An unexpected day off

I wake up after a deep, exhausted sleep. It is light, the first time I have slept till daylight in several days. It's warm here in the valley, and I can hear a stream running behind my tent. I inspect my scraped legs, gently wiping away the dirt with a wet wipe and then slapping antibacterial gel onto the cuts. It stings like hell but at least they're clean.

Elkin stops by the tent with this morning's tea. I haven't seen him since we watched the condors together the previous day. He places a hand on mine and tells me how sorry he is for yesterday, how I was brave and how he regrets his decision. I guess I learned something in therapy, because I forgive him. It's something I've been practising, because there's been a lot I've needed to forgive myself for these past few months. For sure, he was a bloody idiot, but we're both human, he and I, and sometimes we mess up. Anyways, I'm too tired and too relieved to be pissed off.

I sip my tea and the sound of voices floats over to my tent. They're alive! I wonder if they need some time, but I can't help myself, I have to go see Dave and Amanda. They're holding cups of coffee, still inside their sleeping bags, talking about yesterday. We compare notes on what happened - they took a different route and never made it to camp until 9.45pm, long after I was asleep. Amanda is bearing scars too - cuts on her legs and deep muscle ache in her thighs. Dave's legs are so dirty it looks like he's wearing tights. Both are angry, and I can't really blame them - I think how hard it must have been for them, worrying whether they'd get down in one piece and both with kids at home.

Breakfast is served and I realise I'm famished. Amanda and I eat bacon and eggs, Dave goes for a shower. There's a lot of tension. But there is also bacon. And I like bacon. I eat more than I have eaten in one sitting since we started the trek, and Amanda and I have a good stretch out on the grass.

We're not up to walking to Piscacucho and the camp at the beginning of the Inca Trail, so we agree to get a cab there. The journey is a little hairy - bumpy roads in an ancient car with no seat belts and a couple of near misses on the small village roads. But I for one am kind of glad not to be walking. I'm also very careful not to see this as a failure. After all, today was to be a walk of only a couple of hours, and we certainly put in the extra time yesterday. I'm keen for the others not to see it as a failure either. Turns out I need lots of the lessons I learned in therapy today.

So we're installed on a proper campsite, in a hut with proper beds and - to my ultimate joy - a shower. It's freezing. I wash with no more contact with the water than I can bear, and then I shove my head under and wash my hair. I dry and dress as fast as possible, but I'm not about to complain. I just had a shower!

The campsite is in a beautiful setting, surrounded by mountains and with the Urubamba rushing along its edge. We are brought beer and soft drinks, and we spend the day taking it easy, eating, talking, napping. Amanda and I pop down for a sauna to heat our aching bodies, and I begin to feel a little more human.

We talk a lot about getting down the mountain. How it kind of throws you closer to share something horrible, how we feel about everything. Dave tells me I should feel proud of myself given the past year, and I do - I'm proud that I got through it and I'm still smiling. But I think they should be proud too, to face something that dangerous and scary, to keep their courage and to get down in one piece. And to still want to finish the trek, despite the impossibly aching limbs, the disillusionment of the previous day and the overwhelming tiredness. It takes strength and guts to show that kind of determination. Yes, I'm proud of us all.

Don't look down (part II)

It is later. Maybe minutes, maybe hours, but dusk is beginning to fall. I am shifting myself down a channel of grey slate, one stone at a time. Elkin said I would be able to walk it, but I can't because it's too steep. My butt and my legs are grazed and bleeding, and my progress is beyond slow. I don't know where Amanda and Dave are, because I can't see them anymore, and I hope they're OK, and I worry for them because they both have kids.

How to channel anger

I feel anger well up inside me, and I hold onto it because it will drive me forward and get me down this godforsaken slope. In my head I compose an email of polite, yet firm complaint, and I'm surprised at how detached I can be from the situation when I'm thinking of what I'll say about it after. I think about this blog, and what I will be writing. That today is one of the worst days of my life. That I would probably take a day of rock bottom depression over this.

As the anger builds, I say my thoughts out loud to the slate as it moves and slips under me. Fuck you, Elkin, for putting me here. For putting Amanda and Dave here. For making a really, really dumb decision. And fuck you, Mount Veronica. I don't believe in God, and I don't believe in you. So if you don't mind, I'll have those coca leaves back and you can do one. I believe in me, and I will reach the bottom of this goddamn mountain if it's the last thing I do. But it won't be, because I'm stronger than that and I'm buggered if this is going to defeat me.

A large rock clatters down the slope and misses my head by about a foot. Fabulous. I have to put up with flying rocks now too? Don't you bloody dare.

Mind, you better do something bloody good with that cash I raised. Because this is for the others. This is for the people whose families and friends don't understand, for the people who thought that the way out was at the bottom of a bottle, for the people who think they might not be worthy of their lives. And I can take this hellish slope if it means just one of those people can feel better.

And finally, to the people who didn't sponsor me because they thought I was just going on a jolly, fuck you too. I'd like to see you go through this, and hold it together the way I am. Because if there is anything to learn from this, it's that I am a freaking badass.

Girl, alone

To my left, Joel appears, holding out a hand to pull me up out of the channel. I grip it and tentatively follow in his footsteps. It is almost dark now, and we are picking our way around the mountain by the light of a pocket torch. He stops intermittently to blow a whistle and flash the light into the valley, from where faint shouts are reaching us. He got help.

We get to a path, and he stops facing the valley. After a few more minutes of the whistle and some shouting, he hands me the torch and tells me to wait. I shine the light in the direction he tells me, and he disappears into the night. It's cold now, and I can't see much except for the lights of the houses down below. I want to be there with some soup and a blanket. In a burst of childlike longing, I want my mum.

Joel does not come back. The torch beams in the valley weave about, and one disappears. The other is moving far off to my left, heading (so I think) for Amanda and Dave.

Don't leave me. Please don't forget me. I'm here. Please... The tears come. I'm scared now, scared of being stuck here on my own all night with no protection from the cold, no water and no food. I don't want to be out here alone. Please find me. Please find me.

