How I hate the Beast!

Every year, at this time, I fall into a slough of despond. In truth I feel it starts much earlier, with the changing of the season, but it is skilfully disguised by me throwing myself into Christmas ridiculousness. There’s a reason my family get so many presents - apart, of course, from the fact that I love them dearly, I am also distracting myself with the purchase of Christmas pants!

So many presents - ridiculous!

By the end of January, however, seasonal excitement is forgotten and I am truly downhearted.

If I’m honest, it seems worse since I retired. Not because it is, but because I have more time to notice my feelings. I was sufficiently professional to carry on despite my feelings and, provided there were no major crises, turned up and did my job every day. Now I have much more time to navel gaze and over analyse how I am feeling, and how I am feeling is not great.

Experience has taught me that it will pass, and the coming of the Spring will also see the return of some equilibrium in my mood. 

Roll on Spring!

Strangely that doesn’t help for now…and neither does self awareness. I am fully aware that I am thoroughly difficult to live with, snarling, growling and, mostly, sighing. I know that if I got off my, not inconsiderable, backside and spent some time in the garden, baking or going for a walk I would feel so much better but, well, I can’t be bothered! 

Just go for a walk...

I can also acknowledge that I have nothing whatsoever to be miserable about - I have a caring husband, wonderful children, no financial worries and am reasonably fit and healthy. 

Nothing to be down about

But that’s the thing about depression - it doesn’t just choose to inflict itself upon people who have something to be depressed about. It’s a little trick it has to make sufferers feel guilty about feeling that way. It is a cunning beast - there’s a reason it’s been described as a ‘black dog’ - and sometimes it does feel like a living entity.

Honest!

I refuse to be scared of the beast, however, and writing about my feelings is one way of facing it down until normal service is resumed in the Spring! Now excuse me while I go and stare into space, and sigh…

Physical wellbeing = emotional wellbeing!

I’ve been ‘blog-shamed’. Last night my husband asked whether I had written a post in May, as he thought he’d missed one. Immediately on the defensive, I muttered something about having nothing to say, and then spent all night tossing and turning, wondering why.

So ashamed...

The truth is that a family bereavement and an ongoing knee injury resulted in the month of May being a funny old time in the Land of the Blue Rinse. Both emotional and physical pain have left me feeling disconnected, out of kilter and completely discombobulated. (Love that word - try using it in a sentence!) I fully intend to write about our family’s loss at a later date, but in truth it’s my physical incapacity that has impacted in ways that have surprised even me. I have blogged about my body being ‘Fit for Purpose’, but in the past two months this hasn't been the case. I’ve been completely incapacitated at times, needed crutches and serious painkillers and barely left the house.

Surprisingly painful to use!

Needless to say, tennis is not possible, and, although things are slowly improving, I’m still awaiting an accurate diagnosis and suitable treatment. 
The aspect of all of this that has surprised me the most is the effect this has had on my mental well-being and emotional state. Not only have I stopped doing the things I am unable to do, I haven’t done anything that I can still do. Instead of using my time reading, sewing, blogging, I have retreated into watching rubbish telly, playing Candy Crush and obsessively reading about how sh*t Donald Trump is. Not healthy, really not healthy. I have shied away from meeting up with friends, put on weight and have felt demotivated about just about everything. Not Neighbours though, still love Neighbours! 

So bad, it's good!

The point is that physical activity and mental health are inextricably linked. I love thrashing about on a tennis court, whether I win or lose. 

Oh how I miss holding you...

It’s the one form of exercise that engages me completely and I would happily play every day if I could. Digging in the garden gives me a sense of strength and youthfulness (!) and I always feel as if I really deserve the reward of a bath  and a g&t afterwards. A walk with my husband or friends relaxes and reinvigorates me. I sleep better and worry less. 

All of these things have been unavailable to me of late, and I’ve really felt it. Hence, no blogging - I couldn't see the point. Hopefully this is a relatively short-lived   episode, and I will return to a level of fitness that allows me to return to the things I love which, in turn, will lead to a more general sense of wellbeing. All being well, normal service will be resumed as soon as possible!

Stupid knackered leg!

I appreciate that, in the grand scheme of things my wellbeing is not that important to anyone except my family and friends, which is why part of me feels this post is absurd. No-one caught up in events in Manchester or London gives a flying f*ck about what I think. On the other hand, if we stop doing what we do, on even the smallest level then the terrorist haters win and, demotivated or not, I don't think we should let that happen.

Sometimes it’s okay to be sad

It's okay - really...

