with intimate relationships. In all honesty, I am not a one night stand sort of girl. I know the emotions involved would probably tip me over the edge at the moment. Life feels precarious enough as it is, without any more added self-recriminations.

I admit I am a very tactile person, always have been. I am the only person of my age I know who still has a security blanket. (Make of that what you wish!) I maintain that rather than being hopelessly immature or psychologically stunted, I just discovered the effects of self-soothing long before it became a buzz phrase in mental health. I am reassured by holding and touching the soft fabric, and it is essentially harmless, calorie and chemical free, if slightly embarrassing when sharing a hotel room with a friend. If you know me in person, the chances are you have been hugged and kissed by me, or may even have held my hand across the dinner table. It’s just the way I am. I have recently started reading one of Gary Chapman’s books about The 5 Languages of Love, which help identify and improve the ways in which individuals prefer to express and receive love in a variety of family and loving relationships. I can highly recommended them. I am a ‘touch’ person without any doubt, which came as no surprise to me, and is actually not uncommon for a woman.

When I was depressed before, in my twenties, I was trying to come to terms with the sexual abuse I had endured as a child. I was attending a day unit after discharge from an inpatient stay, and my key worker was a male nurse. At first I freaked out, because I couldn’t see how I would ever trust a man I didn’t know, with such personal, delicate memories and feelings. My self-esteem was so incredibly low I was unable to even sit on the same level as the key worker, choosing instead to sit on the floor. In response to this, he sat on the floor next to me, and just talked very gently to me, real common sense stuff, with genuine empathy, until gradually, week by week I began to realise that he was actually ok, I could trust him. I would test him with small stuff at first, until he gained my confidence. I appreciate this wouldn’t work for everyone, but when I finally did manage to talk openly to him about my childhood abuse, shaking and in floods of tears, he said nothing, simply put his arms round me and held me close. I felt safe there, and I felt heard. On one occasion he said very quietly to me, “I understand what you’re going through.” I turned, quite astounded, to look at him, and in that second I knew it was the truth, and he sobbed with me. Were his actions professional? Appropriate? Certainly I am harking back to the days when practitioners were definitely not so ‘hands-off’ as they are now, but all I knew was that he saw me where I was and responded to my need for reassurance and acceptance in a way that built trust, rather than in any way felt threatening, inappropriate or abusive and I was able to work through and process stuff I hadn’t felt able to share before.

I remember as a nursing student, many moons ago, being taught to use our discretion as to ‘appropriate use of touch’ when reassuring a patient. I admit I have no idea what the guidelines now state, but I have observed a shift in practice during my current illness. When studying for my degree two years ago, a number of our lectures were given jointly to our group (Early Years Education) and to the Teaching and Learning Support students. We observed the marked differences between working with pre-schoolers and primary aged children with regards to physical touch. The Early Years Students were frankly horrified that a little four year old, on, for example, falling and hurting themselves, would not be cuddled once they had progressed to formal school, because it is considered a safeguarding issue. Small children need physical reassurance when hurt or upset, and have no reservations in seeking that reassurance. In pre-school, if ever in doubt we took our cue from the child. Common sense prevails, surely? If an adult genuinely poses a safeguarding threat to a child, they will find a way to abuse regardless. Don’t get me wrong, I am totally in favour of protecting children, or any other vulnerable individual for that matter, and of accountability, but sometimes when working with people we can, it seems, be guided by caution more often than compassion these days.

Every so often, a little quote pops up on my Facebook timeline about how many hugs a human being needs a day to survive and thrive. I can’t remember who the statistics are accredited to, or even if a source is quoted at all. To be honest I have no idea if there is research to substantiate the figures, or over what length of time too few hugs would cause one’s existence to cease, but I have concluded one thing; according to the quote I should be dead! Since my husband’s death and my son going into foster care there are many days when I have no physical contact with another human being whatsoever.

I met an old friend recently who is very accepting of my depression and as we chatted about how I was coping with things, she started to rub my back, seeing I was getting a bit upset. It was the most beautiful reassuring gesture, and I (having known her for many years) was able to tell her how much I appreciated it. Her reply was, “Anytime you want to come over to mine, I’ll happily make you a cuppa and rub your back!” Such a simple action, yet for me, that basic human touch was positively heavenly.

