Not being myself

As any of my close friends will tell you, one of the things that frustrates me the most about my depression is the feeling that I am not 'being myself' or that I haven't been myself at various points in time over the past few years.

I have been variously described as sulky, sensitive, quiet, prone to focus on the negative - and I don't feel that any of these words actually describes who I am and what I am like.

It was actually the first thing this year that made me realise that something wasn't right and that I might be getting more depressed. One of my colleagues at work told me that I was known as 'sulky girl'. Having been told that I went into my office and started crying on my desk. As far as I am aware I have never been 'sulky' in my life. I have always been fairly upbeat and positive about anything and everything (no matter how awful) and yet I was being told that everyone at work thought I was sulky. I hated hearing that about myself.

It was then that I realised I really wasn't being myself.

As far as I am concerned (and I think my family and my oldest friends would agree with this) I am a ridiculous ball of energy. I am always on the go, always poking fun at things, quite outspoken and not afraid to say exactly what I think, have a stupid sense of humour (I once nearly burst my stitches laughing during a game of Trivial Pursuit!), find the positive in any and every situation, have far too much faith in the fact that things will work out, and just want to help other people all the time.

When I was called sulky it was describing someone completely different. I noticed that I was focusing on negative things (one of my friends who only got to know me well quite recently told me that I 'always' focus on the negative). Every problem that I faced had become a massive problem, from which I could see no positive outcome. I was spiralling down further and further into depression and losing myself and my own character in the process.

Now I know that people who have met me while I've been depressed find it difficult when I say that I feel like I have been someone else and that they don't quite know me. As far as they are concerned they do know me. Not every day I have spent with them has been a bad day. They have seen glimpses of the 'real me'.

And thinking about it, they are probably right to a certain extent. But it's not quite as straightforward as saying they know me, because they have got to know me with depression. And depression does, in my experience, alter how you behave and how your character comes across. 

So how do I describe it from my point of view? The nearest and best metaphor I feel I can find is that, for me, it feels like my depression is a mask.

Some days it feels like a full mask covering my whole face. I don't appear like myself at all. It takes away my whole character and replaces me with someone who is sad and down and can't function. As I've said before, on days like that it feels like someone else is doing my thinking for me. I feel like another person. And not a person I like very much. As far as I am concerned on those days the outside world doesn't see me at all.

On other days it feels like there is a half mask. So people can see part of who I am, but it still feels like there is a block between me and them. Whether it is that on that day most of my personality is coming out, but I am having a day where I can't see that there is anything positive to be had out of life. I can joke about how crap things are, but still not see the silver lining. Or maybe I feel fine, but I am just sat quietly in the corner not actually joining in in conversations as I'm too afraid to talk to people properly.

Then some days it is just an eye mask. My whole personality is there but there is still that small bit of distance between me and my friends. That slight darkness that I can't shake. Something about me that is still hidden. But thankfully on those days the people close to me can see a lot more of me and do get to know more of the 'real me'.

I hope that in time I can get rid of the mask completely because I want people to know me without the depression in the way. And I honestly feel that I am now having more days where I am getting closer and closer to that. But it still doesn't stop it being the thing that frustrates me the most! It's been there in some shape or form for the better part of a decade and I'm sick and tired of it getting in the way.

And so I keep fighting for the moment when I can take the mask off for good and jump up and down on it! (Metaphorically speaking of course!)

What do I mean by down?

WARNING: If you are someone who is suffering from depression or has suicidal thoughts then please take care in reading this post. As always I write purely from my own point of view and my own experiences, but these may trigger similar thoughts in others. If you in any way feel that this might be the case for you then please do read this with someone else or at a time when you feel more comfortable doing so.

In response to my most recent blog post I received a quite lengthy comment. Within that comment was a question about whether it is possible when I am feeling down for me to realise that the 'bad feeling' will go. The short answer is that frequently, when I'm at my worst, 'no' - I can't do that. It struck me that this is probably another aspect of depression that could do with an explanation.

