My day of non-doing

Over a year ago, a friend of a friend recommended a book to me. It's a large book, which I have been dipping in and out of for the past 9 months, called Full Catastrophe Living by Jon Kabat-Zin. In it, the idea of non-doing, which is found in more than one eastern culture, is promoted as a healthy way to prevent stress build up and help us manage the 'full catastrophe' of modern life.

image: http://myunblock.com/

We live extremely busy lives. Everything has to be instant, our brains are always switched on. We're checking emails, waiting for that text from so-and-so to confirm plans for the weekend, wondering what to have for dinner, watching TV, solving problems...It's no wonder more and more of us are finding it hard to switch off.

Depression makes this worse. I spent most of August 2014 trying to work myself into oblivion, because work was the one thing that stopped me thinking. Thinking was destroying me. Every time I had chance to relax, my brain would start telling me, within minutes, that I'm worthless, that no-one liked me and how could they, when I was such a terrible person? I didn't try hard enough, I wasn't kind enough, what's wrong with me? So I worked, and worked to distract myself. And you can guess how healthy that was.

Non-doing

So, finding myself unexpectedly with nothing to do yesterday, I decided to follow some of Prof. Kabat-Zin's advice and consciously do nothing. I don't mean by this that I sat on the sofa watching TV and eating ice cream, nor do I mean I looked at a wall for 6 hours. Rather, I took the time to really pay attention to my body, my thoughts, my actions.

image: http://www.totallypresent.com/

I had a cup of green tea and took the time to taste every mouthful, feel the warmth of the liquid and the tannins, smell the lemon. I paid attention to the feel of the carpet on my feet as I walked about. I meditated, spending time noticing the areas of tension in my muscles and allowing myself to relax. I did a spot of yoga, again focusing on how each stretch and twist felt. And I slept when my brain told me it needed sleep.

What was the point of all this? It slowed my mind down. I am, by nature, an over-thinker with a very active brain. Gently guiding my thoughts into the present moment and curbing the impulse to distract myself was hugely liberating. I did very little all day, and had a really, really, good day. I felt nurtured, restored. I realised how important it is to make that time to switch off from screens and demands and impulses, and just be.

The next challenge is remembering how good it is, and making time for it more often...

Don't look at me

Today is a 'don't look at me' day. I don't, thankfully, have these too often anymore, but today I am avoiding the gaze of the world as far as possible.

Not so long ago every day was a 'don't look at me' day. It's not uncommon in people with depression. Some have a more extreme version - body dysmorphia - that skews their whole perception of how they look and is an incredibly painful, difficult thing to deal with both for the sufferer and those who love them. Me, I just didn't like what was there.

Not liking yourself or the way you look is tough. Most people experience it to a greater or lesser degree, and I'm not above saying that I think the media and society are accountable at least in part for that. We are told every day, explicitly or implicitly, how we would look, or be, if we were 'real' women or 'real' men. One of my biggest issues with not liking how I looked, however, came from my peers. Because 5'10", size 8 blondes have absolutely no business feeling crappy about themselves, right? Other girls would kill for my physique, my hair, my height. I was even told that by a GP once.

So this is how it would go. I would get up in the morning and try not to look in the bathroom mirror as I undressed to have a shower. I would look at my skinny figure and feel disgusted, because my ribs show when I stretch and there are visible blue veins on the backs of my knees. I'd cry, feeling like a malnourished child. To this day I want to slap anyone who claims that 'real' women have curves.

In order to apply make up, one has to look at one's face. This too I hated, because I have a skin condition called rosacea, which makes my skin dry and red, and has left little scars across my cheeks. (You wouldn't believe how much I've spent on trying to mitigate that). So, diligently covering it all up, I'd repeat 'I hate my face, I hate my face' and wish that just once I could see something other than the cluster of imperfections that looked back at me from the mirror.

And then I'd go to work and pretend that my insecurity about my size, my shape, my face wasn't eating me up. Because I wasn't worthy of that insecurity. How dare I, when other people would kill for this?

My point is, dealing with the issue in the first place is hard enough, but dealing with other people's opinions or judgement around that issue makes it ten times worse. We are not meant to look any other way than we are. Therapy and medication (and a few dates) helped me to finally feel comfortable with the way I look. But attitudes still need to change.