In the last year I have started to book myself in for a massage every so often. During our last Messy Girls spa break we took over the relaxation room and got chatting about the importance of physical touch to our health and wellbeing and agreed amongst ourselves that we should not only get together for a pampering break regularly, say every 2-3 months, but should endeavour, in between times to ensure as individuals we were treating ourselves to a massage or similar treatment as a form of essential self-care whenever feasible. Whilst any kind of pampering is good, there is definitely something about massage. I had never in my life been for a professional massage until last year, and I was quite taken aback at how magically healing it felt to be touched, skin to skin, when I had been alone for so long. I had experienced Indian head massage in hospital when I was depressed previously at the healing hands of one of the lovely nursing assistants on the ward who had trained at beauty school, and had found that wonderfully therapeutic and relaxing, but had always decided, until recently, that pampering in a spa or salon was too expensive to justify.

I am not in any way suggesting a regular treatment is going to miraculously cure mental health problems, but personally it helps me relax and de-stress, which has got to be a good thing. Neither is it a cure for loneliness, or a substitute for for a trusting relationship, but, my current lifestyle being a fairly solitary one, the therapeutic benefits of physical touch through massage are significant enough for me to justify the cost on a fairly regular basis.

It saddens me that we live in such a culture where human beings have become so hands-off with everyone but our closest family and friends, particularly where children, the elderly, sick and vulnerable are concerned. I understand not everyone enjoys or can cope with physical contact with others, but for so many, a simple hand laid on their arm or back, a hug or an arm around the shoulders communicates so much invaluable acceptance and compassion to an individual. Touch is an essential component to thriving in life.

In the wise words of Jerry Springer, “Take care of yourselves, and each other.”

Thank you for reading 😊

I had an appointment with my psychiatrist this morning. I got up late, but figured if I took a taxi, I would still be able to get there in good time. I have my usual local taxi company on speed dial in my mobile, so frequently do I require their services. Except today they couldn’t help me. They couldn’t get to me until I was due to be there. I could sense the anxiety rising, and my mind went utterly blank as to what I should do next. If I attempted to drive and park, walk, or catch the two buses it would take, I wouldn’t get there on time. I rack my brain to think of someone locally who may be able to give me a lift at short notice. I’m getting frantic, feeling nauseous and agitated. I remember the name of another cab firm. I have to look up their number. I feel disloyal to my usual company, but it’s an emergency. I need to make this appointment. My meds are under a kind of ongoing review at the moment, and as I’ve not been doing too well I am eager to talk to the doc. The other taxi firm can take me. Relief. But by now my chest is tight, my heart is racing, my legs are wobbly and I have that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I arrive with a few minutes to spare. The receptionist is busy on the phone. When she finishes her call she checks my name with me. Then the phone rings again. And again. Then another patient arrives. Time goes on. By the time she lets my doctor know I have arrived, it is after 11. I hate being late. Now he’ll be thinking I was late. Panic symptoms increase again.

Finally he calls me in. As I stand up my legs turn to jelly. I struggle up the stairs, lagging way behind him as I cling to the banister, fearing all the while I will fall down. I try to slow down my breathing. He turns and glances at me as I noisily struggle to take deep breaths. He looks at me like I have lost the plot. Maybe I have.

He gestures to a chair, out of the bright winter sun and asks how I have been. All over the place I say.

“What do you mean by that?” he says. My brain is devoid of words. I stare at him, like he’s speaking a foreign language. I mumble something about my extremes of mood. Again, “What do you mean by that?” I skirt around the truth. I am too embarrassed to tell him plainly. I carefully pick my words. Even I am dismayed by some of my behaviour recently when my mood has been high. I fear the consequences of being honest. I don’t want to be judged. I don’t want to be labelled. I don’t want to be abused. I fear my own vulnerability. I zone out. My head takes me on a little journey of all the bad places I could end up if I tell the truth. I lose track of how long I have been quiet until I hear the doctor’s voice again. I’m back in the room but have to ask him to repeat the question. When I finally find the words they fall out of my mouth cold and emotionless. I feel detached from what I am saying, as if talking about somebody else. I hear him typing into the computer. I wonder what he’s concluded about me. I quickly put that thought out of my head. I’m really not sure I want to know.

