Don't you just hate it when that happens?

This morning I was suddenly enthused, I was full of plans for all sorts of things that have been on hold for a long time, I was bouncing. 

This afternoon an equally sudden bout of feeling like crying came over me. For no reason at all that I can think of. Don't you just hate it when that happens?

This too will pass. I will regather my bounce and bounce - or gallop - again another day. No, not another day. This afternoon.

Husband only told me recently how difficult it had been for him in the early years of our marriage when my depression went unrecognised and untreated. When you're feeling depressed it's hard to see that you're affecting others; you're too down in your own misery.

I am so glad I have medication these days. The pills may stop me from feeling some things I'd quite like to feel but as for the rest of it, those are the bits I definitely don't want to endure.

Grey and Dismal Green

Steve Spicer, a friend of mine - I hope I can call him that although we've never met - has written, illustrated and published a book called Grey and Dismal Green.

I'll quote from the cover: What it means to be a person who is depressed, anxious, or self-harming, and how you can care for them.

The title comes from the colours they paint institutions.

It tells a personal story of how depression and anxiety can take hold and dominate a life. I say personal; it's incredibly personal and must have been so hard to retell and relive. Indeed the story continues today. As I said in my previous post I only suffer mildly; this sort of suffering must be almost unbearable and proved to be on occasions when suicide was attempted.

And it must be horrendous to care for a person you love and see that person in mental agony and torment.

The majority of the book tells the sufferer's story in her own words and in amazing pictures but it also offers help, suggestions based on experience, on what to do if someone has a panic attack, is suicidal or self-harming.

I am so moved by it and am convinced it could be really helpful to people either suffering or caring for a sufferer.

It will be available from Amazon soon; in the meantime if you're interested and would like to buy a copy contact me.

When the knot disppears

Yesterday morning I was preparing to go out when I suddenly realised that, for the first time for ages, I didn't have that 'I want to cry but can't' knot in my stomach. It made me do a little skip.

It's no reflection on my life that I sometimes struggle: my life is very good. It's inexplicable so it's impossible to try to explain to someone who never feels like it.

Logic and rationality have nothing to do with it. I can recite every feel good mantra and know them to be true, and, equally, know my thinking to be faulty but the knot remains.

So when it disappears, however briefly, it's worth celebrating.

Signed, Bleurgh of Swansea

So on Saturday I was feeling bleurgh. Husband asked if I'd taken my pill; I had. I couldn't explain it; it was just a sort of apathy mixed with edginess. Which isn't a good combination.

I finally got myself together enough to go to Sainsburys - once that would have been a major achievement for me and I was nowhere like at that depth, thankfully. Driving there it suddenly struck me, the reason for my bleurghness: the rejection I'd received the day before for Novel2.

I joke a lot about sending in submissions and just waiting for the rejection so I can do it all over again but that doesn't take away from the fact that it hurts. I'd successfully pushed this one out of my mind briefly but it had taken its revenge in this sneaky surreptitious way.

I think it was worse than it has been because recently I've been thinking about aspirations and ability and wondering if, in my case, one outstrips the other. I know you should push yourself but surely you also must need a realistic limit beyond which you accept you can't go. I should probably never have gone to university. I scraped in and scraped through, though my determination to take science, which I wasn't very good at, rather than languages, which I was, probably didn't help.

So it's thinking this and going into libraries and seeing the hundreds, thousands, of books that have been deemed worthy of being published when mine hasn't that have contributed to my ennui. I read books and some I think, yes, I can see why this was published, but others I read and have to ask: what stood out about this that made the agent choose it, out of all the hundreds received each year. And, yes, I think some are better than mine but some are worse.

Anyway, once I'd worked out why I felt like bleurgh it was easier to handle. And this is why I shouldn't go to Sainsburys when I'm feeling depressed.

Not just a large box of Maltesers but three packets of Buttons too. One packet didn't even make it home; they were devoured before I'd even got into Sainsburys petrol station. I'd probably have eaten the other two packs in the car if the petrol pump hadn't been covered in fuel making my hands smell horrid.