Today is a 'don't look at me' day because I'm tired, and I forgot to take my meds, and I haven't had a haircut for three months, or a colour for six months.

I am not ugly because I have rosacea.

'Real' women do not have curves.

Real women have short hair, or long hair, or something in between. Real women are curvy, or slim, or not quite either, and have big boobs or small ones. Real women have muscles. Oh, a six pack isn't feminine? Tell that to Jess Ennis-Hill.

All women are real women, and we are entitled to our insecurities just as we are entitled to look however we choose to. The same goes for men. Dressing well and not liking football does not make a man any less masculine.

It's time we nurtured a culture of acceptance rather than one of judgement. It may just make us all a little happier.


Drawing: 'Don't Look at Me' by Opfinger on DeviantArt.

The city and the rainbow

It begins with pancakes and honey. Well, it does for Amanda and me. For Dave it's more the other way round - a lot of honey with a side of pancakes. We are all feeling more rested and chatter over breakfast about how most of Dave's photos so far have been selfies and flowers. Make of that what you will.

We pack up and walk to the station to catch the train to the start of the final day's trek. Waiting for the 7.30 train with us are a few kids in blue uniforms heading to school. Education is really valued in Peru - the schools are easy to spot because they're brightly coloured and clearly cost a lot more to build than the houses. We board the train and gaze out of the window at the Urubamba as we follow it towards Machu Picchu. Thanks to a dodgy table I end up with orange juice in my lap not 15 minutes into the journey, and spend the rest of it mopping up and feeling wet and slightly irritated.

We hop off seemingly in the middle of nowhere and begin to climb again, heading up to join the Inca Trail. We are much lower here, and it's lush with rainforest. We take our minds off our aching limbs by pointing out wild orchids and beautiful butterflies. In Peru, the name for orchids is Winaywayna and means 'forever young'.

We pause at an Inca settlement, an outpost where traders would stop to eat and sleep between Machu Picchu and Cusco. Elkin explains the features of the ruins: where people slept and where the food was stored; what the little niches in the walls were for; how to identify the original stonework from that which has been reconstructed. From there we continue our ascent, which is easier thanks to the past few days' practise and the lower altitude, but still hard going as there are a lot of steps.

We are heading to the second of three Inca farming and storage bases, also named Winaywayna. Each is positioned at a different altitude, enabling the people to cultivate different crops. We cross a bridge where a waterfall tumbles over the rocks and flows out through the forest. Dave and I take the opportunity to dip our fingers into the cold, clear water and snap some photos. It's here that my SD card runs out, and Dave is kind enough to lend me one of his for the rest of the journey.

We arrive at Winaywayna, which to my utter delight has wild llamas pottering about on the stepped terraces. I am so excited that Amanda declares, "Charli's having a llamagasm". I am not ashamed, they're fabulous creatures with their slightly haughty look. I wander onto a terrace to see if one of them is friendly, and Amanda manages, somehow to achieve this photographic gold:

Llama antics over, we head on towards Machu Picchu. The steps are rough on Amanda, whose thighs are still giving her grief, and it's with some sheepishness that I admit we were overtaken by a pack of sprightly American tourists in their seventies as we struggled with the steps. To add insult to injury, we realise too late that we should've been more liberal with the insect repellent - we are covered in black fly bites which itch like crazy. I've also come out in a rotten cold and am blowing my nose every 10 minutes.

We break for something to eat by some more ruins, where there's a long drop into the valley. Dave jokes about me not throwing myself over, to which I respond jovially, "Just cos I'm depressed, doesn't mean I'm suicidal!" It's a light-hearted comment, but a pertinent one. Many people seem to think there's no scale of depression, that having the illness automatically makes you a suicide risk, and it simply isn't true. Even on the worst days I never wanted to kill myself and I am far, far too chicken to try.

Further on, we come to a place where we can see Machu Picchu. As we take our first proper look at the city, a rainbow appears, arcing over the valley to our right. It's a magical moment, standing on a rocky ledge with the end of our journey in sight and a rainbow promising hope. There's an American girl travelling solo who shares it with us and it dawns on me that soon we will be looking at Machu Picchu up close.

The rain has stopped by the time we arrive. We pass the Sungate, but don't stay long as it's thick with tourists and doesn't compare to the one we encountered earlier in the trip. Instead we continue on, descending towards the city.

