Powerless

September is normally my favourite month. I love autumn and as a kid I always enjoyed going back to school. Yet as this September draws to a close, I realise that that this one has been frankly quite crap, and I feel a bit broken. In this past month, I have been really upset about a mess that I made of a situation. I feel like I have been disproportionately affected by it, but what lies beneath is an uncomfortable truth. So I’m hoping that writing about it will help to make sense of it all.

What happened is that I met someone amazing, went on a few dates, opened up, and then they chose to not want to see me again. To be clear, it’s not the rejection that hurts, it’s my reaction to it. And yes, I do realise it’s ridiculous to be so upset over someone you barely know. And yet…

As additional context, I should mention that this person referenced my anxiety as a reason for not wanting to be with me. Honestly, with hindsight I think it was a well-intentioned (if misguided) attempt to protect me. Nevertheless, at the time I massively overreacted, and then the boy disappeared.

Some women would no doubt brush this off fairly quickly, so why have I been crying in bed every night for the last month?

Firstly, with the benefit of hindsight I probably shouldn’t be going on dates with anybody just yet. I’ve only been single for a few months, and I guess I’m more vulnerable than I thought. But then, when somebody attractive and funny asks you out for a drink, it’s very difficult to say no. So we went out for said drink, and our first date was one of the best first dates I have ever been on. The guy was smart and charming and we talked for hours. Date two was agreed before the night was out and I went off home feeling happy and just a little bit smitten by his lovely eyes.

So the second date followed a few days later, and proceeded to be even better than date one. Again we spoke for hours and opened up to each other about life, love, rugby… all the important things. Date three was agreed, we said goodnight. Then the following day the problems began.

Essentially, I freaked out first because it felt like I was rushing into something too quickly, so we agreed to wait a few weeks until date three. All very sensible and grown-up. And, unfortunately, too good to be true. Because a few days later, I got a long text from the guy saying he didn’t think we could be together and mentioning my anxiety as a reason why I would be better off without him.

So this leads me on to my second reason for the tears: I think the experience has opened up old wounds. What I perceived (wrongly, it turns out) from his text was that he was using my illness and my past as a reason to not to be with me. This then triggered all of my worst fears about myself.  By the time we spoke, a few hours after he sent the text, I was in a bad place. I had spent the day telling myself that I was damaged goods and nobody would want me ever again. This all came at the end of a turbulent few months and felt like the last straw. My actions that followed were disproportionate. I was really angry with him, and then really upset. I was alone and so took out my frustrations about my life in general on him. So understandably, he ran for the hills.

This was all over a month ago and I have been feeling upset about it ever since. I felt powerless in the whole situation and this is what upset me so much. Not only was I powerless over his actions, but more importantly I was powerless in my reactions to him. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why I hate feeling a loss of control in this way, and why it upsets me so much. The old wounds that I thought had healed are actually still there just under the surface, along with a lot of anger.

A final, uncomfortable truth is that I am still looking for validation from men to make me feel good about myself. I haven’t changed all that much from the shy teenager I once was, needing approval from boys to make me feel as pretty as my friends. I didn’t think I was that girl anymore, so seeing my true colours isn’t pretty. I was unable to deal with rejection in a sensible way and I guess that makes me more immature than I thought. I couldn’t see things from his point of view; I just took the rejection personally and used it as an excuse to beat myself up.  Ouch, ouch, ouch.

Thus September ends, and I don’t want to waste anymore energy being upset over this. Yes, the guy and I had a connection, but the timing was all wrong. Neither one of us behaved brilliantly, but what’s done is done. The end. Time to let it go and stop crying. “Enough now”, as the cute guy in Love Actually says to an undeserving Keira Knightley, “Enough now”.

And so I must move on to more pressing issues, like the other big disappointment of September: finally a new Kings of Leon video, and Nathan is in it for the sum total of five seconds. WTF?!

Is there anybody alive out there?

Meet Bertie, my partner in crime. Bertie and I like to share the papers and a cup of tea of a Sunday morning. Bed should be a place of relaxation, somewhere to unwind, to cuddle, to dream. A place to escape the world and lick your wounds.

Unfortunately, at times my bed becomes somewhere I dread. This happens when I have to share my bed with somebody else; let’s call her Insomnia. There is no point in sugar-coating this: Insomnia is an absolute bitch. She steals your dreams, your joie de vivre, saps you of all your energy, and leaves you with dark circles under your eyes. And there’s the added kicker that you don’t have the energy left to cover them up with concealer!

Lack of sleep makes everything worse. All of the demons that can be tackled during the day come back with a vengeance when it’s 3am and you can’t get to sleep. There is a reason banshees and ghosts only come out at night. I have learned how to manage my anxious tendencies during the day, and these days I’m pretty good at distracting myself, or catching negative thoughts before they spiral out of control. However, these coping skills are ineffective in the middle of the night when I am all alone and the wind is howling (literally or metaphorically). I lose control over my thoughts, my mind runs away with itself, and I lie awake worrying.