Superman wears a poncho

It must be 20 minutes later when Agustin appears. He approaches shyly, asks where Elkin is. I don't even know how to say, 'I don't know' in Spanish, so I just shrug and hold out my hands. He heads off up the path and the fear that I'm being left alone again floods over me. But he's back in a couple of minutes, and shoulders Joel's pack, which has been left behind. Then he takes my hand and leads me back the way he has come.

From the moment we set off to the moment we arrive in camp, he has my hand firmly in his, bracing his forearm against mine to guide me along. We hold branches for each other, exchange awkward smiles in the dark, and inside I am close to worshipping him. Forget Henry Cavill. Forget lyrca and capes, and wearing your pants over your leggings. Superman is a chef and wears a poncho. Sweet, shy Agustin who has barely said three words together all trip, is now a giant as far as I'm concerned. Between watching my step and avoiding further scratches from scrubby bushes, I contemplate asking him to marry me when we get to camp. I will make it to camp.

Twelve hours after setting off that morning, we arrive at my tent. I am suddenly exhausted. I put my bag down and throw my arms around his slight frame. Gracias. Muchas gracias. He brings me a bowl of soup that I savour despite my tiredness, partly for its flavour and partly for its warmth, and I climb into bed. For a while I lay, straining my ears for the voices of my companions, but sleep takes me and I know nothing until the following morning.

Don't look down (part I)

Marcus Aurelius is credited with saying,  "Look well into thyself; there is a source of strength which will always spring up if thou wilt always look there." Although I didn't think of it at the time, I would apply these words to the third day of our trek. 

It begins well: we wake up to one of the most beautiful sunrises I will ever see. After breakfast, we stand together watching the light play and the clouds shift across the Veronica glacier, enjoying the peace of the early morning. There are times when total isolation is a comfort, when it's a relief to know that your frenetic everyday world cannot touch you. This is one of them. There is no phone signal. There is no-one but us. Only a handful of Europeans have ever stood on this spot and allowed this view to administer its healing balm to their aching souls. Now, we are among them.

To the sun gate

We set off at seven and are walking for three hours or so before hunger gets the best of us. By now we've realised that timing goes out the window when you're trekking. If you're hungry, you eat, whether it's usually considered an acceptable time for lunch or not. We sit on a rock looking down at the sun gate and nibble on sandwiches and fruit. Dave seems to be the only one for whom altitude has had no effect on appetite. I pick, eating slowly and saving half my food for later.

This sun gate is not the one that faces Machu Picchu. That one, Elkin explains, is not a 'true' sun gate, as it faces the abandoned city, rather than facing east towards the rising sun. The one that we are heading to frames the Inca goddess, Mount Veronica. The path to the sun gate (or Inti Punku in Quechua) is probably the flattest one we encounter during the whole trek. Reaching the gate itself is another moment where a sense of achievement is mixed with wonder, and the last point at which all three of us feel entirely positive.

The way down

It's after this that things go south. Instead of taking the clear path back from the sun gate and down to the town, Elkin instead leads us across the side of the mountain where there is no real path. To say that we are careful not to look down would be an understatement; we are practically pressing our bodies into the rock wherever possible and fixing our eyes firmly ahead.

Instead of being a ten minute ordeal, the descent turns into an eight hour nightmare as we shuffle and falter and curse our way down an incredibly steep mountain that has no path. There is no room in my brain for fear as I negotiate the slippy ground and sharp rocks, holding tight to a hand when it is offered and otherwise hoping my poles will see me through. My mind and muscles are entirely focused on inching myself down the slope. 

Before long I am out in front of Dave and Amanda, purely, I think, through my eagerness to get off the mountain. The sun is thudding onto my neck, my arms, my face. My toes, pressed against my boots because of the angle, are throbbing dully with every step.

At around 3pm I run out of water. I am sat now, resting for a moment and reapplying sunscreen before I can continue. Suddenly a shout goes up: "Condor, condor, condor!" I look up to see three magnificent birds silhouetted against the deep blue of the sky, wheeling and gliding on the thermals. One approaches, flying close enough for me to see his white collar. For precious seconds I forget my sore feet, my aching legs, my hot skin as I make sure this sight is etched onto my memory. I have seen real, wild condors. It crosses my mind that there are three birds, and three travellers, and I hope it's a sign that we will all arrive safely in camp before too long. 

It's a relief when, at around 4pm, the sun begins to sink behind a mountain, offering some shade. No matter how far I seem to descend, the valley looks a long way off, and I'm beginning to wonder if any of us will make it before nightfall, but I press on, my optimism hanging on with gritted teeth and broken nails, unaware, as yet, that the worst is still to come.

The summit

We're woken at 5am with coca tea and a bowl of washing water. It's still dark and removing myself from the snug warmth of my sleeping bag feels like a terrible idea, so I stay bundled up, clutching my mug and sipping until I can face the dash to remove my thermals and don my trekking gear.

Gradually, sunlight slides over the mountains around us, casting an orange glow on the land. Over breakfast, we watch with anticipation it advances over the valley floor to our little table, and bask in the early morning heat when it reaches us. To our right is a little school, painted in bright red and attended by children from miles around - we are far from any village here - and behind us is the path we are due to take this morning, a track that climbs around the mountain and up to the highest point of the trek.

An encounter

We start out around 7am, immediately climbing and before long we're looking down on our campsite, hundreds of metres below. After an hour or two we run into the only people we will meet that day - a mother and her two children who are shepherds on this land. As we are battling the altitude, our lungs heaving with the unfamiliar strain, the two kids run around with no problem at all, leaving us with a mixture of admiration and shame at our apparent lack of fitness.