And then there it is, this magnificent, abandoned realm, nestling in the shadow of Huayna Picchu. We take a minute to take in the sight, and what we have just achieved. I have seen this image so many times on the internet that it seems strange to be looking at it for real. I allow myself to just be, to fully experience this moment before we don our charity T-shirts for some pictures. Standing together with Amanda and Dave for a photo I feel like I'm part of their family - we have been through so many highs and lows together over the past week. And our journey, which has been so much more than these five days of trekking, is finally at an end.

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.

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

The Little Book of Little Victories, and how I learned to do confrontation

Well hello there! It's been a while. Fundraising is currently taking a small hiatus while I figure out when to do my next event. In the meantime, life has delivered a good deal of excitement to my door.

The Little Book of Little Victories

When I first started my medication I decided to keep a 'victory' diary, which I affectionately call the Little Book of Little Victories, and still add entries to every so often. Depression, as I have explained, makes everything harder, from cooking dinner to socialising. So in order to get through, it helps to focus on the small things that have a positive impact; those things that mean, if only for a few moments, that you've beaten it.

In the beginning, the victories were simply things like, "Cleaned the kitchen and tidied my bedroom" and "Haven't cried today." Underneath these, I wrote how those actions make me feel. In mid September I recorded the first time that I had felt normal (for a given value of normal) in months. As the weeks and months have progressed, my little victories are growing, and recently I have been able to add two very significant ones to the list.

Last month I somehow managed to negotiate my way through a hefty interview process and find myself with a new job. Although my stress levels sky rocketed during this time, and I shed more than a few tears, I'm feeling pretty proud of myself for making such a step in such a short time. Once again I have to attribute some of this to the support of family and colleagues, but the fact that it's something I could never have done six months ago makes it all the more rewarding.

I've now been in my new role for almost a month, and have coped with the transition better than I imagined. For the record, I had imagined more than one meltdown by now. There have been none.

How I learned to do confrontation

I write this with some hesitancy, because I don't wish to claim that I have, by any means, nailed this particular issue of mine, but today, I had a conversation that required me to be somewhat confrontational, and I managed it without panicking, getting flustered, or feeling guilty.

Allow me to offer some background. Put simply, I hate confrontation of any kind. Historically I have found it sort of embarrassing and experienced feelings of guilt soon after expressing any sort of displeasure. At anything. I have talked, at some length, with my therapist about this, and when I happened to mention again that I don't like confrontation the other week in my session, she replied with a sly grin, "Don't you?!". You know you're getting better when your therapist starts getting sarky.

So the most recent victory for me was having that conversation, where I articulated my frustrations clearly, assertively and without embarrassment, and instead of feeling bad (which my brain tried a couple of times to make me do, resulting in an internal Smeagol/Gollum type scenario in which Smeagol ultimately won, getting Gollum to eff off) - I actually felt pretty good. Not, I'd like to point out, because I'm a heinous bitch who enjoys having a go, but because I had the courage to stand up and fight my corner. And that is a pretty big little victory.

Pics courtesy of http://imgarcade.com/ and http://www.quickmeme.com/

The value of tears and why meditation is great

How I learnt the value of crying 

Not so long ago I thought that crying was a sign of weakness. I thought that because people saw me as a strong person, it meant tears were unacceptable, even behind closed doors. They make us vulnerable, they make us ugly.

During the summer I cried almost every day. I hated it. Crying solved nothing and it gave me a headache, but I couldn't make it stop. Tiny things would set me off: TV shows, light-hearted digs from colleagues that I'd normally take in my stride, people being nice to me, taking an extra 15 minutes to get home because of a diversion. Sometimes at work I'd hide in the toilets and cry several times a day, other times I'd manage to hold the mask in place till 5pm, at which point I'd get in my car and let go, and the tears would fall until long after I was home.

During my first few therapy sessions I cried from start to finish. I'd leave the building with red, puffy eyes feeling even more confused and overwhelmed than when I went in. But gradually, as the meds stabilised me and the therapy progressed, I began to appreciate the tears. I cried in a way I had not cried for ages - as a release. This kind follows a stressful event, unaccompanied by the self-blame and guilt I had grown used to experiencing. It's shorter, and the aftermath is a sense of relief rather than utter exhaustion.