When I feel incredibly depressed - what I refer to as 'down' - it feels like there is nothing good. When I talk in my other posts about crying and being inconsolable it is because on those occasions I have ended up feeling like there is no point. That there is nothing I can do to change anything. I can't change me life and I can't change my feelings. That I am trapped. That there is simply no joy in the world whatsoever. It feels like there is nothing worth living for.

Imagine that feeling that you get in the pit of your stomach when something truly bad happens. That initial stab of pain when you discover that a relative or close friend has died. That horrible inexplicable feeling of loss and sadness. It is a feeling that is difficult to describe because (in my experience) it is a feeling of sheer emptiness. Often people refer to it as a feeling in the pit of their stomach.

Now try to imagine that that feeling doesn't get replaced by happy thoughts about that person's life and fond memories. It doesn't get replaced with a sense of acceptance. That initial hurt just stays. And the pain and fear that you feel stay as well.

Now take that feeling and take away the reason. Nothing in particular has happened at all. You were just getting on with your day. And then it is there. A feeling of sheer emptiness and an absence of hope. A feeling that nothing is right. That you can't change it or make it better. A feeling of sheer despair and pain.

And nothing shakes it. A friend can sit with you and tell you that it'll pass. But you simply can't believe them. And what's worse you are convinced that they are wrong. You can't imagine feeling any differently to how you do at that moment in time. Scared and alone and trapped in your own mind and feelings. Sometimes you can't even engage with the thought that one day in the past, at some point, you did actually smile. You can look at the friend with you and try and remember when you last had a good time with them, when you were laughing. But all of that feels like it was something that happened to someone else. Or you were pretending to be happy back then. The fear and darkness that has crept up on you is the 'real world' for you. And no one can convince you otherwise.

If you are by yourself then the situation can often be worse. In my case because I just want to stop that feeling of emptiness. It is so powerful and overwhelming and intense and you just want it to stop. You want to be out of that horrible place in your mind where you are so completely trapped. You want to go to sleep and never wake up - just so that you can escape from the complete and utter desolation that you are feeling. And so you take anything you can to try and knock yourself out and to escape.

In that place all rational thought has gone. All that matters is how you feel. And in my case I feel worthless and alone and that my being me is so thoroughly pointless. It is like something else has taken over your mind and taken it away from you. Someone else is doing your thinking. Your mind is not yours anymore.

Over time that feeling does pass. Luckily, for me, I have never done myself any significant damage while it has had hold of me. Although I can't attribute that to my own ability to prevent myself or to do anything rational - that is very much down to other people who have cared for me and have quite literally held onto me when I was all to willing to just let go.

For me feeling 'down' now happens less often than it did. But when I have had a series of 'good' days or even weeks, I do sometimes get scared about when and where the next 'down' will happen. Because I know that when it does I am near helpless.

Relative sympathy

There are a few phrases that I have come to hate over the past few months. One of them is 'cry for help', which I think is number one on my list of nonsense phrases that people should be banned from using. But the more pervasive and dangerous phrase is the one that doesn't always get said out loud: 'snap out of it'.

 

Before my depression was actually diagnosed I felt like there was a strong view that I should just 'snap out of it' and stop being miserable all the time. In fact that view had been there for a good ten years or so. And a lot of it probably wasn't coming from other people, it was probably something that I was telling myself. But when I was with my friends it seemed to be the thought that was constantly going through their heads. I thought I could see them looking at me and just having no idea what to do, and not understanding why I wasn't cheering up. Why wasn't I snapping out of it yet?

 

The reason why I think it is a dangerous phrase (wherever it is coming from) is that it puts a lot of pressure on the person who has depression. Usually a person who will already be putting themselves under a lot of pressure.

 

I want to try and explain this one as well as I can, so forgive me if I take a little while to make my point.

 

A couple of weeks ago I was talking to someone about the relative merits of cycling or taking the tube to work. They were of the view that if you turned up late to work because something had gone wrong with the tube then you would get more sympathy than if you turned up late because your bicycle had got a puncture. I said that I thought this was a ridiculous notion. Obviously the cyclist had an equally good reason for being late and should be treated the same. But the person I was talking to was firmly of the view that the cyclist wouldn't get as much sympathy. Even though the puncture would have probably happen when it is raining (there is a reason for this - go read cycling blogs if you want to know!) and so the cyclist would most likely get to work wet through, cold and grumpy, and arguably deserving of more sympathy.