In some ways, my mind is a bit like Mario Kart. As kids, my brother and I would spend hours playing the game on our Commodore 64. Kieran would always win because I was absolutely incapable of driving my kart in the right direction. I would either whirr around in a circle, or somehow end up driving backwards on the track. That’s what happens to my thoughts in the middle of the night: they drive off in the wrong direction and I struggle to wrestle back control of the steering wheel.

Some thoughts that currently keep me awake at night include, but are not limited to, the following:

  • What if people reading my blog secretly think I’m a pretentious wanker?
  • Where has he disappeared to and why does it still hurt so much?
  • Why haven’t I done something to try and help the Syrian refugees?
  • How can I be so selfish and worry about myself when the world is going to hell in a handbasket?

Basically, any excuse will do to beat myself up at 3am, and I can usually manage to convince myself that I am to blame for all the negative aspects of my life and the world around me. Cognitive behaviour therapists would point out here that these ways of thinking are cognitive distortions; negative thought patterns that have worn a deep groove on my neural pathways. Of course it’s very easy to see that in the light of day, but rationalisation seems far away when I can’t sleep.

Soooo… Insomnia is a desperately tricky bedfellow to deal with, and if you too suffer from her, then you have my deepest sympathies. I’m certainly not going to pretend I have all the answers, but at least I can tell you what has and hasn’t helped me. I would suggest that the best thing you can do for your sanity in the middle of the night is to put down your phone and STAY OFF THE INTERNET. Mindlessly scrolling through Facebook and the Twitterbox at 3am is a recipe for disaster. Now everyone likes a good nose through random peoples’ Facebook photos (please don’t pretend you haven’t done this: we all have; it’s ok!), but doing it in the middle of the night when you feel half-demented from the lack of sleep isn’t going to make you feel better. Going online with no sleep is a bit like holding a magnifying mirror up to your life: it’s only going to highlight all of your worst insecurities and fears. So please save yourself, and put your phone on to airplane mode before you go to bed. Or, even better, buy an old fashioned alarm clock and leave your phone charging in a different room. You should be decreasing your cortisol (the stress hormone) levels at night, and being without a phone is a good starting point.

In times of desperation I have also taken sleeping tablets prescribed for me by my doctor, but I have an uneasy relationship with these types of pills. Firstly, they have the potential to be addictive (unlike anti-depressant medication) in that their efficacy wears off over time, so you may end up taking quite a high dose in order to get the same effect they first had. Secondly, I am very little and this type of medication has a potent effect on me. I have taken a sleeping tablet before, been knocked out for an hour or so, and then woken up and sleep-walked around the house having entire conversations with people, none of which I remember the following morning. Finally – and this is probably the main reason I tend to avoid this type of medication – I usually wake up feeling really ill and hungover, so it’s just not worth it for the few hours sleep the tablet might give me. On a side note here, using alcohol to make you sleep probably isn’t a brilliant idea either, as it just knocks you out and you also wake up feeling horrible.

I have also found it helpful to manage the insomnia with techniques that doctors annoyingly insist on calling ‘sleep hygiene’. (Useful concept; stupid phrase!) This includes avoiding too much caffeine after 5pm. So I’ll stick to decaf coffee in the evening, but personally I think decaf tea is an abomination, so I just drink less Barry’s at night and have chamomile or some other worthy type of herbal tea instead. Next, it helps to go to bed feeling as relaxed as possible, so try to finish up work an hour or two before sleep if you can so that you can unwind. Having a bath can help, or reading something non-taxing. I also find magnesium supplements helpful: I use a powdered version which I take before I go to bed. Magnesium helps to relax the muscles (so don’t take too much…) and helps your body to unwind. Basically I have found if I try to do all these things, and go to bed not feeling too anxious or stressed, then I have some chance at getting a few hours of quality sleep, but if I go to bed anxious, then the chances are the Mario Kart will come out for a 3am joyride.

Excuse me wheeling out a tired cliché to finish; after all, I’m a tired girl. I love the poem “This too shall pass” by Helen Steiner Rice, and these lines have always comforted me:

…darkness will fade with the morning

And that this will pass away, too.

And it’s true that no matter how dark a night I have, things really do always look better in the morning, even if I don’t! So hang on in there and this too shall pass.

 

 

 

 

 

Your love will be safe with me 

It finally dawned on me earlier this year while watching an episode of Peaky Blinders. I was increasingly intrigued by the love story between the characters of Tommy and Grace: it had become a sort of symbol of everything missing in my own relationship. I realised that despite our best efforts, Josh and I were not in love anymore and we would never be again. We had been together for seven years and married for three. Somewhere along the way we had fallen out of love and become best friends, and that’s just not enough to sustain a lifetime together. We both knew it, which meant that admitting it to each other almost felt like a relief.

So began the process of untangling the life we had made together and figuring out a way forward for both of us. Thus far we have managed to negotiate a tricky path well and without rancour. I am loathe to use the phrase “conscious uncoupling” (not least because Josh despises Coldplay), but that is what we have tried to do. And, I’m happy to say, it really does work.