In the shop I asked an assistant if they had a toilet I could use to wash my hands (knowing they didn't but seeing that she was grumbling about the state of her hands too.) She said it wasn't for public use but that I could go in there with her. Cosy. So we both washed our hands and she explained that it used to be open to the public but 'they abused it.' 

Apparently I wouldn't believe the sort of things people did in there. In twos sometimes. And men are the worst. They only go in there - here she lowered her voice Les Dawson fashion - 'for a dump. And they're not fussy how they leave it.'

I took great care not to splash water or soap around and even remembered to pay for the petrol (or diesel as Husband insists on calling it) before I left. But you know what it's like when you get fuel on your hands. It takes ages to get rid of the lingering pong. 

I have another submission, for Novel3, still 'being considered' so no doubt bleurghness is just around the corner but tonight I have to be upbeat as I speak to a ladies' group at Sketty Methodist church about my wonderful novel, This Time Next Year.

In defence of anti-depressants

Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night with a really bad headache or a pain in your chest? The sudden awakening combined with the ache for a moment convince you that you're dying and you experience what could be called night terror. Then you shake yourself, take some paracetamol/indigestion pills, quickly fall asleep, and feel fine when you wake up next morning.

Now imagine feeling that terror for 95% of the time.

It started when I was in my teens and peaked in my late forties. That's a long time to be living a part-life and at its worst a barely-life where, for example, I was too scared to go to the cinema just in case, and I had to psyche myself up to go to Sainsburys for the weekly shop. I was prayed for - and felt guilty when it made no difference - and I saw a number of doctors. I had counselling - she gave up on me - and tried therapy. That helped me understand myself better and see things differently but it didn't cure me.

The thing was that I didn't think of myself as having depression. Depression was a proper illness; I just worried too much. The slightest thing and I'd worry. Not just worry now and again but all the time. Thoughts would go round and around in my head repeating themselves incessantly. Until the next insignificant thing happened to give me something new to worry about. I carried out all the normal everyday tasks but my mind would be buzzing. It wasn't illness particularly or even death that scared me - unless it was one of my children that preoccupied my thoughts - but fear itself. The what-if fear. 

There was nothing logical about it and knowing that, as I did, made it even worse. 

But, no, I wasn't depressed, just anxious. I was simply stupid; I couldn't stop worrying and I was an idiot. I couldn't control my thoughts; my life and, more importantly, family life were adversely affected. I couldn't concentrate or enjoy the good times. And it was down to my stupidity. That's what I thought. It wasn't until I finally convinced the doctor that I couldn't go on living this caricature of a life that she prescribed anti-depressants. Little white pills containing serotonin. Magic pills that changed my life.

Yes, they do have side effects: my emotions are, well, drugged I suppose. I don't feel the highs and lows that others seem to experience but I can live with that. But having said that, for the last few months I've been halving the dose. I was doing really well so I thought I'd give it a go. (Doctors tend to encourage you to get off drugs if you can.) But recently I've noticed that my lows seem to be happening more frequently. I may start taking the prescribed dose again or I may go and chat to the doctor. One thing is certain, I'm not going back to that place of misery again. 

The reason I'm writing this now is two-fold. Elder Son posted a link to an article written by a journalist 'coming out' about his mental health problems. It's quite long but a very good article if you're interested. In it he says that when he eventually saw an expert he was diagnosed with OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder). 

Now when I think of OCD I think of people who have to keep washing their hands or checking they've turned off lights but in his case it's his thoughts that are obsessive and compulsive. And I see that his symptoms are very like mine. And that's a great relief. Not particularly to have a title or a name for my problem but to hear of someone else with similar experiences. Knowing I'm not alone. And allowing me to believe that maybe I'm not just stupid and incapable of controlling my own thoughts and mind.

The other reason for this long and probably boring to most people post is that recently it's been suggested to me or implied in conversations that I should give up my medication. 'What you need is God/fresh air/exercise.'

I would like to suggest that I have plenty of all of those - probably more than most - and they don't help.

If I were on blood thinning medication would you suggest that I stop taking it and run around more? If I were diabetic would you tell me to stop injecting myself and improve my diet? No, of course not.

I have a chemical imbalance that the drugs correct. It's no different from any other condition. Just because it's in my head and the symptoms aren't obvious to you don't make it any less real. Or life diminishing if untreated.

