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.

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.

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.

The Great Wine Tasting

Last Saturday was the evening of the Great Wine Tasting, during which I schooled my parents and a handful of their excellent friends in tasting wine like a boss, and somewhat surprised myself at the amount of information I was able to fish out of the dark recesses of my memory.

The evening was a great success - we explored the differences between old world & new world Sauvignons, Chardonnays from different climates and Pinot Noir vs Malbec. We sniffed, we tasted, we food matched (and if anyone can give me the Latin for that I will buy them a drink). We ate grapes and chewed stalks (one or two over enthusiastic tasters also swallowed said stalks) and finished with a blind tasting, by which time everyone present was a pro at tasting and managed to identify at least a couple of flavours in the wine.

Although spittoons were offered, they were roundly rejected and I'm told there was more than one aching head the following morning. Parents, eh?

At this point, I would like to say a very large, very warm and very fuzzy THANK YOU to Carrie & Keith Devonshire, who couldn't make the wine tasting in the end, but kindly donated £150 to the cause. This donation alone is enough to fund a local support group, enabling people with mental health difficulties to get their confidence and self esteem back. And believe you me, that's money very well spent.

In prep for high altitude

The very same day of the tasting, I obtained a training mask that simulates high altitude. This, when twinned with the aforementioned waterproof trousers, makes me so irresistible to the opposite sex that I've been banned by the authorities from wearing the two together. Behold:

My experience so far, aside from confirmation that it's really hard to breathe at high altitude, is that Darth Vader must've had it pretty rough, always having the noise of his own respiration in his ears. Seriously. I'm at the sitting-still-and-practising-breathing stage and I keep wondering why there's a Sith lord in everything I'm watching on TV.

Step two of my training has begun, with a program that requires me to make a concerted effort to be physically active on a more regular basis. The effort is largely home based, but I am also being good and parking a 10 minute walk away from my new office to build in a little daily walking. I'm hoping that at some point this year the weather might decide to, I don't know, warm up a little, and perhaps treat us to some sunshine and an absence of 70mph winds so that I can do a 1-2 hour ramble along the coast.

Donation total

Thanks to some ace baking by my mother and her buddy Mrs Ashley, I got a further £50 hit into the Just Giving account this week. Poppa C also managed to get some extra weight added to my Mind collection tin through selling cake and persuading people to give up their hard earned cash for a good cause. To my relief, I have not received any complaints about his methods of persuasion, which I'm assuming were above board.

So once again a big ol' happy thank you to those who have helped me reach an amazing £664 (+ what's in the tin). I'm genuinely bowled over by the support I'm receiving.

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.

Becoming a fashion icon

It's been a few weeks since I last posted, but don't despair dear reader, for I have not been idle.

The truth is things have been fairly hectic one way or another, but somehow between doing my day job, celebrating my dad's 60th (happy birthday Poppa C!) and having some very important team building exercises (pub lunches), I have managed to obtain new gear and more donations, and begin my training for the trek.

There comes a time in every girl's life when she
has to decide whether or not to join that hip hop
dance troupe. I reckon I'm in.

Waterproof trousers should be S/S 2015's must-have

Last week my job took me to the Caravan, Camping & Motorhome Show. After a long Monday building up our exhibition stand (and those of 20 odd attending campsites - yes, my guns are now rock hard(!)), I decided to have a snoop about on the Tuesday for some kit for the trek. Half an hour on the outdoor clothing stand and some advice from a very helpful chap later, I was the proud owner of 2 pairs of hiking socks, a pair of lightweight trekking trousers and - get this - some waterproof trousers.

I don't know if you've ever seen a pair of these badboys, but women of Britain, I can tell you now that these are a fashion essential with their total lack of shape, tasteful elastic ankle cuffs and rustling anorak material. Still not convinced? What if I told you the pockets are so large that I can basically fit a zebra in each one. HOT.





The sun is always over the yardarm somewhere

Luckily something a bit more exciting turned up today - a T-shirt from Mind (which I will be wearing at every possible opportunity so be warned) and my collection tin (which I will be shaking irritatingly in people's faces for the next 6 months). They arrived in good time for a wine tasting that I shall be holding at my long suffering parents' house at the end of March.

I decided to capitalise on my Majestic training and teach a few old dogs (they're going to kill me) some new tricks - namely how to tell the difference between a Marlborough Sauvignon and a Loire one, and that not all Chardonnay is oaked to within an inch of its life. If all goes well the plan is to repeat said tasting with other groups. Wish me luck.



Getting in step

On Monday I donned my hiking boots and headed out into the Kent countryside for a sunny lunchtime ramble. When I say sunny, what I mean is it was sunny when I left the office. The first half of the route is almost entirely uphill, and just as I got to the mid-point, by the field where the spring lambs will be frolicking in less than a month, over rolled the clouds and down came the rain. And hail. It's worth mentioning at this point that the only waterproof item on my body was my footwear.

I arrived back in the office 20 minutes later looking like I had possibly washed up somewhere inconvenient and had to scramble through hostile undergrowth to get back. Like a pro though, still cheerful. Take that, depression.

People are surprising (and fabulous)

It's only a week since I mentioned my Machu Picchu endeavour on social media and I'm overjoyed that people have been donating already. In just 5 donations, my Just Giving page tells me, I'm 10% towards my target with over £100 raised.

This reaction reminds me that we humans have a remarkable capacity for generosity and kindness. It's true, we can't possibly support every cause we come across, but for me, the fact we're willing to try and help people - even in such a simple way as offering our hard-earned cash - offsets some of the selfishness, the violence and the greed that is so constantly reported through our TV sets.