We have a dog and we have tried to make sure he spends time with both of us so he doesn’t feel too much upheaval. Dogs (like most of us) take comfort from routine, so he has stayed in the flat with Josh and I have moved out. Even in the process of getting a divorce, we have tried very hard to remain a family, and we both hope we can have that for as long as possible. My family lives in Ireland so it’s nice to have some family here in London that I can rely on.

And thus I find myself single. Not alone, but not in a relationship anymore. It’s a big adjustment and has been at times incredibly lonely, but still, I am enjoying my new life. Being independent is a challenge, but also liberating. It has led me to do some serious thinking about relationships and dating and what may lie ahead. Dating is not something I am good at. The actual dates are fun, of course: who doesn’t like dolling themselves up and going  out for an evening with somebody you find attractive? It’s the part in between the dates that I struggle with. I hate all the rules; the endless games that you supposedly have to play. And yet, being myself and not playing by these “rules” doesn’t seem to work so well for me either (see previous heart-shaped potato post for more detail). So honestly, I have no idea how to go about dating again. Or even, frankly, whether I can be bothered just now.

The only thing I have figured out is what I do want in a future relationship. What matters more than anything else to me is kindness. If and when I choose to give my heart away again, I would dearly love for it to be safe and to be cherished. (‘Your love will be / Safe with me’: my favourite line in my favourite Bon Iver song.) Surely that’s all anyone wants? Real life can be mundane, and sometimes miserable, but being with the right person can make it worth pushing on through. Someone to share your life with; to melt your heart just by smiling. So at the risk of sounding like an incurable romantic (which I am), I’m going to hold out for that, even if it means being alone for now.

That’s my manifesto for love. I have no idea how to go about it, mind you. But at least I know what I want.

The sound of music

Sadly (for some, anyway), this is not a whole post dedicated to the Von Trapp Family. Rather, it contains musings on the joy of music, and how great a tool it can be for managing periods of anxiety.

I must be honest and say that reading has and always will be my favourite way to spend my spare time. I read voraciously and my favourite part of every week is the Sunday papers. I love reading the newspaper so much that I don’t allow myself to open it until after 6pm; it just feels wrong to experience the joy before then. Yes, I have self-imposed rules to control the fun. Form an orderly queue, gentlemen.

However, in the midst of great anxiety I cannot read. This may be familiar to some of you: one of the first symptoms of a bout of depression/anxiety can be a loss of concentration. I always recognise a bad patch is on the way when I lose the ability to concentrate on reading. The anxious thoughts become so persistent that I cannot read more than half a page. The past few months have been quite turbulent, and I haven’t read a book for about two months now. I have found music to be an absolute godsend during this difficult time. On particularly bad days the thing that gets me through is knowing I can get into bed at night, pull the covers over me, plug in my headphones and shut out the world.

Apologies in advance for a paragraph of fan-girling, but it may help to explain that, having been a teenager during the nineties Britpop era, I’ve long-since been a wannabe rock chick. My brother and I loved the Stone Roses and (thanks to a BBC Wales signal pilfered from our neighbours in Ireland) I also had a deep appreciation of many Welsh bands. My love for the Manic Street Preachers should probably have been an early warning sign for the years of introspection that lay ahead! My musical tastes evolved at university into a love of anything with guitars, and particularly Irish bands. One of my happiest memories of undergrad life was seeing The Frames (amazing Irish band) play during Freshers Week. I have since seen them play on many occasions over the years with my lovely cousin Laura, and these memories are some of the happiest I have.

Anyway, the point is that as a music-lover, I’ve learnt how to use it as a tool to manage anxiety. I once dated a wildly unsuitable drummer who passed on the following tip to me. Before I met him, I never really paid attention to the component parts of a piece of music, but he taught me to listen out for the rhythm of the drumming from the very beginning of a song. And I’m here to tell you it works: if you are feeling anxious or agitated, turn on a piece of music and listen out only for the drums. Allow yourself to concentrate on the rhythm, blocking out everything else. Your mind may drift and the anxieties will crowd back in, but keep pushing them out and pull yourself back to the beat of the drums. By the end of the song you should feel less anxious, and if not, try another one and then another until you feel calmer.

I guess this is the same as trying to use meditation to quieten your mind, but personally I have never been able to master meditation as my mind won’t stop chattering to me when I try. However, the drumming trick always works for me.  I feel duty-bound to warn you that this technique may leave you with a grá for drummers. Then again, there are worse problems in life than having an enormous crush on Nathan Followill…

More generally, music can be incredibly uplifting and a brilliant way to motivate yourself. I rather shamefully have a playlist on my phone called ‘Let’s go!’ (thanks to Andy Murray for that phrase) which is very heavy on the independent woman vibe. (My flatmate is less fond of this playlist). Containing lots of Beyoncé, Kelly Clarkson and Rihanna, it’s great for creating a strong woman vibe in your head when deep down you actually feel like a scared little girl. And herein lies the magic of music: it can help you to escape your head and become anyone you want to be. You can dance around your bedroom and pretend to be a pop star and have some fun for a few minutes! There is a serious lack of fun involved in being a depressive, so seize every opportunity you can to get away from your thoughts and enjoy yourself. It may only be a few minutes, and it may be when you’re alone in your flat, but sometimes that can be enough to get you through the day or night.

