Black Dogs

The pain of depression is invisible but still deadly. It kills at least a million people a year, more than any other acts of violence. Yet we are ashamed when things go wrong mentally. We can only help to remedy this by talking, reading and writing about it. When the tightrope on which we walk wobbles and we slip and come face to face with the existential horrors buried deep within our minds nobody can tell unless we talk. As such times you can be looking at the most beautiful view in the world on the sunniest of days but it won’t stop you wanting to die, and it is now you need to talk.

Oddly, depressed people don’t actually want to be happy, they just want an absence of pain. So being moralistic about someone who wants to kill themselves is to misunderstand. To say (or think) ‘pull yourself together’ is like saying ‘Ah you have cancer, come on now, mind over matter’. With a physical illness there is some separation between the pain and the self, whereas depression eats away at the self, you are your thoughts. Depression causes such relentless continuous pain that it is all engulfing. There is a constant self torment together with an exhaustion of never quite grasping mental comfort.

There are some things that help alleviate the mental agony and send weak rays of sunshine through the deadening grey cloud of fuzziness;

– Intense conversation, though paradoxically sometimes to talk about how I feel leads to feeling more of what I am feeling, but acting normal can lead to normal

– Coffee (in bucketloads)

– Exercise

– Sunshine

– Pills

Not all of these help all the time, and there’s no wonder cure that will suddenly unlock your mind and let you see the sunshine but the more we can talk about mental health as a society the less engulfing and terrifying depression will become.



It’s been a while since I’ve posted. Not because I’ve had nothing to say but more because I haven’t known how to say it. Gradually going back to work I have been offered support for which I am grateful but yet I still feel the stigma of suffering from a mental illness. I’ve taken almost a year off work, am still not back to full health, yet at work it’s as if nothing has changed because I can’t even begin to articulate how I feel. In the past year I’ve spent 6 months in a locked ward. From sheer despair I’ve tried to take my own life three times. On one occasion I spent 6 hours in A and E being told that if I went home they would call the police. I think that was the lowest point. It’s a cliché but after that the only way was up. Yet on an every day level I feel that I have to pretend nothing happened to me. I am so grateful for the lack of pressure, the only comments I’ve had are from the receptionist asking when I’ll be back full time but the thought of staying at work over lunch brings me out in a cold sweat. I put the pressure on myself and tell myself I have to man up and face the demons.

Knowing how widespread yet unspoken mental health difficulties are, I am keen to advocate and educate, though I have lacked the mental strength to do so. Luckily I’ve recently had a bit of a breakthrough, as I have very recently been put on Lithium. I was neutral about it since I was sure it was just another medication that may make me gain weight and probably make me drowsy. I was so wrong. Lithium has brought me back to life. For the last year I have been experiencing terrible despairing lows that came along every 3-5 days and which made even putting on shoes and a coat to take the dog for a walk impossible, answering even a text message took on mammoth proportions.

Now I can at least attempt relationships with people, though I still don’t always have the mental strength to initiate a conversation or a meeting. I don’t hate myself so much. It’s like waking up from a grey nightmare or seeing the sun for the first time after being buried.

It’s not to say that I don’t still struggle, I sure do. I have my bad days just like anyone else. The only difference is that the lows are manageable. As Winston Churchill said I’ll keep on buggering on.

The road less travelled…

In my latest appointment with the consultant I mentioned my trepidation in going back to work because of the stigma attached to mental health issues and he asked ‘whose stigma? Theirs or yours?’ I have to admit that he had a point, most people won’t ignore the issue because they are condemning of me and my illness but simply because they don’t want to say the wrong thing. The problem is thus my interpretation of the silence; which unfortunately for me is abject shame. I am both ashamed of myself and embarrassed and even though there was nothing I could do to stop the crushing bulldozer of this illness I still feel that it has defined me as weak.

That said, there is a lot that still needs to be done to de-mystify mental health problems and bring them out into the open. There is much in the press and on TV right now on the subject of mental heath awareness and some high profile supporters. I watched (with not a little apprehension) Louis Theroux’s visit to an eating disorder clinic aired on BBC 2 last Sunday. It was sensitively done on the whole but I felt it didn’t even scratch the surface of what anorexia means for those who suffer, (though admittedly I am possibly not the best critic right now).  The portrayal of the woman who kept 4 boiled sweets in her cupboard which would last her many weeks as she allowed herself to take them out in turn for the occasional suck was heart wrenching and oh so true. The truth of the matter is that anorexics really really do want to eat but a force much more powerful than simple hunger is there constantly telling you that you do not deserve to. There is a bizarre comfort in hunger. Interestingly, what it highlighted was what I have also experienced, that anorexia is very often absolutely nothing to do with body image.

Overall, it’s positive to see that we are now beginning to openly discuss the once shunned illnesses that do affect so many of us and yet are so poorly understood. The challenge now is to channel this awareness into action so that people are able to access the services and treatment that they need.

My recovery is still fragile, I am holding onto rigid plans which mean I eat enough but I cannot yet let go and allow myself to actually enjoy food. I know that the day I instinctively reach for a biscuit without a second thought may never come but I know that I can keep healthy at least by following a regime. One positive is that I have been given the go ahead to take up exercise again; to begin with 30 minutes of swimming once a week, so am looking forward to getting going with that as soon as I can. Mentally, too I feel stronger and more able to think of other things. And not just food. I just need to hold on to the fact that recovery is so worthwhile, and the further I walk down that road the better.

Being at home 

It’s now over a week since my discharge from CH and I’m just about coming to terms with trying to live normally again after a good long stretch of having no motivation at all. It’s so easy to slip back into old ways and my general busyness has returned in full force. I don’t agree with those who think they know best that this is necessarily a bad thing though unfortunately, my latest visit to my dietician showed that I have managed to accidentally lose a little more weight despite a good intake of cake.