 

I personally don't think I would treat the cyclist any differently. But I can see that people might. I have been thinking about why they might and have come up with the phrase 'relative sympathy'. By 'relative sympathy' I mean that people have different levels of sympathy for someone depending on whether they themselves have ever been in the same position or can see that there is an issue.

 

A vast number of people in London get the tube. They know that it can, at times, be entirely unpredictable and frankly a pain in the arse. If you have been trapped in a train on the northern line while the service is 'regulated' then you know what I mean. It is accepted by all that probably at some point someone will be late for work because there was a problem with the tube. This is understood. You've probably been in the same position. You can therefore sympathise.

 

As for the cyclist: well despite Bradley Wiggins and co. being fantastic over the past year and the general appreciation for cycling that seems to have ensued, not many people will ever have changed a punctured tyre. Fewer people will have sorted out a puncture on the way to work. Added to that a puncture is quite often not immediately obvious to anyone aside from the person riding the bike. There simply isn't the shared knowledge base and so the sympathy may not be as forthcoming.

 

Now I'm not saying that people wouldn't be sympathetic. Some would. Some people are very empathetic. I'm just saying that some people aren't, or at least there are limits to their empathy, those limits being their own experience.

 

So coming back to depression. People are generally better at understanding things that they can see or that they have experienced. In terms of relative sympathy a broken leg will therefore get a fair amount. It's obvious. There are crutches, and wincing as the person tries to walk on it, and sometimes a cast so that people can draw doodles. And I'm not saying that people who have broken something don't deserve sympathy: obviously they do. I'm just saying that that sympathy will be pretty forthcoming. Also people will understand that that person with the broken leg is incapacitated. No one would turn round to someone with a broken leg and demand that they run the 100m. Or at least if they did they would probably receive a torrent of abuse from other people! And no one would repeatedly asked the person with their leg in a cast why they aren't running the 100m. It's obvious why not!

 

Then you have depression. You see depression is a real illness. As real as a broken leg. However, there are two difficulties: (i) not everyone has experience of it themselves and (ii) it isn't obvious unless you tell people about it. And so (from what I have seen) the relative sympathy is significantly less. A lot of the sympathy I have received has been since I have actually told people that I am ill and explained in very simple terms what is going on. I have effectively given myself a plaster cast (metaphorically) so that it is obvious. Thankfully people aren't doodling on me! But they know that I'm unwell, and they know that sometimes I will just be uncontrollably sad for no apparent reason. So I've 'upped' my relative sympathy.

 

But the fact that other people have not experienced it still means that there is a slight 'sympathy gap' at times. (I'm not complaining about this, it is simply the truth.) Even having been very open with people I am still being told 'to be strong' and 'not to be silly'.

 

Which leads me to my hated phrase 'snap out of it'. When I have had down days and felt miserable for no reason whatsoever I can't 'snap out of it'. It is as difficult as running an 100m race with a broken leg. I can see that I could do it. It's not impossible. I could just get on with things, but doing that will be painful and difficult.

 

Having had ten years where my depression was not obvious, I have got used to feeling like I should just 'buck up' and 'snap out of it'. I have got used to days where I am lying on my floor in floods of tears completely inconsolable, or being awake in the middle of the night crying for no reason whatsoever. Just feeling awful. The times when I have been alone I have felt like I needed to 'snap out of it' - there is no reason to be like that, so why am I? The times when people have been with me they have (on occasion) been kind and cared for me, but I have seen the alarm and confusion in their eyes: 'what's wrong? why isn't she snapping out of this?'

 

And the answer is deceptively simple. You can't snap out of depression. You can work your way out and understand yourself more and slowly get better, like a leg bone re-knitting over time, but you can't force it. Sometimes you have to just let the tears and pain happen.

 

Relative sympathy works on two levels. On the one hand there is 'everyone else'. As I've said before some people can be empathetic and understanding even though they have never experienced something. I hope by writing these notes I can let people understand a little more of what it is like to have this illness. And maybe that will up the relative sympathy for people with depression to at least the level of the cyclist with the punctured tyre, and hopefully get as far as the broken leg.