And that’s what it’s all about: getting through. Keep getting through those dark days and long nights. The dawn will come and you will be glad you stuck around to see it. I know I am.

 

 

The green waiting room

Let me start with a disclaimer. This article was tough to write and is not easy to read so I’ve mismatched it with a very happy picture of myself not looking back in anger at all my experiences of the mental health system in Ireland and in London.

So… the green waiting room: sounds like the title of a Sherlock Holmes mystery, right?Although my journey through the mental health medical system has at times felt like I am stuck in the plot of a novel, the green waiting room in question refers to the ‘soothing’ colour that psychiatric units like to paint their waiting rooms. I have found myself in many of these waiting rooms over the years and somehow the green has never quite been soothing enough.

I wish I could say this is the only problem with our mental health services. I have experienced the system both in Ireland (where it’s overseen by the HSE) and here in England (where services are run by the NHS). There are clearly some differences but they both operate a similar model, in which your first point of contact with the system is usually your GP, who will then refer you to services available in your area. In times of distress (more of which later, you’ll be glad to know!), I have once or twice ended up in the A&E department of my local hospital who have then referred me on to mental health units, but generally the route into local services will start with your doctor. (Of course this relates to support provided free as part of a national health system; private clinics can have different arrangements.)

I feel very thankful to be able to say that I haven’t needed any contact with mental health services for over two years now; my primary care all comes from my amazing GP. Emma is the name of this wonderful woman. She is based in Cork and I go home every six weeks or so to check in with her. I could write a whole book about how supportive and wonderful Emma has been; suffice to say I am very lucky to have her and I am very grateful for her support. You may be thinking that it’s a bit weird that I live in London and my GP is in Ireland. It is indeed strange, but through trial and error I have found that this system works for me. I am registered with my local NHS doctor and I go there for most medical issues that crop up, but for issues with my head I go to Emma.

I have found the NHS to be incredible at treating issues of physical health. For example, I burnt myself quite badly a few years ago by accidentally spilling boiling hot tea all over my lap. The care I received from the NHS was exemplary. Unfortunately, that contrasts starkly with my experience of mental health support here, which has been mostly terrible. GPs seem to have their hands tied by the system, and they simply don’t have the time that is needed to deal with issues. Appointments are strictly for ten minutes maximum, and this is (unsurprisingly) not long enough to open up to a GP you don’t know if you are feeling distressed.

The pressure that this system puts on GPs can lead to some becoming quite brusque and losing their bedside manner. To illustrate this, let me tell you about the ‘Smarties’ incident. This happened not long after I moved to London, about five years ago. I had registered with the nearest surgery to the flat I shared with my then-partner. I ran out of my medication whilst having a very low patch and was so anxious that I couldn’t physically leave the flat to get to the doctor. Josh (being the lovely man he is) rang the doctor to try to get my prescription. The GP’s response to him (and I quote verbatim)  was: ‘If Sinéad wants the smarties, she has to come and get them herself’. Yes, this really happened. This is just one very extreme example of my experience in trying to access primary care services for mental health in this country.

So what happens after you get referred on to mental health services? At my very sickest back in Ireland, when I was suicidal and self-harming almost everyday, I ended up in hospital a few times. This happened in the following way. My GP, who I saw regularly, realised I needed more urgent care than she could give and on several occasions referred me to the nearest mental health service. Being an acute case, this basically consisted of writing me a letter and sending me into the hospital. There I would wait in the aforementioned green waiting room (I say room; more of a small airless cubicle) in the psychiatric unit of the hospital, to be seen by the doctor on call. The doctor spoke to me, assessed my state of mind, and either admitted me to the unit if they had a bed, or (if the unit was full) sent me home on a high dose of some sort of medication. I would then be seen by a psychiatrist (or one of his team) a few days later in an out-patient clinic.

My experiences of needing acute care were so distressing that I am unsure of how to start unpicking them. Firstly, let me say again that doctors working in acute services, like GPs, are for the most part dedicated and fantastic, but they are crippled by a lack of funding. There is a huge problem in Ireland and Britain in getting the right services to the right people. Basically, the option to assess a patient and then match them to the service that they need is not available. The patient has to take whatever is available in their area at any given time, and this is determined by funding and sometimes by sheer luck. The patient’s needs are not the determining factor in what care they receive and I feel they really should be.