We ask the mother for permission to give our snacks - oranges and chocolate - to the children, who accept graciously and allow us to take their pictures. It is a moment I will not forget; a moment of pure, innocent humanity, out here beyond nowhere with nothing but the forbidding Andes to bear witness to our shy exchange of smiles and broken Spanish. I think of them still, am torn between feeling lucky to live in Europe and have so much, and a lonely kind of envy at their uncomplicated lifestyle and a fortune richer than any I could earn: waking up each morning to the untamed beauty of those mountains.

An offering to the goddess

As we approach the summit across a track of red sand, we stop to wait for the team and horses to catch up. This is a moment we want to share, and it's made all the more special by the joy of the Peruvians as we reach the top. It isn't just the three of us who are delighted to have reached this beautiful spot; the mule drivers and guides are excited too because it's a journey they seldom get to do, and rewards us with incredible views not only of the way we've come (we can see right to the mid morning stop on the previous day's trek), but also of the Veronica Glacier.

It's here that Elkin grants us an extraordinary privilege. Beside us on the ground are little piles of rocks that are, he says, where offerings to the gods are left. We each take a pinch of coca leaves from the tub he's carrying and he shows us how to offer them to Mount Veronica in exchange for safe passage across her lands. I am not religious, but in the shadow of this imposing example of Nature's power, it's easy to see why the Inca turned to her as an object of reverence and looked to her for protection. It's an undeniably special and spiritual moment that I am grateful to have experienced.

We slip our coca leaves between the stones and take another pinch to chew before beginning the descent. It's here that my camera runs out of battery, and I content myself with simply looking at the curves and edges of the scenery. An hour or so from camp we come across the bones of what I think is a sheep, stripped bare by scavengers and bleached in the sun. It's a reminder of the fact that here, life and death exist side by side, always cycling through one another.

Tonight, we camp in view of the glacier, on probably the flattest piece of land we've seen all day. It seems the sun has got to me: I'm feeling headachey and my stomach isn't happy. Nevertheless, I eat to keep my strength up and we are all asleep by 7.30pm.

10 things you'll learn in the Andes

It's fair to say that my trek in the Andes was the most physically demanding thing I've ever done. You also learn a lot in only one day. Here are the lessons I took away from day one.

1. You can be Usain Bolt at sea level, but you will still be a lazy, unfit heifer above 3,000m.

2. You will tread in, and probably sit in, horse poo more than you care to acknowledge. You won't care.

3. When peeing in the wilderness, employ the Taylor Swift method: shake it off, shake it off.

4. Sunscreen is necessary.

5. You will walk for a day and still have less of an appetite than you do after a duvet day back home.

6. You will see animal skeletons and wish the corpse was still decomposing, because it would've meant more chance of seeing a condor.

7. You will be shown up by small children, who run around like the effects of altitude are optional.

8. You smell. But so does everyone else, so sod it.

9. Every time you stop to look around, it feels like you've opened your eyes for the first time.

10. It's possible to climb a mountain on little more than willpower.

The hard reality of altitude

An insane work schedule has unfortunately stood between me and my blogging, but here's the tale of our first day.

It is 7am, and we're standing by a river nibbling on snacks as the team prepares the horses and our luggage. We are at 3,200m, tired, excited and slightly apprehensive. When our water bottles full, we set off, immediately climbing up from the river. Right from the get-go, the views are spectacular - the river rushing below us, the beginnings of a road, snaking along the opposite mountainside, bright blue sky above us and the peaks serene in the early morning sun.

I learn my first lesson about altitude in the first half hour. It is this: no matter how fit you think you are at sea level, it is not the case above 3,000m. I am not an active 29 year old. I am a fat, heavy smoker who sits on the couch all day eating burgers. My heart is pounding, my lungs are stretched to capacity and my body is hammering on the door into my mind yelling, What are you doing?! After an hour of uphill trekking, I sit down heavily on a rock at the rest spot convinced I'm going to vomit. Elkin takes one look at me an insists my pack goes on the horse, meaning I carry only my Camelbak. Luckily I've had experience with nausea during exercise before, and can recognise the need to eat, so I pick at sugary dried fruit that I know I can metabolise quickly.

From then on I take it a bit more steadily, stopping regularly, drinking plenty and snacking when I need to. We are all feeling the altitude - except, Elkin, who is practically a tank and can keep going regardless. Rambo scampers alongside us, dropping to the floor and falling asleep as soon as we take a break. I secretly wish I could do this his way.

The highest point of today's trek comes just before lunch. We stop by a set of vacant tombs, the contents plundered by grave robbers long ago. The thing about the Andes is that they never stop taking your breath away. No sooner have you moved on from one amazing viewpoint, you find yourself at another. After a rest and some food I feel good enough to scamper up the hump to our left, where an Inca fortress once was. I have a good mooch about, take a few questionable selfies, and allow myself some time to simply stand and let the peace and the remoteness flood over me before heading back down.

Lunch is a delicious spinach soup followed by chicken stroganoff, which we eat in the mess tent overlooking another stunning vista. We have to admire what Agustin can whip up on a camping stove; the food is better than I've eaten in some restaurants! After lunch, it's mostly downhill to our camp for the night. As we walk over rich red soil, the clouds roll across and large raindrops begin to splash down. We're in our waterproofs just in time - the downpour soon become torrential and lasts the final hour of today's trek. On the path a red stream forms, the water in more of a hurry than we are to get to the bottom. There comes a point when you are so wet you stop caring about the rain and despite being soaked through I find myself enjoying the final stretch to camp. My feet, at least, are dry and my body is warm from the exercise. I feel more alive than I have done in a long time.

At camp, our tents are already set up, and we scramble inside to strip off our wet clothes and change to dry. Esteban and Agustin bring round tea and cake, and hot water to wash in, and I for one am soon feeling comfortable again. Thankfully there is time for a nap before dinner.

The sun sets as we eat, and by the time we head off to bed (at around 7pm - I have not been ready for a night's sleep so early since I was a child) there are stars overhead. Southern stars. We all take a moment to look up and feel the closeness of the sky under which we stand, miles from anywhere.