Suddenly a barrage of information. Increase this. Start that. Try to improve sleep. Tell your GP. I struggle to keep up. “You will have a new doctor next time……..starting in February……..a lady.” Suddenly I feel my chest tightening again, my heart racing. I can’t take it in. Where is my care coordinator? I thought he had said he would be at the appointment. He never appeared. How am I supposed to take everything in? I’m going to forget everything. I’m going to mess up. I’m going to be in trouble. I can’t cope with change. I’m going to get worse. I can’t do it. I can’t cope. Panic!

And then the realisation he has finished talking. He expects me to leave. I am in a bubble. I leave in a bubble. I walk home in a bubble. As I come to my front door I see my neighbour but I am still in a bubble. I hear her ask if I am ok. From the bubble I tell her I am. She doubts me, she asks again. I keep saying yes as I close my door. I feel bad. She cares about me but I just want to be left alone.

I get a can of cola, put it on my bedside. Take off my boots and jacket. Climb into bed. I fall asleep. For a long time. By the time I wake fully it’s dark. 8pm I make a call to my son, pretending everything is fine. He is quiet, we struggle to find anything to talk about. The call ends. I lay my head back on my pillow. Next time I come to I get up. I make a cup of tea and cut myself a piece of cake. I sort out the washing. I decide to have a bath. I take the dressing off my arm, and nearly throw up. The small area of skin I scratched raw yesterday is oozing masses of green gunk. I panic again. As I dab off the excess discharge the scab that was beginning to form dislodges. It is so sore.

I have my bath and my arm stings like crazy. Do I cover it again or leave it to the air? I don’t know what to do. I feel low and alone and scared. I am bombarded by emotions, grief, anger, sadness, shame, despair. Why can’t I cry? What am I supposed to do with this tsunami of negative feelings? I want to kick something. Hard! I want to lash out. I want to cut myself. I want to scream and shout and pummel my fists into the wall. I want to cry.

I decide to call Out of Hours. I am terrified I will get the horrible one. I am frightened the mood I am in what abuse I may hurl at him. Yet again my heart is racing as I wait for the call back. The phone rings, my heart is in my mouth…….and it’s ok. It’s not him. It’s one of the good guys. I’m tongue-tied. My words jumble out all wrong. I try to explain about the sore on my arm, apologising for being in a state and not knowing what to do. He’s kind. Reassuring. He gives me advice. We discuss my mood. I feel like I’m going to cry, but as soon as the feeling comes, it goes again just as quickly. I wish I could cry, but I can’t. I don’t feel safe enough. I need to know that if I utterly fall apart there will be someone by my side who won’t judge me, ridicule me or abuse my vulnerability. And as much as anything, hold me tight and tell me that things will be ok. I just don’t see how it can happen when I feel unable to trust or get close to anyone. I know keep bottling up all that raw emotion is making me worse and if I don’t let it out, it will destroy me. I am so scared. I don’t have any answers. It just hasn’t been a good day.

Thanks for reading.