 

But the other level is the dangerous level. Not having enough relative sympathy with yourself when you are the one with the depression. Having a go at yourself all the time for feeling down. Simply put: you can't help it. You are not doing anything wrong. You are poorly, and affected as much as you would be if you had flu or a broken leg. And sometimes that is a hard thing to acknowledge.

 

I don't want to give anyone advice for how to deal with being depressed. I don't really feel like I have the qualifications to do so. But I suppose what I do have is experience. For anyone who is constantly telling themselves to 'snap out of it' I would say this: up the relative sympathy that you are giving yourself a bit. You may find that actually it does make the whole thing a little less painful.

Why Yazz and the Plastic Population were wrong

One of my earliest memories is of sitting watching Top of the Pops and singing along to 'The Only Way is Up'. I don't know whether it is the tune that means I remember it, or whether it was the wonderfully upbeat lyrics, or maybe a combination of both.

 

Whatever it was I feel that I must, sadly, report that Yazz and her associates were wrong. The only way is not up. There is also down. Down definitely happens, and I have become rather more familiar with that than I would like. There is also weird switch to parallel universe type feeling. Then there is something happens that completely throws you and for a while you don't know your up from your down. And then there is something else happens and you shuffle to the left or right a bit and you don't really know whether you are down because of whatever that thing is, or because you are depressed.

 

As I am discovering, and probably am far too aware of, the human mind is an incredibly complicated thing. So too is the human body. Having days where you wake up and feel miserable is a pain but I am almost now at a point where I can go 'ok, I've woken up feeling rubbish, I'll be kind to myself, take things slower, and I know that this will pass'. What is a bit more confusing is the day when you wake up and feel rubbish, but then realise that there is more at play. Not only is your mood down, but also you have picked up the cold that everyone around you has had and the back of your throat has decided to resemble something not dissimilar to gravel.

 

Now at this point am I feeling crap because anyone would feel crap and I've got a cold? Or am I feeling crap because I'm having a depressed 'down day'? Or is it a mixture of the two?

 

It's probably the latter I guess. And probably the same principles apply: be kind to myself, take it steady. But with the added delight of lemsip (bought in powder form so I can't take lots at once, and even I wouldn't start snorting the horrible stuff!).

 

The thing is that I had (very begrudgingly) accepted that getting better and dealing with depression would have its up days and its down days. 'Two steps forward, one step back' hasn't exactly been a mantra over the summer, but definitely something that I have got used to. Sometimes it has been 14 steps forward, then one back. It's ok because I know that I am making progress in an upwards direction.

 

What is now becoming an interesting thing to deal with is that the steps forward and steps back have been joined by a bit of a shove sideways. Which does lead to part of my mind wanting to scream out 'Oh for f**k's sake, really?!?'.

 

I suppose this is just the result of there being no perfect metaphor for depression, or for describing the feelings associated with depression. It does show the limitations of trying to explain. But for what it is worth I would re-title Yazz's song 'There are very many ways that things can go, but if they are generally speaking going in an upwards fashion the majority of the time then that is probably something to enjoy and be happy about.'

Two heads are better than one...

There is a wonderful saying: do as I say, not as I do.

I am going to own up now. Not everything that I write in this blog is solely as the result of my own insight. Quite a lot (well the vast majority) of it arises out of conversations. A very large number of conversations with a large number of people. Some of those people know what they are talking about, others don't! Some are perceptive. Some don't quite understand. Some speak from experience. Some really don't know what to say. Some are very kind to me. Others give me blunt answers that sometimes feel like a sledgehammer to the stomach. Some people I talk to a lot. Other people it can be a matter of minutes. And if it wasn't for them then I probably wouldn't have anything to write. Actually more accurately I would still have a lot to write but it most likely wouldn't make a huge amount of sense.

The truth of it is that talking to people matters. Especially if you are suffering from depression talking is incredibly important. And it is often also the very hardest thing to do. Which is why I say 'do as I say, not as I do'.