A glimpse of the Andes

It is 6.30pm, it is dark and I am alone. I think, under the circumstances, I can be forgiven some tears.
My Camelbak is empty and has been since around 3pm. Joel has my pack, so I have no food. What I do have, the only thing I have, is a hand torch, which I am shining into the valley in the hopes that someone is on their way.

But let us, in the knowledge that I am home and (relatively) unscathed, leave me there for the time being, because this is the middle and we must start at the beginning.

*

Maybe it's the angle of the sun as it touches the mountaintops, and maybe it's the writer in me making a romance out of an ordinary afternoon, but as the plane circles above Cusco, I find myself believing in the lost treasure of the Inca: the very peaks seem to shine with gold as the pilot makes his descent. This is the first real glimpse I have of Peru and it's a tonic for the final, hectic days at work before I left. The issues of the past 24 hours begin to evaporate, and I can feel the breath of adventure.

We are met with a very welcome cup of coca tea, an infusion brewed with leaves that are the source for cocaine base. Happily they're high-free in their natural state (although not enough for the drinker to pass a drugs test, Wiki tells me!) and a good antidote to altitude. Either way, it tastes like green tea, and gives the beginning of the trip a satisfying home-from-home feel.

We head to our hotel, where we take a quick shower and head out for 'lunch', which by 5pm is so much more like dinner that we agree to skip the actual dinner in favour of bed.

Acclimatisation

Our first full day is spent exploring Cusco, lingering indecisively at market stalls while enthusiastic women try to entice us with their wares. We chat to a painter in the main square and each end up buying a small piece that will roll up for easy transportation. Mine is, naturally, a rather silly a water colour of llamas who look very pleased with life in general. We're then hustled into Paddy's by Dave, who's whole plan for the day centres around a pint here. It's weird sitting in an Irish bar in Peru, with football on the TV and a couple of Germans next to us who soon fall into conversation about football related things that go right over my head.

Then we walk up to St Cristobel, which feels like pretty hard work given that we've been deposited by LAN at an alien 3,500m and the traffic is emitting some heady fuel fumes. En route we can see a wedding taking place in one of the churches, and Dave is rather taken with a lamb which is being carried around by some women and kids in traditional dress. The Peruvians dress so colourfully that it's tempting to start buying up a load of ponchos and hats and jumpers in all hues; we have to remind ourselves more than once that back home we wouldn't wear half the stuff we're thinking of buying.

"Sexy Woman"

At St Cristobel we get a taxi to Saqsaywaman, an Incan citadel that sits above Cusco. Getting into a taxi is an adventure in itself. Anyone who has been to Rome or Marrakech, or preferably both, will have some experience of fear when either sitting in a ab or crossing a road. Cusco more or less combines the two. We learn quickly that when walking, the best option is to just cross your fingers and go for it. In cabs, which incidentally seem to lack seat belts - at least any sort of seat belt that would offer adequate protection in a collision - we learn to not look. Ever. 

So to Saqsaywaman, often referred to by the English speakers as "Sexy Woman". It is here that we realise just how big Cusco is. It extends right along the valley and up the sides of the mountain, sprawling out in a way that seems impossible given its location deep in the Andes. 

Saqsaywaman is like nothing I have seen before. The citadel is made of huge - and I mean huge - square blocks of stone, each carved so perfectly that it fits with the next without cement and with gaps so small you couldn't fit a penny in.

There are llamas, which I find greatly pleasing, and there are incredible views of Cusco, and the Cristo Blanco on the next rise, which towers, arms outstretched benevolently, above the city. There are also preparations for a coming of age festival that dates back to Inca times. A stage is being set up in the green space between the two main parts of the settlement, and explains the boys in traditional dress running around the streets that we saw on our way up.

We return mid afternoon, tired and excited for our trek, which begins at 6am.

An introduction

First things first.

Allow me to introduce my excellent trekking buddies and the crew that prepared our food, set up our tents, cleaned up after us and, yes, disposed of our, ahem, biological waste.

Meet Dave and Amanda, my totally brilliant Peru friends, who stuck by my side through both the physical and emotional ups and downs. Amanda is brave, smart and a proper trooper even at only 50% fitness; Dave has the kind of appetite we approve of chez Carlton and an infectious kindness that makes me want to try and be nicer. 

This is the aforementioned crew. I called the horse Passepartout until I found out his real name, which is Agusto. Next is Florence, the head mule driver; then Elkin, part man-part tank, who you will hear about in due course; behind him is sweet, shy Agustin who whips up a mean soup (and pretty bloody good food in general); then Joel, who patiently waited each time I trailed behind the others, stopping to catch my breath every 10 steps; and Esteban, who helped set up and cook. I'm told he had medical skills but thankfully we didn't need to call upon them. Alas, I don't know the name of the chap squatting at the front.

Finally there was Rambo, a one-year old dog who scampered about the mountains while we trekked and promptly collapsed to snooze every time we stopped for a break. It was lovely to see his little head pop up over a ridge to check we were still following when the trail got tough.

And now that you know everyone, I can begin the tale...

The first 24 hours

I know, I know. I said I wouldn't blog, but here I am. The past 30 odd hours have been something of an adventure in themselves.

After a reasonably positive start, our plane to Lima was diverted to Manaus in Brazil following a medical emergency on board. Following a 2-2.5 hour wait, we got going again to arrive at the airport 10 minutes after our connecting flight to Cusco departed. Cue panicked texts from my parents who were able to do precisely nothing to help. They were ordered to chill at around the point we realised Dave's luggage never actually boarded the plane at Madrid. Good.

So tired, dehydrated and minus 1x luggage, we waited an hour to get on another flight, which deposited us at Cusco at around 4pm local time.

Since then things have been rather smoother. Our friendly taxi driver, having popped our bags in the boot, proceeded to hand us cocoa tea and biscuits. Needless to say, my impression of Peru and its people immediately improved. We checked in and were hustled back out for lunch. I say lunch, by this time it was 5pm and more like dinner.

At the time of writing I am waiting to be briefed by the tour guide. Then I will be hitting the proverbial sack.