Patients may also have to travel hundreds of miles in order to access mental health services. And when they get there, they may be cared for in psychiatric units that cover all illnesses, even if this proves to be highly unsuitable. In my case, I was a young girl in my early twenties who had been raped and was in severe distress. I was treated in a unit with alcoholics, drug addicts and people suffering from schizophrenia. Clearly all of us had an equal right to be there, but my main memory of my time in hospital was being too scared to sleep at night, hearing patients screaming and shouting at the poor over-worked nurses. I think any therapeutic benefits of being in hospital for me were lost in the sheer terror of such an environment.

Of course, these are just of my personal experiences of mental health services and the problems as I see them. Clearly both the HSE and the NHS are facing serious challenges when it comes to mental health. Both systems are trying to move away from a hospital model towards providing care for patients in the community and in patients’ homes. The NHS is heavily pushing  a strategy called Improved Access to Psychological Therapies, and tries to get patients into this programme within six weeks of referral. These are all improvements, but we need to keep talking about mental health and pushing it onto the public agenda. If we make enough noise, those in power will have to sit up and take notice of what we are saying.

To finish up, my thoughts are still about waiting rooms. My clearest and most distressing memories of that time in my life are all about that waiting room. Sitting in a tiny cubicle of a psychiatric unit waiting to be assessed by a doctor was so distressing. Tiny changes to these waiting rooms could make the experience a little bit easier for patients. For what it’s worth, I think it would help for patients and ex-patients to be included in hospital task forces, so that they could highlight the small things that would make a big difference. Surely those who need the services should be consulted about them? The future of mental health policy is so important for all of us as a society. To improve our systems we need to start at the ground level and include patients’ opinions as much as possible. This is the way forward: the way to get the right services to the right people.

The art of kindness

Have you been anywhere nice on your holidays?

I was speaking to a friend the other day about planning a weekend somewhere by myself. Money is tight at the moment but if I save carefully then I could manage a few nights away. I’ve never been on holiday by myself, much as I’ve always loved the idea. And I’ve just copped on that the only thing stopping me is my ingrained sense of guilt at the thought of treating myself.

That’s it in a nutshell, isn’t it? Being kind to yourself is so difficult! Most people find it easy to be kind to others, but being nice to yourself can actually be quite a battle. Us Irish might describe somebody who was thinking of going on a holiday by themselves as being ‘fierce fond of themselves’! I’m very proud of my nationality but unfortunately the Irish psyche does consist of a lot of the old guilt. Add into this a depressive’s natural lack of self-worth and you can see why I might think it’s a massive self-indulgence to go away by myself.

A number of counsellors I have seen over the years have spoken to me about the practise of ‘self-soothing’. (Any moms out there will recognise this one!) Basically, self soothing involves finding a strategy to calm yourself down when you feel anxious, so you deal with the anxiety yourself before it takes over. I’m guessing for mothers it involves things like letting babies cry a tiny bit in the hope they will calm themselves before you pick them up? Anyway, self-soothing is a form of being kind to yourself. That may sound easy enough, but the problem is that when you are feeling anxious and panicked, all rational thinking goes out the window. In the middle of a bout of anxiety I hate myself, so why would I deserve kindness?

Thankfully I’m not anxious all the time these days, and herein lies the key. When I feel calm and logical I try to practice the art of kindness, in the hopes that soon my brain will remember it when the anxiety floods in. Our brains contain neural pathways, along which information travels. These get used to certain ways of thinking, and a part of managing my illness has been trying to retrain them. An example of this is my anxiety about facial hair. When it’s really bright and sunny outside, my immediate response is to go and check in the mirror for dark hairs on my face. So in my mind the brightness has triggered an anxiety, the anxiety has travelled along a neural pathway to my automatic response, which is to look in the mirror and check for hairs. This response is unhealthy as it doesn’t actually calm my anxiety; it makes it worse. I haven’t dealt with the initial anxiety here at all, I have just acted on it. The ‘kind’ thing to do in this situation would be to distract myself from that immediate impulse by doing something else and waiting for the anxiety to pass. This is the way to retrain those neural pathways.

Obviously it’s not easy, or I would have mastered the technique years ago! Learning to manage an illness like anxiety requires a lot of hard work and dedication. Making the decision to love yourself is difficult, but it’s worth it. Have a think about all the things that make you happy and try to do something every day, however small, that is just for you. It could be as simple as cooking yourself a healthy dinner, going outside for ten minutes of fresh air, or going for a pedicure. Nurturing yourself is all part of being healthy, and that is nothing to be ashamed of. Like anything, practise makes perfect, and this is why I have been trying to be kind to myself as much as I can.

I haven’t booked that holiday yet but I have been allowing myself to eat Nutella on a regular basis (my favourite treat!), and I have booked myself on a creative writing evening course for the autumn. This class felt like a huge indulgence and I am worried the other people in the class will laugh at me, but I am going to give it a go. Writing makes me feel calmer, and therefore being kind to myself by doing something I enjoy can only be a good thing.