That's it. Rant over.

If you've got this far, thank you for reading. 

I've never seen Titanic

On Sunday posts began appearing on Facebook saying 'RIP Gary Speed'. Who's Gary Speed I hear you ask; I asked the same thing. It turns out he was the Wales football manager and ex-Wales player. Only 42 he was found hanged at home with no suggestion of foul play. The inquest begins today but suicide as a result of depression is being suggested.

He was a happily married family man doing well in his job, liked and admired by many many people. He appeared on a football show on the Saturday afternoon before he died and seemed as normal. He must have masked his depression well but how deep must it have been for him to take his own life?

I obviously had no idea who he was until yesterday and can't pretend to mourn him in anything other than a 'that is sad for his family and a waste of life' way, and my level of depression bears no comparison with his but maybe I should talk about the experience. I was thinking this yesterday and then last night I went to an event and one of the speakers there mentioned his depression and the reaction it had got. And I decided I would write this post.

I didn't think of it as depression initially; I was just anxious. It was just me being stupid and I needed to pull myself together.

It began when I was a teenager, the first worries assailed me. What would start as a little niggle grew into an obsessive anxiety. And the anxiety itself became greater and greater until it overwhelmed me.

What was worse was that, by this time, I was happily married with young children. My husband had a good job and we had a comfortable home. In short I had it all. What was there to be anxious about? I remember Husband saying that if I didn't have something to worry about I'd invent something.

And that was true. The slightest thing would set me off. I'd get the cold shiver running through me, my stomach would drop and 'what if' would pop into my mind; from there it was downhill. I could tell myself as much as I liked that it was nothing, I was being silly and try and think about something else but my brain was on one track by then and there were no turnings off.

By this time also I was a Christian. That should have helped right? Doesn't the bible tell us not to worry as God has everything in his control? 'Well, yes, but what if ...?' Guilt number 1 (or maybe 2 if you include the fact that I had no reason or right to be miserable).

But I asked for prayer and dear and very lovely people prayed for me. And I felt nothing when they prayed and no different afterwards. Guilt number 3. I must get better - or say I am - otherwise I'm letting everyone and God down. And it must be my fault anyway.

Most of my concerns were about health, either mine or the children's. I'd go to the doctor who'd reassure me and for a time I'd be okay. But the time between panics got shorter and shorter. I tried the doctor again, this time explaining that I can't stop worrying. At first they say, 'Get more exercise. Take up a hobby. You've nothing to worry about.' Eventually one sends me to a counsellor who listens and gives me a relaxation tape.

I do my relaxation exercises religiously every night but never get to the end of the tape as I've fallen asleep. Oh yes, I had no problem relaxing while lying on my bed; it was putting it into practice when walking around Sainsburys when I failed. Going to Sainsburys became something I dreaded; I had to pluck up my courage to go and try to get around before the panic overtook me.

The counsellor gave up on me saying there was nothing more she could suggest.

The film Titanic was in the cinemas around now. Everyone was going and everyone said, 'You've got to see it in the cinema to get the full special effects.' I smiled and made the excuse that Husband wouldn't enjoy it but really I was too scared to go and sit in a cinema in case I had a panic attack.

My life by now was entirely controlled by fear. There was hardly a moment when I wasn't anxious about something irrational. I was gloomy and distant with my family. I asked Husband yesterday what I had been like. He said, 'You were always stressed and miserable.'

I remember standing behind the bathroom door hardly breathing, hiding from something but from what I don't know. I desperately wanted to curl up in bed and stay there.

I couldn't enjoy anything; I couldn't anticipate events with pleasure because 'I might not be here by then.' Honestly I was a right misery!

At last a doctor realised that I was serious when I said my life was controlled by anxiety and fear and prescribed seroxat for me. She said that depression could be caused by a lack of a chemical serotonin in the brain, and suggested I try these tablets to correct that imbalance. (I also had this sort of belief that anxiety wasn't a proper 'illness' whereas depression was, and surely I was just being silly and anxious?)

And, dear readers, if you've managed to stay with me this long, I have to tell you that a tiny little pill changed my life.