More in due course...

Well this is it, then

In two days I fly to Cusco. Well, Madrid, then Lima, then Cusco to be precise.

I am excited!!!

This will be my last post before I fly, unless something absurdly funny or weird happens in the meantime. Not ruling it out...

Several people have asked me if I plan to update while I'm away. The short answer is no. Aside from the Andes being completely signal free (bliss!), I am far too lazy to try and write blogs on my phone. I will, however, update when I'm back and have lots of fabulous pictures to share. At least I hope I will - currently the forecast for Cusco is predicting thunder storms.

At the time of writing, I have raised £1850. I am over the moon about this. Huge thanks to everyone who donated, or ate cake, or drank wine, or did all of the above for the cause.

Courtesy of @DoWhatITellYou

The codpiece mask is taking a break for the time being (although I'm happy to whip it out on request at parties) and I am looking forward to meeting my fellow trekkers at Heathrow and getting started. The ice cream thing didn't quite work out in the end - I was seduced by a tub of B&J's cookie dough (not literally, that would be horrendous) and caved on Saturday morning. It was delicious.

I will say hi to Paddington for you all and am under instructions from my big brother to bring him back a llama. He even said he'd pay for its flight if I could pass it off as a human. Dave, Amanda: I think we can do this.

Happy September everyone - I shall update on my return :)

Final training and taking risks

I conquered a hill 

Last weekend I talked my dear and very obliging friend Nikki into coming on a ramble with me to get some last minute training in before the trek. She duly took me around Alice Holt Wood, some of the lanes around her village and over to the Devil's Jumps for some hardcore uphill walking. I set myself the challenge of climbing Stony Jump, the highest of the three, with my mask on - set to emulate breathing at 15,000 ft.

I'm not going to lie, it was hard work: my lungs felt like bursting and my heart was thudding harder than an elephant on a pogo stick. But, with a heart rate of over 170bpm and a decent helping of determination, I reached the top. This is what that moment looked like:

Taking risks

Part of the reason for me doing this trek (aside from it being on the bucket list) is that my New Year's resolution for 2015 was to take more risks. Some long discussions with my therapist made it obvious to me that becoming depressive had not only wiped my self confidence, it had also stifled my ability to step outside my comfort zone. 

So 2015 has been about saying 'yes' instead of making excuses and shying away. There are much smaller things that I am proud of having done this year, things like attending a hen do where I didn't know anyone, and taking a motorbike trial. I still get nervous - really nervous - about stuff that other people take in their stride, but the point is I'm doing it anyway, because more often than not the experience is worth the apprehension.

From 8 months to 8 days

When I signed up for this trek in January, I had no idea that the response from family, friends and others would be so amazing. With the help of many, many people I have almost doubled my initial fundraising target, and received loads of positive feedback about my blog. 

There are now only 8 days(!!) till I leave for Peru. There is a holdall in my spare room into which I am trying to fit everything I will need, with limited success. There are insurance documents and trip notes littering the floor. There is a Paddington keyring which will hang from my backpack for good luck. I am, inevitably, apprehensive about the physical demands and the altitude, but if nothing else, I am proud of this: proud of speaking up, of raising awareness and of doing something to help. Once again, thank you for your support.

No-one tells you about withdrawal

This post was sent to me by a friend who has been struggling with depression for much longer than me. In it, the experience of SSRI withdrawal is described: this is an exceptionally difficult aspect of the condition to cope with, something that has intense physical and mental side effects that leave you completely exhausted. It's not something that gets talked about a lot unless the user is planning to come off the medication; the GP may mention it when you first get onto the drugs, and then again in the context of coming off, but there's little support in between for the times when you do forget, or are unable to renew the prescription.

I am enormously proud of my friend for having the courage to talk about this, and grateful that I've been given permission to publish it here.

Withdrawal

It's my own fault. Yet my inability to prepare for how I'm feeling right now rears its head every month. I've let myself down and I've let down those I love. 

It should all be so simple. I know the drill. Renew, review, repeat. Yet my closest ally for the last decade too often goes missing at the vital time - and it's all because I neglect to repeat the right part of the process. 

Why do I put myself through days of feeling like I do by being incapable of simply submitting a piece of paper? Perhaps my subconscious wants me to forget. Perhaps it enjoys the company that comes from conversing with myself in public. Perhaps my muscles cry out to involuntarily jerk and twitch just to feel alive. Perhaps those clicking sounds I unwillingly make are humble cries for attention. Perhaps the complete loss of balance, the drowning sensation, and the numbness in my legs are just an assault on the comfort I risk becoming used to. Or perhaps, just perhaps, I need to feel something close to what I'm feeling right now to remember how dark my depression can be, and how I should better appreciate the high points and those around me that do care. 

Regardless of the reason, it's now been five days since my last full dose of Sertraline. These five days - which come at the end of a ten-year relationship - have been tricky to negotiate. I've been in situations that scare me. Situations that, for most people, might seem trivial (being around friends and family, going to work, getting out of bed). Yet, I've managed to get through each moment... just. Yes, it may have been at half speed. And yes, it may not have been much fun for either me or those around me. But get through I have. And I'll continue to get through them, despite what some fleeting thoughts might say. 

I've been promised that tomorrow I will have a full quota of tablets to tide me over. I'll be back in working order - of sorts. A number of doctors have said that I'll have to depend on these little tablets for life. I'm not sure if that's reassuring or not. After all, prolonged exposure to SSRIs alters the brain for good. Going back is not an option. But the way I feel right now, I don't want to go back. I long only for the support that the cocktail of chemicals brings. 

I'll tell myself that next month I'll prepare better. That next month things will be ok. I depend on my tablets to function. I don't necessarily want to, but I do. Maybe that's why I forget. Maybe it's a protest of sorts. Who knows?

Whatever the reason, I feel ashamed to have let myself down again. I rely on the help these pills provide. Does that make me addicted? I'm scared to admit that it does. But I'm also scared that I'll stop. 