There has been a lot in the press over the past week about Mental Health. Princes William and Harry gave their support to Heads Together - a MIND campaign, and the chosen charity of this year’s London Marathon. Much has been made of Harry’s revealing his difficulties with dealing with his mother’s death, and there is no doubt that the British ‘stiff upper lip’ did not help him at all. The fact is, sometimes it is okay to be sad. If somebody close to you dies, in whatever circumstances, of course you are going to be upset and grieve. It is our response to this grief that is crucial in how we then come out of the other side.

Always someone missing...

I’ve told you before about my sister dying at the age of ten(My Lifelong Relationship with Guilt). I wasn't born until two years later but her loss has continued to affect my family, especially my other sister, to this day.

My parents’ response to her death was to refuse to allow any other family member to go to the funeral and, other than visiting her grave every Sunday, we never talked about her. My husband asked the other day whether my older brother remembers her and I have no idea, because it was never talked about. 

Still someone missing

Nowadays the whole family would have had counselling from Nelson's Journey, or a  similar bereavement charity, but sixty years ago they didn't exist. My parents clearly found it too difficult to discuss, but sometimes as parents, you need to put your feelings to one side. That is not a criticism of them - their grief knew no bounds, and they did the best that they could. I didn’t learn from this. When my lovely Dad died, I told my six year old son that Grandad wouldn't want him to be sad and cry. I thought I was protecting him. How wrong I was. So much did he love his Grandad, and so determined was he to fulfil his wish, he didn't allow himself to cry, so his hair started to fall out. That trite, throwaway ‘don’t be sad’ comment caused him weeks of misery that he couldn't talk about. 

Oh how he loved his Grandad!

He only started to recover when a seemingly trivial incident of a small toy getting washed down the plughole provided a catalyst for the flood gates to open. He cried about that plastic spoon for about eight hours! (And I’m crying about it now - idiot!)

I’ve written before about my struggles with depression (Depression Sucks!), and it continues to impact on my life. Who knows why - I always think that it is past experiences, stress, guilt - but in reality, given that it is as real as a physical illness, it could have just randomly happened to me, in the same way as my knackered thyroid and my arthritic fingers. Certainly the way I have responded to past experiences have not always helped - internalising things and constantly revisiting them is not healthy - but I have been lucky enough to have gained support through counselling, hypnotherapy, my lovely family and, I have to say, access to appropriate medication. At the weekend I was practically catatonic, worrying my husband to death, and with no motivation to do anything - I spent Monday morning on the sofa, under a blanket, eating a tub of Haagen-Daas and watching a DVD - but I have my family to talk to and to care about me enough to leave me alone until I come to them, and that really helps.

Home comforts always help

Slowly I am emerging from the other side of this ‘episode’ but it has made me wonder about those people who can’t afford ice-cream, and don't have a comfy sofa and a family for support. Who helps them?

On Friday, on the way to a football match (another post, another time!) I was given a flyer about a march protesting about the cuts to funding for mental health support in the local area. I was talking to the woman who gave me the leaflet who is terrified that a close family member will come to real harm because the professional support network has been and is being eroded by lack of funds. For every depressive like me - able to blog about my feelings, loved and supported in a comfortable home - there are many who have been forced to move away from their families, whose conditions are catastrophic without the right medication / counselling / therapy. 

Potential catastrophe

Nearly every week there are reports of cases of tragedies related to mental health issues happening because of mistakes or shortfalls in the service provided. How can young men who are clearly mentally ill be allowed to electrocute themselves in prison(link here), or die following restraint, having been left in limbo without their medication(link here)? Neither of those events got the press coverage that Harry talking about his feelings did, but if it goes some way to raising the profile of charities like MIND, then so be it. But some people, for example those with schizophrenia or bipolar disorder,are beyond the reach of campaigns - they need fundamental, effective and professional support from the Health Service. 

I’m not a campaigner, but this is my way of raising awareness of this issue. If someone knocks on your door in the next few weeks, asking for your vote, maybe ask where they stand on funding for the mental health service. 

And remember, sometimes it’s okay to be sad…

Self Deprecation Came Back to Bite Me!

Not wanting to sound big headed, but logic tells me that I am a reasonable human being. I have never been in trouble with the law, I had a successful teaching career and as a helpful workmate told me, when I had been stood up in my teens, I’m not pretty but ‘I keep myself well’! Nevertheless, it is human nature to question our self worth and if you suffer with depression it is inevitable that these feelings occur on a monotonously regular basis. My default setting when I wake up feeling rubbish is to tell the people that love me that I am rubbish, so that they can tell me that I’m not…

Am I really as lardy as this?