I started out this week with a very clear view of what I was going to do. I wasn't going to talk to anyone. I had had enough of opinions and views and suggestions and demands. I wasn't going to listen to anyone apart from me and I was going to close myself off. I was going to cope and be fine and strong and no one could stop me. I had decided that being me and feeling depressed was hard enough without wanting to be concerned with other people. All other people did was make me feel guilty. Being guilty makes me feel worse. So why would I want to add that on top of how crap I was feeling already? I would just be 'fine', keep myself to myself, and no one would notice.

Sometimes for an intelligent woman I can be a bit stupid!

You see in some ways this had been the week I was dreading. I go to therapy once a week and, while I am not going to go into details of what gets said there, it has progressed to dealing with 'real issues' rather than dealing with the 'obvious stuff'. So I wasn't exactly looking forward to it this week. I knew that things were about to get difficult.

After talking to the therapist for an hour I felt exhausted. I hid in work for a bit (to try and let my head settle) and then I went and saw friends and probably talked and cried more than I have in the past fortnight. A lot of talking and a lot of crying.

But that was what I desperately needed. Not to be trapped inside my head. To actually express all of the anger and pain and whatever else that had been bottled up for far too long and had been wearing me down so much.

And it's not just about expressing everything. It's also that you get a different perspective. You get reminded of things, either that have happened or that you've said before. You get positive things said about you. You get home truths. Your brain can start to sift and sort everything, and it truly becomes more manageable. You can hear the things coming out of your mouth that are maybe a bit nuts and silly. You can say the things that actually matter and hurt you more than anything. And somehow saying them stops them hurting you quite so much. Or you suddenly realise and face up to how hurt you have been.

Now I am in no way a perfect role model for this. (Having spent at least ten minutes of my tear sodden conversation the other night vowing that I was going to stop talking to people I really could be called a bit of a hypocrite.) I have to be reminded to try. And some days it really is harder than others. But it does work.

Sometimes I can't face talking to friends or family. I am not ashamed to admit that I do get in touch with the Samaritans when I get completely trapped and I'm at my worst. If anyone in the same boat reads this and feels that they cannot face talking to people they know then do consider giving the Samaritans a call (08457 90 90 90), or dropping them an e-mail (jo@samaritans.org). If it doesn't work for you fair enough, but give it a try if you can.

The past couple of days for me have involved a lot of talking. I would be lying if I said that all of that was easy. (I also need to actually buy some tissues or remember to keep a handkerchief with me at all times.) But I am now looking forward to a weekend where I feel a lot less trapped and miserable. So I know that it really is worth trying whenever I can.

Next time I forget if someone could remind me that would be great!

Admitting you've still got a problem

Last night I slept on a sofa. As a young professional woman who takes her job seriously, and is no longer a teenager/student, this is not my usual choice for a Thursday night's sleep! But I did choose (in fact requested!) the sofa* in preference to coming home and sleeping in my own perfectly comfy double bed.

The reason is simple. I couldn't face being by myself. Every night this week I have come home and quietly drunk by myself in order to 'chill out'. Not a healthy approach, and I could sense where it was headed. And so I wanted company. Just to be around people I trust. As I didn't trust myself to be by myself.

And that's the stark point of realisation. I'm still not well. Not yet. I'm better. But I've still got a long way to go. I guess looking at it sensibly when something has been 10-20 years in the making it is going to take more than 3 months to sort it out! But realising that is hard work.

I thought the most difficult thing part of all this was admitting to everyone in June/July this year that I had clinical depression and telling them all about it. And it was hard. Telling your closest friends and family that you have taken an overdose is not a walk in the park! But part of me thinks that the point I have reached now is actually harder.

The initial reaction when I told everyone in June/July was amazing. So many people were kind and supportive. They wanted to see me for tea or for dinner. They invited me over to their homes at the drop of a hat. They cooked for me. They came and watched crap TV with me. And I needed that. I was having days where getting out of bed was a challenge, and if I made it to the sofa I was winning. Or I was crying non-stop for the better part of a day. I simply couldn't function.