It's important to remember that although there are lots of people who cause others harm, pain or suffering, there are far more who are kind, warm and caring. It can be easy to get disillusioned by the bad that exists in the world, but it's my belief that it's up to each one of us to counter it by being decent. What I mean by that is that every act of kindness, every time we pay a compliment, every time we give up a seat on the train for an elderly person, every time give someone a hug, or share a meal or just care about someone else, we are increasing the amount of good. It doesn't matter if it's something small or seemingly insignificant, it simply matters that we make that choice to do it.

One of the hardest things about depression is the profound, unceasing loneliness. Until last summer, I didn't know it was possible to feel so utterly alone in a room full of people I knew. I was torn between wanting to join in and feeling unable to; when I was on my own I wanted to be around people and when I was around people I desperately wanted to be left alone. It's not uncommon for people with depression to isolate themselves, and I certainly isolated myself. At work, I stopped talking to my colleagues unless it was necessary and hid in my daily tasks, earphones in. I wanted to be invisible, particularly on the days when I struggled to hold it together during the day, yet simultaneously wanted someone to notice, and to care.

I am very lucky in my friends and there were, thankfully, a handful of key people who patiently and consistently offered me support. One of my friends texted me almost all day, almost every day as I went through various cycles of tearfulness, anger, self hatred, guilt and self blame. He wished me luck every week before my therapy session and asked how it went afterwards. He gave me pep talks. He reassured me when I began medication.

Another friend encouraged me to get to a therapist in the first place and offered advice and empathy on days when the sessions left me feeling mixed up. She calmed me down when anxiety tied my stomach in knots and told me I was brave each time I made a tiny turn to face my situation head on.

Being a friend to someone with depression is hard. It's frustrating at times and can be deeply upsetting. But it is also one of the most noble and compassionate things you can do. And believe you me, to the person you're being a friend to, it's a lifeline.

My point, I suppose, is that many of us don't realise what an impact small acts of kindness can make, and that we should allow that warm glow to shine through when we do good things, even if we don't consider them to be a big deal.

In the beginning

Let's start at the beginning.

Five months ago I was diagnosed with depression.

If I'm honest, I should've had myself diagnosed a year ago, but the thing about my depression was that it came on so gradually that I didn't notice there was anything wrong - or at least, was able to more or less ignore what was wrong - until it crippled me.

I'm very conscious that a lot of people still don't think depression is a 'proper' condition. They wonder why sufferers can't simply pull themselves out of their low mood and get frustrated with their inability to cope with everyday life. The truth is that once you've reached that crashing low, there's no coming up without professional support, and even then many sufferers struggle simply to function.

My first experience of depression was when I was 21. I was halfway through my Masters degree when I contracted glandular fever. The physical effects of the illness were frustrating enough but the mental impact was something else entirely. I'd find myself crying for no reason that I could think of, feeling negative and lacking confidence both in my abilities and my self image. When I went to the GP for help, she made me feel like I was wasting her time. She insinuated that because I wasn't suicidal, it wasn't important enough to be worth her trouble. That's partly why it took me so long to get help this time around.

Depression manifests itself in many different ways, and in retrospect it seems obvious to me that something was wrong a long time before I was diagnosed. I was increasingly irritable, intolerant of others' behaviour, felt guilty and ashamed of myself almost constantly, punished myself for tiny things. As the months went by, I felt sadder and sadder, lost my sense of agency and had all but forgotten what it was to have a feeling of self worth and self esteem.

By June, my thoughts were persistently negative and I cried. All the time. I wasn't sleeping well, and found myself totally exhausted by keeping up the pretense at work that everything was OK. I would finish at five, get to my car and start sobbing as soon as I was halfway up the drive. If I managed to hold out until I got home, I would often find the thought of having to feed myself - an activity most of us never think twice about - completely overwhelming, and cry because I didn't know what to eat. More than once I went to bed hungry.

I realised I needed medication on the weekend that I went to help my parents decorate their new cottage in Devon. I hadn't slept all night and when my dad greeted me in the morning, I just burst into tears (again). I had been keeping my condition from my parents because I knew I'd feel guilty for making them worry about me, but that morning I couldn't hide it anymore. I was a complete mess.

Over the course of the weekend, my mum gently persuaded me that medication was likely to help, so I duly went to the GP. The experience couldn't have been more different. He was concerned and sensitive and reassuring - and didn't bat an eyelid when I struggled to talk about my mental state without crying all over again.

From that point, I'm relieved to say things have improved. It's not been easy, I've taken more than a few steps backwards on my road to recovery, but I have been working hard to get myself into a better place. Thanks to the incredible support of my friends, family, coaches and colleagues, I'm in a place where I can talk about my experience of depression without fear or shame.

It is the events of the past year that prompted me to sign up for the Machu Picchu trek with Ultimate Challenges. It's something I've wanted to do since I was a teenager, and finally I'm ready - both mentally and financially - to take on the challenge. The money I raise will go to Mind, who do an excellent job of supporting people with mental health difficulties and their families. It's thanks to charities like Mind that depression and other mental illnesses are now making it into the public consciousness, and that people are realising that having a mental condition doesn't make you 'crazy' or 'weird'; it's simply that whether short or long term, your brain functions a bit differently to other people's.

What follows is my journey to Machu Picchu, which starts, inevitably, with seven months of fundraising and training.