Last Thursday I had a melt-down day, the type of day I had every day last summer. I took things to heart, became anxious, stressed and paranoid. I hid in the toilets and I cried. But instead of hating myself for being a feeble excuse for a human being, I was able to roll with it, to rationalise it and recognise that tomorrow would be better. And, of course, it was. Finally I can accept a few tears here and there when I need them.

Why meditation is great

After a long time getting passed off as something only hippies and Buddhist monks do, meditation is finally getting a bit more of the praise it deserves. As someone who struggles with their mental health, I think it's brilliant - not only because it is a chance to wind down and clear my mind for a few minutes, but also because it's a good way to reinforce the new ways of thinking and of looking at life that I am learning. It's what my therapist would call time to 'nurture' myself.

I don't go in for humming, or chanting, it's not my thing. But there are some really effective techniques that enable you to calm your mind and focus on the here and now instead of worrying about the ironing, or that report that's due in the morning. One of my preferred exercises is to focus on my breath. I sit cross-legged, hands in my lap or resting on my knees and close my eyes. With every breath in I feel my body expanding like a balloon, and with every breath out I imagine my muscles relaxing. I start with my neck and work all the way down to my legs, feeling the tension fall away from each part of my body as I focus on it.

Recently my trainer recommended a book called Synchrodestiny to me. Now there are plenty of medics and scientists out there who turn their noses up at Deepak Chopra and dismiss his books - it's true, some of his ideas are a bit random to say the least - but I'll say this for Synochrodestiny, it made a rough patch a little less bad. He sets out 7 'sutras', one for each day of the week that focuses on a different concept. These reinforce the positive mindset that my therapist has been encouraging me to adopt, enabling me to imagine myself as part of something bigger as opposed to totally isolated, to see aspects of myself in others, which helps me connect and empathise with them, to remind myself that I am a worthwhile person with something to offer the world.


I have not meditated for 2 weeks due to other commitments, and I have noticed it. My self esteem has ebbed a little, my sense of connection has subsided, I doubt myself more. Recent events have left me very tired, but the moment I regain some energy I plan to begin again.

Maybe you're inclined to think I'm talking rubbish, but if you get some time alone, I'd encourage you to give it a try. You may be surprised at how good it feels.

A preparatory butt massage

Him: "This is going to sound weird, but I think a bare butt massage would really help you out."
Me: "..."

Ladies and gentlemen, my personal trainer, a man who I find completely fabulous, if in possession of some of the strangest ideas I've ever heard in my life. But (no pun intended) since I'm dedicating the next six months of my life to fundraising and training for a hardcore trek across the Andes then to hell with it, why the devil not? I shall be booking a session with the sports massage lady on my next trip to the chiropractor's.

Is this a typical part of preparatory training? I hear you gasp. No. No it is not. Except for people like me, who manage to mess up their lower back and need to get it sorted before the real training begins. Which means a corrective programme to start with, and the aforementioned bare butt massage. I really know how to get my timing right.


I have now told most people about the trek, except my boss, who will be slightly trickier because I have booked it for the two weeks before our magazine's print deadline. If I set up in a way that makes him think I'm going to resign, he won't mind the holiday timing...right? We'll see.

I told my martial arts buddies this morning. The laughed and asked if I was fitting it in around my pilot training, helicopter licence, SCUBA qualification and Japanese lessons. Funny, guys. But with a pertinent point: part of the reason for my ending up with depression is that I have a tendency to push myself too hard, expect the world from myself and beat myself up if I don't deliver. My therapist uses the word 'harsh' without a second thought when we talk about how I treat myself. Or used to. Part of my rehab (yes, I'm running with 'rehab', it makes me sound like a tortured artist) is remembering to be kind to myself, to take breaks and to have a lie in every now and again. And I'm not about to lose sight of how important that is: depression is beyond rubbish in every way, and I'm the kind of person who is coming out of it determined to reduce my chances of being crippled by it again. Things are never certain of course, but it turns out going easy on yourself is kind of fun. I think I'll keep it.

My sincerest thanks to the eager beavers who have been super quick off the mark and donated to the cause already, I know you are among the people who best understand what this means to me. The fundraising begins in earnest as soon as that delivery of self raising flour, butter and icing sugar arrives!