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.