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.