Open heart surgery

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sinéad and I wear my heart on my sleeve. This is mostly a good thing I think but can occasionally lead to tears,  ugly recriminations and ends up with me on my couch listening to Damien Rice on repeat. Now I love Damien Rice as much as the next girl, but a day on the couch listening to him is never a great sign. This past week has consisted of me making a mistake and hurting somebody. Fair enough we all make mistakes, but I have been trying to learn from mine and it has forced me to face up to some harsh facts about myself.

Sometimes I can be just a bit too much. This applies to all aspects of my life: I follow my heart and very rarely my head. My heart is open and can be filled with a compulsive need to make other people happy. Some people find this frankly a bit weird and run a mile. What I have had to realise is that the risk of putting yourself out there in the world is that sometimes people will misinterpret your actions and dislike you. This is why, as discussed in previous posts, in the past I have found it easier to hide away and not engage with the world. Lets take this blog as an example. I started writing to try and help others, having realised that using my own personal story is the most powerful tool I have to connect with people. This carries risks, and putting myself out there like this is terrifying and sometimes humiliating, but it’s worth it because I know I have connected with people, and so the risk has paid off.

I made a decision some months ago to re-engage with the world and take all the risks that come with it. I spent most of my twenties being too ill to do anything with my life and now I find myself filled a huge amount of energy. I am making up for lost time and I want to experience all the world has to offer. However, I have struggled with containing my enthusiasm and newfound lust for life. This is what leads to problems. When I hid away from the world I also hid away from the people in it and ultimately let very few people into my life. By emerging into the world I have run into new people and this is a steep learning curve for me. Being anxious and compulsive I have a deep need to control everything around me and I want everybody to  like me but it turns out you cannot control other people’s emotions.

Thus the open heart surgery I refer to in the title. The only heart you can perform surgery on is your own. If you take a risk and let somebody new into your world then you must face the fact that something will go wrong. When I have hurt somebody, I am then filled with a desperate need to fix it somehow. This need to fix things is just a sign of caring too much about people, sometimes in order to make things right you just need to let it go. Other people are in charge of their own hearts and you cannot control their reactions and you cannot make them want to be your friend. All you can do is apologise and release a heart shaped potato into outer space with their name on it and hope that someday they will forgive you. The harder part is to forgive yourself and learn from your mistakes. I’ve spent so long in the dark that I got blinded by the light of the bright world in front of me. I’m going to give my heart a break for a while.

A talented writer I once met told me you can only use a joke three times in a piece of writing, I presume the same rule applies to musical analogies so allow me to finish on this one and muddle up the words of my beloved Biffy Clyro. Looking back on the week that was, I opened up my heart and I took a bruise, was it worth it?

Yes.

 

 

 

 

 

What’s for dinner?

My life has changed a lot over the last few months, and at times I have felt all over the place. Mostly I cope well but occasionally I can feel myself spiralling into a big ball of anxiety. I have found this blog helpful to unpick my behaviours and make sense of them, and hopefully it may help anyone reading too.

One thing that has struck me over the past few weeks is that my default setting whenever I do spiral is to forget to eat. That may be annoying for any of you reading who battle with your weight, but trust me: being so anxious that you feel sick at the thought of food isn’t much fun either! I also went for dinner recently with somebody I don’t know that well, and found it a real effort to eat in front of them. I’ve been trying to make sense of all this and I think I’ve finally cracked the case.

When I feel low or very anxious I simply don’t bother to look after myself because I don’t think I’m worth it. Not ‘worth it’ in the sense of the cosmetics ads with the flicky hair, but ‘worth it’ as in caring enough to want to nourish myself. Food is fundamentally fuel for the body – petrol to give it energy to get through the day. If I’m feeling low and have no energy, food is way down on my list of priorities, and when I feel very anxious and hyperactive I have no interest in eating either. This isn’t because I’m trying to starve myself. My problem isn’t with food: my problem is with me. Simply put, I sometimes feel like I don’t deserve to eat.

When I see people who love food, I see people who love life. The best example of this I can think of are Italians – I really think they have got life figured out. Surely ‘La Dolce Vita’ is something we should all be aiming for. People who truly love food see the joy in eating a beautiful meal and can enjoy the sensuous experience that it offers. My default meal of choice, on the other hand, is tea and toast, and that says it all really! A dear friend of mine likes to point out to me that my favourite foods are all beige and bland: my staple diet consists of hummous, toast, oatcakes, rice and cheese (only cheddar mind you, nothing fancy, and for the love of god please not melted). I like safe foods that don’t really taste of anything much, and which fill me up without me having to think too much.

I am making progress though. Up until a few years ago I never ate lunch – I would eat breakfast purely to be able to take my medication without being sick, and then go all day without eating anything until the evening. Obviously this is not a great idea. Skipping meals on a regular basis means your blood sugar levels are going to be continually low which will do nothing to improve your mood. I got myself a NutriBullet and now drink wildly healthy concoctions on a daily basis. It’s a great way to get vitamins into you if you can’t face a lot of food. Other tips I have picked up along the way include eating little and often instead of trying to force down big meals. Avoiding too much sugar is also a good idea, but quite honestly if you are struggling to eat anything, a bar of chocolate is better than nothing at all. Omega 3 and Vitamin B are great for the old head, and taking supplements of these on a regular basis has definitely helped me.