Things I have learned from depression (part II)

A few months back, I wrote down some things I learned from having depression. Having gotten a little further, I think it's time to add to that list.

1. The work never stops. It's so easy to fall back into the mindset that everything is your fault, so it's important to take a moment to put things back into perspective.

The last week I've found myself slipping a little, getting stressed and not being able to catch myself and analyse my responses before I react. I've felt a bit of a mess. Luckily, my therapy has taught me to recognise when to take time out, so today I let myself off the hook: laid in, read, watched TV, let my mind rest. And I woke up after an afternoon nap to the realisation that I'm proud of what I have done this year. Against the odds, I got a new job; I'm still fighting, practising meditation, trying to keep perspective; I stood up for myself; I am standing up for others with mental health problems. I am a depressive and I am not beaten.

2. There is no such thing as normal. Each one of us experiences a different reality, and that reality is our own. Nothing else matters until we have achieved balance within that reality, and can respect that of others.

3. I am not my illness. My illness does not define me. It makes things difficult, it gets me down sometimes, but I am many other things that my illness cannot touch.

4. There are some things that therapy will never solve. And that's OK.

There are certain things that I feel about myself, certain ways I perceive myself that therapy cannot heal. I can't solve the problem, but I can create an experience that contradicts what has gone before.

5. The more I talk about my world, the more the stigma on mental health issues recedes.

Starting a blog was a scary step: there are people that I have never met who have read these words. But my choice to be publicly open about my experience can only help to break the silence around mental health problems. Only true understanding and empathy can ultimately vanquish fear and engender acceptance.

Adventures in North Devon

As many of you know, I spent the past week in North Devon, combining some training with a final chance to do not a lot before I head off to Peru.

Day 1: A 7-mile walk around Croyde, during which we stopped briefly for lunch overlooking this:

And later walked above Woolacombe beach:

If you can't get to altitude, bring altitude to you. Guess how my tan turned out that day

...

Day 2: From Mortehoe to Bull Point via Lee Bay. We ate lunch looking at this:

And I bought a stylish sun hat. 

Our third day's walk took us from Velator Quay almost into Braunton. It was a bit boring after the first hour, so I don't have any photos, but we took my brand new walking poles, which turned out to be a solid purchase.

Overall a decent week training - no blisters, and I know where my aches are going to come from!

The second tasting

Having returned yesterday afternoon, I grabbed a couple of hours' respite in my parents' back garden before heading out to deliver a wine tasting for some friends. We took advantage of the beautiful evening, and after some chaos involving a lively pug and a terrified moggy, we went through six wines and a lot of cheese, finishing the evening with a game of Cards Against Humanity. A tidy total of £60 was raised thanks to their generosity.

Which leads me to my grand total. Since signing up for the trek in January, I have raised a staggering £1,705. This is far, far beyond my expectations, and I'm hugely grateful to everyone who has donated for their generosity.

Drugs, jabs and thermal underwear: 7 weeks out

It is now a mere 7 weeks until I head off on my trek. Lots of people are asking me if I'm getting excited, and quite frankly the answer is not yet. Aside from the fact that I don't tend to get excited about things until a few days before, there is lots happening at the moment, which is rather distracting me from thoughts of Peru.

My brain is a douchebag

Training has been a little difficult recently as I've been feeling pretty wiped out and kind of low the past couple of weeks. On Wednesday, following the first meltdown in several months, I made the decision to go back onto a full dose of antidepressants. For someone as obsessed with succeeding at everything as I am, that wasn't easy, but my therapist obviously managed to teach me something, because I'm not looking at it as a failure, just something that is necessary right now.

Since leaving therapy, the learning hasn't stopped. Perhaps one of the toughest lessons has been that all the therapy and all the meds in the world won't sort out some of the things that make me low, but I'm keen to try and remain as positive as I can. During one session later on in my treatment, my therapist told me not to stop fighting. I don't intend to.

On the plus side, Mumma C baked me a cake :)

7 weeks out

...which means next week is 6 weeks, meaning jab time. I get to bombard my body with typhoid and tetanus next Thursday, which should be all kinds of fun. I'm also nearing the end of the kit-buying frenzy. Thanks to a Millets voucher I got for my birthday, I have a silk sleeping bag liner to help keep me toasty warm at night, and have recently purchased a set of highly erotic thermal underwear. Check this out: 

Cat Woman wishes she could rock this.

As if that wasn't hot enough, I also bought a money belt, (I didn't dare don both for the photo for fear of causing grown men to swoon) which is a mere sidestep from the revered bumbag. The Peruvians better watch out.

And those Stairs of Death I mentioned? Dave sent Amanda and me some reassuring links to articles featuring Huayna Picchu, most of which include the words 'scariest' or 'dangerous' in the title. Good.

Nettles, death stairs and no more ice cream

The past couple of weeks have proved to be so busy I'm barely getting any training done. Some of you will have heard about my somewhat farcical trip to Marseille last week, which pretty much wiped me out completely, putting a stop to any thought of training.

Having conquered the nettles, Nik and I
find Silbury Hill

I did, however, smash a 15 km walk with my good friend Nik the weekend before last, an epic journey which took us back to the Neolithic period (not literally, this isn't Doctor Who). We rambled around the standing stones of Avebury, scaled a hill that was steeper than it looked, found ourselves in a dried up stream bed full of stinging nettles, gawped at a man-made mound with apparently no function whatsoever (Silbury Hill), scrambled up to an ancient tomb, and finished up at the pub with a well deserved pulled pork sandwich.

For this trip I duly donned my hiking boots and pack, c
omplete with the things I'll be lugging through the Andes (water, snacks, waterproofs, first aid kit, sun cream etc). And it has to be said I had a great time.

Making new friends

As well as walking with an old friend, I've been making new ones: last week I got in touch with the two people I'm going to Peru with - a brother and sister who seem like jolly decent folks. There's only three of us, because apparently everyone else pulled out. In the spirit of unconquerable optimism I'm taking this to mean we are the totally badass ones who are game for this high altitude challenge. I wonder if they're training with the codpiece masks too??