I apologise for my silence over the last week or so. The housing association I rent my flat from have been renewing kitchens during the last financial year, and last week it was my turn. I have been looking forward to having a new kitchen for a while, we were supposed to be getting them last year, but as the date got closer, I started to become more stressed and anxious about the impending chaos, mess and strange workmen coming and going. What I had underestimated was the work involved in emptying the kitchen, and then putting everything back again (clean) afterwards. I am hoping by the end of tomorrow that everything will have a place, and the things I have decided to ditch will be delivered to the tip. I’m nearly there now to be fair.
In fact if I hadn’t managed to turn up for my Emotional Coping Skills course an hour early today, I probably would only have the tip run to do! Not entirely sure how I messed up so spectacularly this morning. Thank goodness for Costa at the hospital.
By the time the group actually started I had got myself in a bit of a state, feeling very anxious and agitated. I really just wanted to bolt but am trying to persevere with it, even though I am not terribly convinced that it is, or will be, of any benefit to me. I did a very similar course in the summer of last year, so don’t really feel like I am learning anything new and although I found it quite useful to manage my mood in the short term, it does nothing to address the causes of my extreme emotions in the long term. I have said to a number of people on different occasions, it is rather like sticking a plaster over an infected wound. It may cover the unpleasantness initially, but does nothing to address what is going on under the surface. Taking this analogy a little further, I sometimes feel my emotional damage will eventually cause me to die of sepsis. I’m slowly being poisoned by the hurts, fears, trauma and abuse of the past. These wounds to my soul need treatment. It was the attitude of ‘out of sight, out of mind’ that caused them to grow and fester unseen in the first place.
I was becoming increasingly angry in the group when another participant expressed how she was unconvinced about how the skills we are learning are going to help her, essentially to be told, ‘wait to the end and then judge’. I do feel it is a case of ‘this is the solution we offer, now who can we mould to fit it?’ It is not patient centred, it is intervention centred. It is the latest fad. It is a set of skills, therefore if a patient doesn’t find it beneficial, it is their use of the skills that can be deemed ineffective, rather than the skills themselves. Patient-shaming in the face of such severe cutbacks to services to individualised care is a sad byproduct of years of ‘streamlining’ mental health provision. I normally avoid politically-charged opinions, but having experienced having to fight tooth and nail to get suitable help in the last year, I am finding it increasingly difficult to stay silent.
Anyhow, I digress. After sitting in silence (but definitely not stillness!) for the most part of the group, when asked what I was taking away with me from the session, at first I struggled to think of anything. On second time of being asked, I managed to come up with, “How angry I am about so many things and how much I want to kick things.” I also realised in my agitated state, I had scratched a patch on my arm raw with my nails absent-mindedly. Great. Just as I was about to see my son, whom I’m not allowed to upset or distress.
Coming out of the toilet after the group, I got a message my CPN wanted to see me briefly. Then my taxi arrived while he is talking with someone else, and I had to leave slightly baffled whether I should be worried or what that was all about. Instant head-response says, “Sh!t, I’m in trouble!”
As today is my birthday, contact with my son was after school, rather than on a Thursday or at the weekend. My dad came round too, and it was great to spend some time with my two special guys, opening my cards and presents, eating pizza and chocolate birthday cake. A dear friend also popped in. As lovely as it all was, I noticed I was becoming tired and irritable by the time I had to take my boy back to the station. In fact, IBS was kicking in, too, and I ended up just dropping him off on the road outside rather than waving him off on the platform as usual.
Within an hour of being home I was loading the dishwasher, tidying up and getting ready for bed. I was so mentally and physically drained and could feel my mood slumping rapidly. In bed by 8pm on my birthday. Get me! Still, I will make up for it Friday when I am living it up in a hotel with seven friends on our Messy Girls’ Short Break!
Tomorrow morning I have an appointment with my psychiatrist and CPN (care coordinator). Feeling stupidly anxious already. Seem to live in fear of getting a telling off. I know I have been attempting to rationalise my impulsive behaviours recently, and on catching a glimpse of this reality from time to time, I am concerned about the person I seem to be becoming. I know my mood has been pretty unstable, and obviously this has had a huge impact on my actions, but I swing between the exhilaration of the freedom I am enjoying and the crushing shame of behaving so unlike the ‘me’ I know. It just leaves me utterly head-f*cked. And exhausted. In the last few days my mood has stayed pretty low and I have realised something else. I am willingly letting myself slip under the radar by not accessing support when I should. I have additionally identified I am now too fearful to contact the out of hours overnight telephone support, because of a number of difficult conversations with one particular practitioner. I am bottling up a lot more stuff than is healthy, and am becoming increasingly disassociated again. I struggle to cry, even it would be appropriate, I am just getting increasingly angry. About everything. And I want to kick things. Yesterday I punched a wall (actually not deliberately, surprisingly) but it felt really good. The urge to cut myself has been overwhelming, but so far I have resisted the urge. If it wasn’t for my son, I would have done it, I know. My attitude towards myself is shocking. Every time I question whether I am going to regret a particular risky behaviour, the same response puts itself forward, “Who cares?” No one else gives a damn so why should I?
Back on the subject of my appointment tomorrow I have also noticed I don’t dare have a desired outcome. I had become so accustomed to being disappointed by my previous consultant I am struggling to trust that things can improve for me. In fact I’m stuck in a rut of fear and mistrust right now. As soon as I start to trust someone with my feelings I immediately panic, terrified that again I will be hurt or rejected. I hate my own vulnerability and current lack of self-sufficiency. In trusting someone to help me, by opening up to them, I put myself in a place where I no longer have complete control and that scares me. Yet I know it is the way forward. If it wasn’t for the release blogging and tweeting offer me I would have probably had a very messy meltdown by now. Not that I totally believe that couldn’t still happen at some point anyway.
Tick, tick, tick. I’m on a very short fuse.