I’m clearly not an expert, and if you are reading this and feel you may have serious issues with food, then please speak to somebody. I would also recommend anything you can get your hands on by Emma Woolf; an incredibly brave and honest writer who has documented her recovery from anorexia in a series of newspaper articles and books. I hope my few cents worth might help too if you are reading this and feeling anxious in any way.

 

 

Forgetting to be afraid

By my bed sits a very old crumpled post-it note that says ‘Fforgetting to be afraid’. It’s crumpled,misspelt and stuck to a piece of cardboard in an attempt at lamination so doesn’t look ‘all that’. But this piece of paper has been something that has helped me over the past few years whenever I feel anxious. I’m not sure where I read this phrase but it resonated with me and it has helped me through some tough times. I had written another piece to put up this week – but I spent a lot of this past week feeling afraid (I started a new job) and this seemed more apt.

Fear can be one of the main – and most crippling – components of depression and anxiety. The world is a terrifying place when you are depressed and/or anxious. (Sometimes the two can exist side by side; sort-of the worst 2 for 1 offer the world has ever seen!) The obvious response to this is to hide or run away from that fear and shut yourself off from the world in an attempt to feel safe. We have all done that – taken refuge at home where we feel protected. And frankly, who could blame anyone for doing so? The body has a physiological reaction to perceived threat called the ‘fight-or-flight response’. When stressed, the body thinks it is under attack and produces a heady mix of hormones to protect itself. These hormones helped our predecessors to fight off predators or gave them the energy to run away. The sick feeling you get when you feel panicked is the adrenaline rushing to your muscles to give you the energy you need to deal with this perceived threat. Unfortunately if you are anxious this response may end up being triggered quite a lot, and this is a problem for your physical well being. You really don’t need all those hormones pulsing through your system on a daily basis! So hiding away from the world and all its threats can seem like the easier option: depression makes you want to isolate yourself.

That’s what I did for years – shut myself away from the world. I hid at home, and while I felt safe, I didn’t feel better. I only saw a few people: those friends who were kind and loving enough to come and sit beside me on the couch and watch crap telly with me, or who would patiently take me out for a cup of tea and then take me home again afterwards (sort of like taking your granny out for a little day trip). I’m lucky I have incredible friends but I also pushed a lot of people away during this time – there is only so much people can take and sometimes friendships and relationships are  a casualty of severe depression. The problem with hiding away and waiting to feel better is that it really doesn’t work. Unfortunately, the world isn’t going to come knocking on your front door and ask if you can come out to play. Selfish of the world, I know! So instead you have to force yourself out that door, one step at a time, and make yourself do things that you really don’t want to do. It really can help: not immediately, and not everything will have that effect, but you may find something that lifts your mood and makes you happy, if only for a fleeting moment.

Here’s an example to illustrate my point: I have recently taken up running  and have found it to be incredibly therapeutic. Now I am not a sporty girl; I love watching sports but organised team activities fill me with dread. The only bad memories I have from secondary school are of being forced to play hockey (or even worse, basketball) with all the cool girls in my class. The memory makes me shudder even now. For years people have told me I should try exercise to alleviate my anxiety and to be honest, while I know these people meant well, I really just wanted to punch them in the face: I was sure running was not going to help me!

And yet, really annoyingly, it turns out it does. Those endorphins (or endolphins as I like to call them) that running produces really do make you feel good! My fear of running was that people would laugh at me, or that I would injure myself. I have injured myself and people have laughed at me (I ran into a tree branch… fair enough) but the world hasn’t ended and I’m going to go running again today after I finish writing this. Taking those small steps and forcing yourself to do little things that scare you everyday is one of the ways you can walk your way out of the prison that depression has locked you in.

Those steps can be something as simple as leaving the house today and walking to the shop for a paper, or picking up the phone and phoning a friend. Reach out to people, and you will be surprised how happy they will be to hear from you. Another thing I have always found to be beneficial is helping others – this really does force you outside your own head for a while. A huge part of recovering from severe depression is taking back control from the illness and learning how to help yourself. Medication and a good support system will all help but the day you feel strong enough to fight back and learn how to help yourself is the day your real recovery begins: that’s one way you can learn to manage your illness and live with it. You are not alone and maybe reaching out to others is the step you could make today. There is a lot of support out there and having contact with others will help you to make those steps. Isolation is not conducive to happiness.

Happiness is probably a concept for another day and another piece of writing, but it does exist! I never found it sitting at home looking at the same four walls but I have found it by engaging with the outside world. Not all the time, I don’t think anybody feels happy all the time, but there are moments when I stop and genuinely feel happy. Not anxious, or scared, or depressed but real happiness. Joy at being alive and being here to appreciate what this crazy world has to offer. That joy might only happen occasionally and it’s often the small things that make me feel this way but it’s worth it. So push through the fear and try something new today and I promise you it will be worth it.