Image courtesy of grindtv.com

They've invited me on their trip up Huayna Picchu, a 7am start to scale the mountain that overlooks the city of Machu Picchu. On Googling this for an image, I have just found out that there is a section of the climb called the Stairs of Death. Good. Nothing to worry about there, then. I will absolutely not be shitting my pants all the way to the summit.

Getting back on the horse

The plan is to get back on the horse this week. Several people have recommended some nearby walks and my sparring buddy Andy took a brief break from trying to punch me in the face to offer a book he has with lots of walks through Kent, some of which include the Downs (hill training is getting kind of essential now) and some good pubs. I'm starting to worry that I won't be able to complete the trek without a pub break, which I'm assuming will be problematic unless some English chap has set up a Red Lion somewhere along the trail. Doubtful.

Lastly, I have sworn off ice cream and am attempting to cut back on sugar until the trek is over. This is proving difficult, but my trainer has kindly offered to eat lots of ice cream on my behalf in the meantime. This man is supposed to be a good influence on me...

Scary facts and the importance of support

Everyone knows that cancer is a killer. A big one. We're told, relentlessly by cancer charities that it's our duty to help 'fight' and 'beat' cancer, because we, or someone we know, will get it at some point. Now my purpose is not to undermine the importance of this message - cancer is a serious disease and is well worth the funding to treat and prevent it - but I do want to highlight the difference between the awareness of death from cancer and that of death from mental health disorders.

Some frightening stats

Are you aware, for example, that there are around 4400 suicides each year in the UK and that 90% of the victims are suffering from a psychiatric disorder at the time of death? (1) And that's just the successful ones. Around 10 times that number attempt and fail. Furthermore, a report carried out in 2009 suggested that 17%  of us experiences suicidal thoughts each year. These are by no means small numbers.

In 2013, there were over 49,000 deaths from Alzheimer's. That's more than the total number of deaths from breast cancer and lung cancer combined. (3)

That's a lot of fatalities and just part of the picture. 1 in 4 people suffer from a mental health condition every year. My point being, in case you hadn't guessed, this is serious.

The stigma

Image copyright: Rebecca Harris Quigg

Something you also may have noticed by now is that part of the purpose of this blog is to smash the stigma surrounding mental health issues into tiny, tiny pieces. Many people don't understand mental health disorders, and for that they cannot be blamed. It's very difficult to comprehend what depression or anxiety, PTSD or panic disorder let alone schizophrenia or psycopathy does to someone unless you have dealt with it first hand or had to support someone with such a condition.

What is unforgivable is the insensitivity that people sometimes display. I remember a time last year when I tried to open up to a colleague about the way I was feeling, before I'd identified it as depression. His response was, "So what are you going to do about it?", casually delivered as if I'd complained of a headache or a trivial work problem. This struck me as particularly cruel, and demonstrated a complete ignorance of the state I was in. He was someone that should have known better.

Depression - or any other m
ental health disorder - is not something you just fix by changing your job, or entering a relationship or thinking positively. It is a complex web that encompasses emotion, history, experience, genetics and many other things. It strikes at different times and in different ways. For me, it's something that happened so gradually I barely realised I was sinking until I was at the very bottom. For others, it comes out of nowhere.

Support

What all this is leading up to is the importance of support. I have mentioned it before, but I want to go into more detail. Support is available in the form of medication and therapy, and they are important routes to explore. But it also comes from our peers, and there are different kinds that can be offered.

When the Labrador of Doom strikes, a trusted
friend is essential. 

Being a friend to someone with a mental health issue is an extremely difficult and important thing. It's a very noble thing. And it doesn't always have to be in the form of talking about feelings. Some of us just aren't good at that kind of thing, but it doesn't mean there's nothing you can do.

One of the most solid forms of support I received was from my parents - practical support. Knowing that I could call my parents if I got myself into a mess, and that they would come round and help out was immensely beneficial. Of course they listened if I wanted to talk, but crucially, they did things. They washed up, they cooked dinner (even making baked beans on toast is too exhausting sometimes), they did the odd bit of cleaning. This simple stuff makes a hell of a difference when you're feeling like you can't cope.

I also had a lot of support from my friends. One in particular, Michael, was amazing. He kept in touch almost every day, he wished me luck each week before my therapy session, and then texted to find out how it went afterwards. Little things, but important. Not for one second did I doubt his support, and I genuinely feel that although I felt utterly worthless a lot of the time it stopped me from doubting my worth completely, just knowing that he was someone outside my family who was looking out for me.

Being close to someone with depression is hard. It's tempting to think that what they're feeling is partly your fault. For most, it isn't. Their mental condition doesn't mean that your marriage is failing, that they resent being a mother to your child, that you're a rubbish friend or parent or sibling. It just means that they are in the middle of a constant, exhausting, internal battle - one that doesn't necessarily let up when they go to sleep - and they simply can't find the energy to cope with daily life. It means their brain is just wired a little differently from everyone else's, either temporarily or permanently. Trust me, the fact that you are there at all means a lot more than you think, even if they're unable to express it.

1. http://www.mentalhealth.org.uk/help-information/mental-health-a-z/S/suicide/
2. http://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/types-of-mental-health-problems/statistics-and-facts-about-mental-health/how-common-are-mental-health-problems/
3. http://www.alzheimers.org.uk/site/scripts/news_article.php?newsID=2277
Cancer stats for 2012 http://www.cancerresearchuk.org/health-professional/cancer-statistics

Image courtesy of Rebecca Harris Quigg, terrible photoshopping by Sam Thorp.

The little white pill on the counter top

There is a small white pill on the kitchen counter. So far I have managed to cut it in half, and I am looking at the two pieces. Two tiny 25 milligram pieces of SSRI. Taking it should be easy; it is going to help me get better.