TW Depression, Suicidal thoughts / intention, Child abuse / neglect, Eating disorders.

Growing up with a depressed parent apparently makes you much more prone to depression yourself. The nature / nurture debate rumbles on, and whether predisposition to depression lies in our genes or our upbringing, I have no doubt that some of my learned behaviours when dealing with stressful situations hail back to seeing my mother so ill when I was a small child. At around age 8 or 9 if asked why I was unhappy, I would reply, “I’m just depressed.” Very matter of fact. And actually, even then, I often didn’t know the cause of being such a withdrawn and downcast child, I just was. The response was obviously directly lifted from my mother’s vocabulary, I had heard it a million times as I endeavoured over again to cheer her up. I assume I believed as a young child that finding the cause of her misery would enable me to improve things for her, however ‘just being depressed’ didn’t give me a lot to go on. Often, at these times she would have taken to her bed and as a child, I would just climb into the bed next to her, curl up, and snuggle against her. I had little concept during earlier childhood that this wasn’t how every other family (dys)functioned. I just knew I didn’t want my mummy to run away, as she sometimes threatened to, with car keys in one hand and huge jar of pills in the other.
Now, during my second long period of depression as an adult, I empathise with my mother hiding under the bed covers, not that I necessarily condone her leaving a young child unsupervised while she did. Not that I truly understand being that unwell and accepting that collecting your script from the GP surgery every fortnight was the extent of your treatment, but my mother was born in the era where the doctor was God, and questioning him was unthinkable.
I made myself a promise that when I had children they would not be exposed to depression as I had been, as if in some way I could prevent myself becoming ill. And to give myself some credit, I had recovered from a five year acute episode, and was a very different person, much more able to sustain my mental health. Though similarly, years before, I remember a mentor of mine on an acute psychiatric ward when I was a nursing student saying to me how ‘people like us’ wouldn’t get in ‘that state’ (that the patients were in). It was actually a patient on that ward, who had become rather attached to me who enabled me to fully see how depressed I had become. She told me one day how her episodes of depression and mania were so unbearable, that she couldn’t see a way forward, that she didn’t want to live if that was how the rest of her life was going to be. Like me, she was in her early twenties, and it broke my heart to hear her say that. Then came the crunch. She looked me in the eyes and said “Angel, do you ever feel like that?” I couldn’t even return her gaze, as my mouth mumbled, “No” but my heart screamed, “Yes!” Even then though, I managed to compose myself, pop the mask back in place and carry on a little longer. I was doing four shifts a week on the acute wards, one day in college plus homework and assignments, had taken a weekend cleaning job to make ends meet and was caring for my disabled husband. Such a lifestyle is unsustainable for very long, especially if, like me, you have a predisposition to depression. Add into the mix my marriage being less than ideal at the time, and I was an Angel-shaped time-bomb waiting to explode.
It was at the ward Christmas night out that I finally blew my chances of qualifying as a mental health nurse. There we were enjoying a lovely meal together, but my developing illness caused social anxiety to go to my tummy. I had to keep going to the toilet. During my three month placement I had lost a significant amount of weight, due in part to dieting and in part to losing my appetite. One of the nursing assistants I was friendly with asked discreetly if I was bulimic. I suddenly realised everyone assumed I was making myself sick. I laughed it off, obviously it was not the case, but I shuddered to think how close they were to working out how my relationship with food had become so a huge issue. In reality I had essentially been starving myself, egged on unwittingly by all, because as a fat girl, my losing weight was seen as improving my health. Because of decreased appetite I was able to survive on a couple of very low fat yoghurts and huge volumes of strong tea a day. I told my husband I was getting a meal at the hospital canteen. I told my colleagues I was eating at home. I told myself it wasn’t a problem. I realised trying to eat Christmas dinner after weeks of starving wasn’t my wisest move. But things got worse.