Forgetting to be afraid is the best decision I have ever made.

 

 

 

Mirror, mirror on the wall.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the most anxious of them all?

OCD is a term that gets thrown around a lot and I think people can be confused by its true meaning and manifestations. I’m going to try and unpick some of the meaning here and explain how obsessive thoughts have impacted on my life. Let’s start with the basics: OCD stands for Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, an anxiety disorder wherein the sufferer is troubled by persistent, uncontrollable obsessive thoughts and may be compelled to perform certain rituals or behaviours. Fun times!

Anxiety is such a difficult bugger to manage because it is essentially a worry or fear of the unknown; a vague fear as opposed to something specific. A fear of something tangible is more easily managed as it has a solution. You’re afraid of flying? You avoid flying as much as possible, simples. But how can you solve a vague fear, when you are not exactly sure what it is you are afraid of, but still you feel a constant niggling worry at the back of your head?

A huge part of living with an anxiety disorder is feeling a lack of control. The anxiety and worry takes over your brain and tends to control you. My take on OCD and the compulsion to perform certain rituals is that the rituals are a desperate attempt to wrestle back control from the anxiety, and the persistent negative thoughts. If the same thought is running through your head all day, every day, then you are eventually going to try and do something to make it go away, aren’t you. The rituals are effectively repetitive behaviours that you engage in to try and lessen the anxiety caused by obsessive thoughts.

Ah, obsessive thoughts my old friends. Where to even start? It’s quite simple really: something traumatic happened to me when I was 21 and ever since I have been tormented by obsessive thoughts and the compulsion to carry out rituals. The pain inside me manifested itself in an acute anxiety about certain aspects of how I look. However, my obsessive thinking didn’t come to the party alone. It brought along another old friend: body dysmorphia. Body dysmorphia didn’t even bring along a bottle of wine, just a magnifying mirror. Cheers for that, buddy. For those who don’t know, body dysmorphia is a part of the anxiety disorder family. A person who is dysmorphic has a distorted view of how they look and can spend an unhealthy amount of time worrying about their appearance. Dysmorphia can often affect those who have eating disorders.

As for me, I developed two particular obsessions. The first one was with my teeth. I’ve chosen the image attached to this post to demonstrate my default pose for the camera, a cheesy grin. This cheesy grin shows a fairly normal set of teeth right? In my head, not so much. I became obsessed with the need to be clean, and took out this need on my poor teeth. At my most anxious, I would brush my teeth up to ten or fifteen times a day. I would have to brush them after every cup of tea I drank. Now I’m Irish, so I drink a lot of tea. That adds up to a lot of brushing and a lot of pain. I wore away the enamel on my teeth due to this obsessive, overzealous brushing. My dentist gently had to point out that she would like to spend less time with me. Fair enough, really.

The second obsession is a lot more difficult for me to write about, and I’m not going to lie – there are a few tears hitting the keyboard right about now. Deep breaths needed and the soothing sounds of Glen Hansard in my earphones. Right, here we go. The need to be clean became confused in my poor addled head with the need to be hair free. I associated hair with being dirty. I don’t mean hair as in body hair or hair in areas that we don’t need to mention here (if only if it were that simple)! I mean the fine, vellus hair that we are all covered in which our body needs to help regulate body temperature. All women have a covering of this light hair on their face, neck, arms etc. It’s not noticeable to other people, but still, I became obsessed with this hair – particularly on my face and neck. The compulsion to pluck this hair out became the physical manifestation of my deep distress. Now, step in my closest companion, the magnifying mirror. A ticking bomb. I would (and still could) spend hours checking myself in a magnifying mirror. Obviously fine hairs are going to look pretty horrifying in a mirror like this, so I would try and pluck them out. Actually, “pluck” is too gentle a word. I would gouge them with a needle or tweezers, often leaving bleeding wounds on my face and neck.

That would be grand if it controlled the anxiety, but the trouble is, it doesn’t! It turns out, what you don’t need to do if you feel anxious about your appearance is spend hours looking at yourself in a mirror! The good news – there is some I promise – is that after years of being crippled by my anxiety and obsessive rituals, I have found a way of managing them and they don’t have such a huge impact on my life anymore. At my most ill, I couldn’t leave the house, or even get out of bed in the morning, as I was too scared to look in the mirror. And I had to look in the mirror.

Thankfully now, through a combination of medication and having worked through some of my issues in counselling, I can now manage my compulsions. They will always be there, but I control them now (mostly). I can function alongside them. I’m lucky; I have a fantastic GP who has helped me to wrestle back control over my obsessions. She has patiently fulfilled my endless requests for blood tests to check my hormone levels, just to make sure I’m not turning into a man. (It’s all fine, I’m not by the way, for those of you worrying about that. Or hang on, maybe that’s just me?)

As for the dentist, we see a lot less of each other these days. Mind you, while the compulsions have dissipated, the teacher’s pet in me still loves going and getting a gold star for keeping my teeth so clean!