Changing from one state to another is never easy physically or mentally and I am still experimenting with intake and output but I think I need to accept that my body just doesn’t want to be (and actually never has been) the size that the medics see as acceptable. At present I’m still holding onto weight in annoying places; I have a little pot belly and big thighs and the rest of me is like a stick. That’ll teach me I suppose. With my increase in exercise my muscles are complaining like mad ; I think I need a few gym sessions to get things working properly. I never feel hungry or full, which I believe that is quite common in recovery, but it does mean that I am having to rely on being weighed regularly as having no integral fuel gauge I have absolutely no idea whether I’m losing or gaining weight. It’s a case of trial and error which can be exhausting. I’m always having to think ahead to the next meal. 

Simple input and output aside, of course there’s always the psychological element too. Eating foods labelled ‘low calorie’ or ‘healthy option’ is always, always a bad thing for a recovering anorexic as it just feeds the part of my brain which wants me not to eat. Leaving food on my plate has the same effect. It makes eating out with normal people who may choose not to finish a meal, or who choose the salad a minefield.

I have no expectations that this will ever change, the connections between food and reward and restriction and punishment have been with me from a very young age. I have always been afraid of cake and puddings and a fear of being fat, it represents a loss of control. However, I have, and can exercise the need for control in a positive way, and, given the distraction of normal life, this the aim.

Food obsessive ramblings aside, I did meet with people from work at the end of last week which was a massive positive step forward and we have devised a plan for a phased return back to work. I am both humbled and so grateful at the understanding and humanity they have shown and willingness to be flexible, it just makes me feel so lucky and much more able to keep on going forwards. I am so looking forward to being slightly useful again.

Latest selfie:

Into the Void 

I should have anticipated the fall after the initial euphoria of leaving the unit but I didn’t and so I’ve fallen cushion-less onto rocky ground. I’m struggling to find meaning in the things I’m finding to do and the sudden lack of support (2 weeks between appointments) has let the old thoughts come crowding back in. The fact that I’m almost at an optimal weight means I am worried about everything I eat in case it’s just too much and so I fear I’m under achieving on that front too. My dietician was actually so right, it only takes one missed snack to fall off the tightrope. Black coffee and lots of walks are my best friends at the moment. I suppose having been pretty much institutionalised since the beginning of May there’s bound to be some adjustment, I just stupidly didn’t see it coming.

I have been attempting to meet up with people but fear I’m poor company at the moment as I have no anecdotes to share except those gained from an eating disorder hospital and they are not that easy to talk about. It makes me into a very dull person indeed. Other people’s lives seem so happy and far removed from mine at the moment that I struggle to find a middle ground. 

I’m hoping that I have the strength to readjust and keep on carrying on. I have a meeting with work on Friday and want to make a plan for a phased return which I’m looking forward to and dreading with equal measure. Meanwhile, it’s jobs around the house and craft activities which at the moment just don’t fill the gap.

Tomorrow is another day… 

Random, but funny: 


Some Goodbyes

I have 30 minutes left out of the 22 weeks and 4 days I have spent here and it feels like the longest half hour of my life. Really, what’s the point? What’s the just one more snack, will it really make all the difference? The answer is yes, of course it will. One more snack will literally and metaphorically always make a difference. If I stop believing that then I will be back to square one. It took a while for me to get my head round this, but I got there!

In the news today is the story of this hoodie which is being sold by Amazon:

This is horrifying for so many reasons not the least as it makes light of an illness which believe me, causes very real pain for so many. Can you imagine wearing a hoodie which made a joke from cancer or heart disease? Hopefully it will be withdrawn from the market, I can’t really see that anyone would think to buy it anyway.

Be back soon…..

The past is a foreign country 

Two days left at the unit and though it might be assumed that I am ‘cured’ I have learnt that it’s really only the beginning. There’s still work to be done.

I have been compelled to dig deep into the past to find reasons for my problems and I have had to face up to some very unappealing truths – about myself and my past. Insight is painful, but only through this pain can I find freedom.

I am looking for an antidote to the frustration. I am unable to properly communicate anything that will provide understanding, and am receiving nothing back but anger and hatred. It has almost a physical presence of its own, separate from, but still him. I have become an expert in knowing exactly what to do to get a reaction; which buttons to press. It feels dangerous and this is strangely addictive, I can’t help but provoke. It’s like poking a snake. I feel relief at finally having an outlet for my emotion but mixed with a great fear.

I want not to cry, the last thing I should do is to show any weakness, I stamp my feet to stave off the tears. I am invincible. I can stand steadfast against the torrent that will surely unleash.

Inevitably the damn breaks, it always does. The red hot anger reaches out and hits me, hard. It strikes all parts of me and somehow displaces me. Distantly now I hear a shout, incomprehensible with rage and finally, I feel a release. I have his whole attention and I am getting the punishment I crave and deserve. A sudden pain in my head as it is struck and I stumble and fall. I am weakened and shaking while the anger around me dissipates, I am pushed into my room and am alone, figuratively and literally locked in. I have put myself firmly and reassuringly in the wrong and feel cowed, regretting my behaviour as I am now trapped. I am desperate for air and space but I dare not leave the room until the anger has fully subsided. I am all too aware that the next stage is my abject apology and I will be expected to take responsibility for my actions otherwise I will be punished further. Why is the apology is the hardest part? I feel that I deserve the punishment. I am a terrible child and a mistake after all.

Later, when I perfect my escape by edging along the windowsill and then jumping off the high ledge to freedom, I will run and run, through beds of nettles to recreate yet escape the pain.