After eating we danced, chatted and drank. I was on soft drinks as I was driving and spent my time between the dance floor with the young nursing assistants and propping up the bar talking with the acting charge nurse. My mood was all over the place. One minute I was dancing, laughing and chatting away like the life and soul, the next I was withdrawn and tearful. I think the A/CN complimented me on my appearance, and with my chronically low self esteem it caused me to burst into tears. We had chatted a number of times before at work and I admit I secretly fancied him. It was however not something I had intended to act upon, so when he put his arms round me and whispered in my ear, “I love married women, how about having an affair!” I was pretty surprised to say the least. He had a shocking reputation for treating women rather badly, (another colleague once described him as ‘the ultimate male tart’). Also, with my zero self-esteem, and him having had quite a few drinks by this time, I genuinely assumed he was having a laugh at my expense, so told him to piss off.
Now, according to nursing tradition, a student nurse isn’t supposed to tell the charge nurse where to go. Even when being propositioned it seems. My nursing career was over. I imagine I will never truly know whether his version of events that had been taken to the school of nursing before I even knew what was happening – that he had identified I was suffering with depression, was actually the reason I was sent home, or whether he just didn’t like being turned down. Either way, I was depressed, the evidence was stacked against me, so that was that. Go and see your GP they said, get some counselling they said, and rejoin with the next set coming through at Easter.
I never went back. I totally broke down. At Easter I did return to the hospital though; as a patient. My first of four hospital admissions over the next three years. I wasn’t well enough to work at all for eighteen months, then took a part-time job as a care assistant in a nursing home, back in dementia care where I felt I couldn’t go too wrong. My manager was excellent, a very experienced RMN who used to look out for me when I was unwell, and allow me into work, even when I probably shouldn’t have been, because she understood the importance of my being occupied rather than sitting at home doing nothing. She once told me that even when very depressed I still did a much better, conscientious job than most of the other care assistants. I had other great colleagues there as well. When I relapsed and ended up back in hospital some came to see and brought me a huge bouquet that everyone had collected for. Another of the RMNs I worked with used to refer to me as his ‘best care assistant’ and would encourage me to do nursing tasks that technically I wasn’t supposed to do, but he trusted me, knowing I had completed nearly two years of my training (and at that point still hoped to finish).
The turning point in my depressive illness came unexpectedly. I had a couple of conversations with my psychiatrist that instead of causing me to despair, as they easily could’ve done, seemed to propel me into action. One was about ECT. It was suggested as a possible treatment option. I remember my response as if it were yesterday; “Over my dead body are you scrambling my brains!” Then the conversation where she suggested I didn’t attempt to go back to work again, how she would ‘pull out all the stops and get me every disability benefit available, and maybe if I got bored I could perhaps volunteer for a few hours in a charity shop’. I think the withering glare I gave her spoke volumes. She looked back at me and said, “That’s not good enough for you is it?” While I understand ECT is a helpful treatment for some, and that volunteering in a charity shop is a very worthwhile pursuit, I knew in my heart of hearts they they were not right for me. I realised my fighting spirit was finally resurfacing. It was around that time that the anti-depressant Venlafaxine was approved for use, and many of us in the mental health system were all tried on it simultaneously like a herd of oversized lab rats. For most it seemed to make little or no difference. To me, at the time however, it spelled the difference between ‘staying in the system’ and probably being pushed further down the ECT route, or recovering fully.
After five years under a consultant psychiatrist, I was sufficiently recovered to be discharged back to the care of my GP to reduce my (rather large) dose of Venlafaxine. And that is exactly what I did. Until I was no longer medicated a year later. I fell pregnant with my son shortly after, and enjoyed fourteen depression-free years. They were not, by any stretch of the imagination easy years, but I maintained mental wellbeing despite the challenges.

Thanks for reading.