We are, after all, a generation of self-medicators. We pop painkillers, contraceptives, allergy tablets as casually as we have a conversation. When we get sick, we Google our symptoms and can prescribe ourselves something before we've even seen the GP. Easy.

I cannot take this tablet. I'm so scared. As I stand staring at it, my head floods with everything that swallowing this tablet means, and could mean. It means I really am ill; it means a long uphill climb just to become normal; it means that I am about to become dependent on a drug. What if I can't come off it? What if, after 6 months, 50mg isn't enough? What if it doesn't work? What if I get awful side effects?

If there is one night I need someone to hold my hand, it's tonight. There is no-one. I sink to the kitchen floor and cry.

Half an hour later and I get to my feet, pick up the tablet. I think of my friend Jen. I think of what she would say. She'd tell me I'm brave, so that is what I tell myself, slightly shaky, tablet in palm. You are so brave, you are so brave, you are so brave... Seven times I repeat this before I can tip the tablet into my mouth and chase it with water. It's done. I collapse on the couch and begin crying all over again.

***

It is almost ten months later, and it turns out taking that first pill was a good idea after all. SSRIs don't work for everyone - they're not even necessarily recommended by GPs - but they gave me the stability to make that uphill climb and to get my head around a healthier way of looking at things.

Last week I began to come off my meds. It's a long process - I basically have to trick my body into not noticing I'm withdrawing so that I can minimise the symptoms - but I can live with that. I'm coming off the meds. It's another of my little victories.

My final twenty-something

I am officially 3 months out! Aaaand I still feel completely untrained. That said, I did run (which I haven't done since this time last year) for the best part of 12 mins last week. No laughing, this is a Good Thing for me.

I like to think I could rock the suit.
Also, girl guns are hot.

My latest cake sale raised £78 - yay!! - and I have been doing further baking this week, but not for fundraising purposes. It's my birthday tomorrow! I have been frantically baking cake for colleagues at TWO businesses. Kind of feel like Superwoman right now, which I think is pretty good going given the situation a year ago.

Growing up?

I'm looking forward to turning 29. This year has been bumpy, but it's also given me some valuable lessons, the kind of lessons I don't think I would otherwise have learned. I'm looking forward to this new chapter as someone I'm comfortable being, someone who isn't consumed by feelings of inadequacy.

For a long time I've battled with an inner emptiness that seemed impossible to fill. This aching sense of being the supporting actress in my own life as I watched it slip away. I wanted to feel 'normal', to have that magic life ingredient that everyone else seemed to have. My solution was to work, to achieve. I have always needed more - more qualifications, more skills, more studies. I have compulsively been good at everything, because in my mind there was no other option.

Yet still that wide open space remained inside me. Because it took a trip to the bottom to realise that the answer was not to better, but simply to accept myself. To be able to look at my life and understand that yes, there are things about me that are different from other people and I've ended up somewhere different from where I'd hoped. But I am not a failure. I am not a disappointment, and I am not running out of time.

So I'm raising a glass to my final year in my twenties. I'm celebrating with the people I care about, and I'm determined to appreciate my own peculiar version of normal. My life holds promise, where a year ago it only held frustration and claustrophobia. To everyone who has been a part of my journey over the past year, thank you, and I hope you will continue to play a part this year.

Also, if anyone could spare a moment to kick my ass over training to make sure I do it (instead of keep eating all this cake) that would be much appreciated!

Here's to 29!

Superwoman pic: comicbookmovie.com
Champagne pic: polyvore.com

Cake Bonanza Round III

Today I took cake and other baked goodness to work for the Mind cause. Behold the feast of deliciousness:

Incorporating double choc chip cupcakes and shortbread...

...Charmain's blueberry and oat muffins...

...Lemon & poppyseed cupcakes and Charmain's banana, bran and pecan muffins...

...and cheese scones (foreground) and coconut biscuits.

East Grinstead was a very happy place today!

Public training and more cake

The past few weeks have zipped by in a fizz of work excursions and workout DVDs. I have begun my training for Peru in earnest - Jillian Michaels' Ripped in 30 2-3 times per week, mask training twice a week and a long walk as often as possible.

The first public mask outing 

I took my training mask out in public for the first time a couple of weeks ago, much to the amusement of several of my colleagues. Having decided to get their obligatory gimp jokes out the way early on, I donned the head gear and went out during my lunch break to walk the mile or so up to the local church and back.

I should mention that this same week, I had run out of contact lenses and was wearing glasses to work. Now the issue here is that it's not really practical to wear the training mask with glasses since it sits quite high up the nose. At least it does on my face. So there was nothing for it but to venture out into the Kent countryside without them. Picture, if you will, a slight woman with a mask clamped over her face, vaguely unable to see and breathing like Darth Vader. Have I mentioned what a classy girl I can be?

There is, I have decided, only one way to tackle this situation, and that is to be excessively cheerful about it. In what reality was I ever not going to get weird looks pottering round like this? I have a trip to train for, and goddammit, I am using the latest training technology to prepare. That makes me cool. Yes it does.

Of course the feeling of trendy training quickly wore off when I took the mask off my now slightly sweaty face and unexpectedly noted its resemblance to a codpiece. Yes folks, I am running around with a codpiece ON MY FACE. And I am doing so while defiantly maintaining the cheery.

Cake: Round 3

When I started my new job, the first thing I did was to scope out the possibility of holding a bake sale. I'm delighted to report that cake is as popular here as it was at my previous place, and there are lots of people available to eat it! Consequently I am holding a baking fest this weekend to provide around 50 cake-aholics with delicious sugary treats. The girls in my team have also volunteered their culinary skills, which I'm very pleased about! Watch this space for pictures...

Charity tins are fab

Last week I emptied out my Mind collection tin and paid i
n a whopping £90 from the past few months' fundraising efforts, taking my total to over £1100. And still counting!

--edit--

Things I have learnt during the writing of this post: Searching 'codpiece' on Google images is a very bad idea.

Image courtesy of Etsy. I don't want to know why Etsy is selling Renaissance codpieces.