Now - 3 months on - I am back at work, I am doing my housework, I am getting up in the morning (although it still takes effort), I am going out. To anyone who doesn't know what happened I look fine. And so the suggestions of coffee/dinner have got less frequent. Because I appear, to all intents and purposes, to be ok. And I am coping.

And that is the difficult thing. I am back to where I was pre-June breakdown. I can maintain a 'normal' life like this. But I'm not alright. Each day I am fighting to keep myself 'normal'. To appear fine. To not let the awful thoughts in my head cloud what I am doing. Everything requires concentration and patience. I have to be strong every moment of every day. And that means that things still aren't right. I am just doing a very good job of making it appear that everything is fine. That I'm ok. That I'm back to 'normal'.

When I was talking to one of my best friend about how I am at the moment - and how effectively I am 'masking' things - he told me that I am basically lying to everyone. Unfortunately he is right. Pretending that I am fine and being 'strong' 100% of the time means that even those closest to me (apart from one or two) don't actually know how I am feeling. And if I'm being entirely straightforward I am also lying to myself. I am convincing myself that I am fine and can get through all this and do it by myself. But actually I'm not fine, and I can't cope alone.

The last time I had a mental health crisis was in 2009. Another overdose and severe depression. I had a series of CBT (cognitive behavioural therapy) sessions which got me back to 'normal'. And once I was back to 'normal' I thought that that was enough. I was back to where I had been just before the overdose. Coping and appearing fine. Now clearly I wasn't fine as there was a lot still going on 'behind the scenes' in my head, and 3-4 years later I find myself in the same place: having taken an overdose, been diagnosed with depression, but then back to 'normal' within 3 months.

Although I suppose this time it is not the same place because this time I know that being back to 'normal' isn't good enough. And I am admitting that I still have further to go and I still need help.

And that's why I chose the sofa.

* For the record I am short, the sofa was long and therefore pretty comfy, and I am incredibly grateful to the two kind people who allowed me to sleep on it.

The other room

I have said that the most difficult thing for people who haven't had depression is that they can't understand what is going on in your head. So I'm going to try and explain it!

 

I am making no promises that this will make sense. I am also not suggesting that this is how everyone with depression feels or what they experience. I am simply writing from my own experience and what happens to me.

 

So today I'm going to write about the weirdest experience that I get. It isn't one of the 'down days' where I just feel upset about everything, or one of the 'can't get out of bed days'. It's the 'different world day'.

 

When I was younger (and admittedly still now!) I liked sci-fi programmes. One of my favourite plot lines for a TV episode would be where the characters went to a parallel universe that was almost identical to the 'actual' universe but had subtle differences. One of the characters would be evil rather than good, or there would have been 'an event' which had altered everything ever so slightly. The whole point would be that it wasn't massively different, just different enough to be interesting for a plot line.

 

And that's all well and good for fiction. But one of the experiences that I have with my depression is that that feels like reality. I feel like I have ended up in a parallel universe. As an example, I woke up the other morning and everything felt wrong. When I tried to describe it to some friends later I said it was like I had walked into a familiar room but all the furniture had been moved a fraction of an inch in different directions so that nothing felt right. Everything felt the same, but not quite the same, not quite right. I couldn't understand why I was by myself. I felt completely disorientated.

 

Now the strangest thing about feeling like that is that logically I knew I was in my bed, at home, no one should have been around, nothing had been moved, my plan for the day was exactly the same as when I had gone to sleep. But I felt lost and confused and as if everything had changed and I didn't fit in. I felt uncomfortable in my own skin. And for me it is one of the most distressing feelings to have.

 

Apparently a common experience for people with depression is that they feel disconnected from the world in some way. So I anticipate that I am not alone in having these weird 'other room' episodes. Unfortunately knowing that it is a shared experience doesn't make it any less upsetting when it happens.

 

I've written before about the fact that there is not necessarily a 'solution' to these things. And I definitely do not subscribe to the 'there is answer' mentality. But I suppose for me I have found that when I have an 'other room' day talking to my friends can help to bring me back to 'reality'. And almost the most powerful medicine which makes it a little less bad is a proper hug from someone who cares about me. It's the simple things that can make you feel a little more grounded.