Since taking my happy pill I am a different person. No, not different, well, yes, different but actually the person that was inside the shell of fear, the one I was meant to be rather than someone less than that.

Over the years the doctor has suggested on occasion that I try to come off them and I have given it a go but the symptoms have returned and there is no way I am going back there. It seems to me if there was an imbalance in my brain then it's likely to continue. I suppose my brain could right itself but I'm happy with my little pill. And I believe that depression, a chemical imbalance, whatever it is, is just as valid an illness as a more obviously physical one. (There has been in the past - maybe not so much now - an embarrassment in churches about sufferers of a mental illness.) Husband, like thousands of others, has to take a daily thyroxin dose; what difference is there between that and my seroxat?

I realise that my case is far less serious than Gary Speed's or that of many others who suffer silently and invisibly, but I'm so glad I sought help and found it at the right time.

And I try to mention my happy pill sometimes - especially in church situations - because I want to see an end to the shame and the stigma. Christians get depressed too!

By the way, I still need God and call out to him and trust and rely on him; my happy pill hasn't made him redundant. He is the rock that underpins my life. He's also my creator and inventor of serotonin ...

Might as well be Smarties?

So the latest research indicates that Prozac and similar anti-depressants are little better than placebos.

I am one of the millions who take anti-depressants - in my case, Seroxat (another SSRI like prozac). I've been a 'user' now for a long time.

I'd always been a worrier but over a number of years I became obsessively anxious. Something - usually tiny - would set me off and I'd be unable to concentrate for long on anything except the fear and anxiety I felt. It reached the point at which I was constantly down, miserable with my family and with myself.

I'd seen doctors at various times about this problem and finally one realised the effect that my anxiety was having on me and my family and she prescribed Seroxat. It took a little while for me to get settled with it but since then I haven't looked back. My life was given back to me.

Depression - in my case a by-product of anxiety - is hard to understand if you've never suffered it. 'What have you got to be miserable about?'

Nothing, but that doesn't alter the fact that misery had become my middle name. No, that's not right: it's not misery. It's something else. It's depression. It's not being miserable. It's not something you can control. It's not something you do for fun or attention.

I've tried counselling. The doctor sent me to an NHS counsellor. She gave me a relaxation tape saying that if I practised it, I could learn to relax whenever I felt panicky. I don't think I ever got to the end of the tape: I fell asleep usually about three-quarters of the way through. Relaxing my body has never been my problem! The counsellor gave up on me fairly quickly.

I went privately for arts therapy. Although I learned to understand myself and motivations a bit better, I can't honestly say that it helped to control my anxiety.

And I've been prayed for. Numerous times.

Christians aren't supposed to get depressed. We have the peace of God. If you don't have it we'll pray for you. Being a depressed Christian is bad enough; being a depressed Christian for whom prayer doesn't work is unadmittable. And guilt-inflicting. 'I must be such a bad Christian.'

As the years have gone by it's become okay to admit it but even now, in certain churches, taking pills to deal with depression would be frowned upon. Because it's not a real illness - like any other that would be treated with medication. It's all in the mind. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, get more exercise, join a club, keep busy. Don't consider for one moment that your depression might actually be a result of a chemical imbalance that needs righting.

In the article in the paper, users are being advised not to stop taking their prescribed medication suddenly because of the report. You don't have to worry about me: I have no intention of stopping taking my happy pills. In fact I'll fight anyone who tries to take them off me!

xx

Church and chocolate

According to Radio 4, Moscow is experiencing its warmest January since records began. Temperatures are 15 degrees above normal for this time of year. The bears in Moscow are struggling to hibernate and Muscovites are depressed because it's been so long since they saw the sun. Doctors are recommending bananas and chocolate. I can go along with that.

However the Russian Orthodox Church is suggesting that the warm weather might be a punishment from God, and that people might want to repent and pray for snow. (They didn't say 'repent'; I added that because they probably thought it.)

Talking of church, here is the building in which I work.

Alun and I share the office, the window of which you can see above the door. The green colour doesn't look too bad in this picture (or maybe it's because one of the lights in the study isn't working and I'm in half-darkness) but it was fairly universally detested when it was done.

The name on the front and the cross on the wall inside are all that tell people that a church meets here.