God I look hideous - No you don’t, you’re lovely!

Ugh, I’m so fat - Don’t be daft, of course you’re not!

I’m a bad mum - No you’re not, you’re amazing!

You get the picture - I have mastered the art of self deprecation. I’m not alone in fishing for compliments. I don’t suppose anyone ever asked, ‘Does my arse look big in this?’ expecting the response, ‘Well yes my dear, it looks like the size of a small country!’ (In the words of The Divine Comedy) We all seek reassurance about our appearance, our intellectual ability, our success at work and we often do this by putting ourselves down, confidently assuming we will be contradicted. 

You're rubbish Nanny, aren't you...

But it doesn't always work. Children don’t understand or play by the rules. I jokingly said I was rubbish to my grand-daughter while we were cooking one day. It was meant to be an encouragement to her to help me, but she took it as read that I was rubbish, and I have heard it back from her ever since. And in a multitude of contexts! There are any number of things she thinks I can’t do because I’m rubbish. She even told me once that her mummy and daddy don’t like her saying that I’m rubbish, but because I said it, it was true. I can not tell you how painful it is, hearing your self deprecating put downs spoken back to you by a small person that you love more than life itself. And it’s made me really think about how the tendency to put myself down has affected me. 

We know that positive mantras have a life affirming impact, and that the power of the mind can help our self belief - ‘I can do it, I can, I know I can.’

It therefore follows that constantly believing the worst of yourself will become a self-fulfilling prophecy, ‘I think I’m rubbish, so I must be rubbish.’ 

I'm not rubbish - I'm marvellous!

But it is a difficult habit to break. My go to response to any setback is that it has happened because I’m rubbish, but, having heard it spoken back to me, I am trying to at least not say it aloud. My recent blog ‘Fit for Purpose’ talked about how I am more accepting of my physical appearance, and now I need to work on other areas of wellbeing and think more positive thoughts. It’s not easy. This morning I woke up feeling down in the dumps, but I have resisted saying this to my husband - I know from experience that it makes him feel bad too. In my heart, I know I’m not rubbish and I need to reverse years of negative thinking. I’m setting myself an easily achievable target - one positive thought about myself each day! As I said, nobody likes a big head, but I’m telling you - I’m pretty marvellous!

Depression Sucks!

Feeling Blue :-(

This has not been a good few days. Financial worries, a comment about what changes my successor has made to ‘my’ classroom and a throw away remark that my new funky hairdo must have been inspired by Clare Balding have all conspired to plummet me into a slough of despond. Writing that down makes it seem ridiculous, but depression pays no heed to ridiculous, and will get you anyway.

All my adult life, I have struggled to cope with my mental health. You’d think by now I’d be used to it. People show an amazing ability to cope with physical limitations: I suffered injuries to both my eyes while I was teaching, and while my vision will always be less than perfect, my brain has learned to compensate and it only affects me at a minimal level. But depression, not so much. I will never get used to the way that I can suddenly feel so desolate, when five minutes ago I was perfectly fine. I know that everyone has moments of sadness - nobody can be shiny and happy all the time - but depression is different. It is all pervading and gut wrenching. I have a dear friend who responds to this feeling by cleaning her house from top to bottom and throwing away anything that hasn't been used for a week. It has the opposite effect on me. I sit. That’s what I do. I’ve disguised this over the weekend by sitting and watching the Olympics, but really I’m just sitting!

An additional worry is that one of my ways of dealing with these feelings of blackness was throwing myself into my work. I couldn't just sit. I had to get up and get on with things. I also had friends at work that I could talk to - one who cleans and tidies and another who has supported her husband through some difficult times, and used some of her skills on me! These friends will no longer be across the corridor, there in the morning or at the end of every day. I know that if I got in touch with them, they would help me feel better, but people who just sit don't get in touch… It’s a vicious circle. I am lucky that I have a support network in my family, but I also know how much it pains them that I feel this way, and I hate making them feel powerless. Also, the good parent in me means that I want to protect my children from knowing how down I feel. They may be adults, but it’s still my job to protect them. See, vicious circle.

Past experience has taught me that I will feel better. I’ll find new routines to support and motivate me - even I can’t just sit forever - and writing this has been cathartic in a way. I may, however, have blown the ‘I don't want my children to know how I feel’ rule. 

As I’m writing this, my husband has brought me a coffee in my ‘I’M RETIRED, GO AND ASK SOMEONE ELSE’ mug. It seems I can still smile!