Tag Archives: depression

13th January, 2019 (Suicide)

13 Sunday Jan 2019

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I was on Twitter, today (never a great idea, when controversial topics are being thrown about…). I managed to read a beautifully written, poignant account of one man’s struggle to keep his friend from committing suicide.

He lost the battle. They both did, I guess–his friend had saved his life a year earlier, and they had leaned on each other for support, but eventually, it wasn’t enough for the older of the 2 men. Despite multiple calls each day, and lots of empathy and talking therapy, this terminally ill, soon-to-die man took the final step himself.

Most people who read the story were concerned for the surviving friend (especially as he’s also a pretty high suicide risk) but there’s always one, isn’t there? One person always stands up and tells everyone else why they’re ALL wrong, and someone did. “How can you all say this is okay? If it had been me,” they glibly Tweeted, evidently without reading any of the actual history between the 2 men, or the surviving friend’s tireless vigil, “I would have done everything I could, to stop this from happening.”

Well, no, sweetheart. You wouldn’t have. You would NOT have been on the phone multiple times a day, risking your job and your own sanity. You wouldn’t have given the unconditional, positive regard that lets people know they can really open up to you, without fear of judgment… the regard that has postponed so many suicides, and prevented some deliberate losses of life forever.

You sure as shit wouldn’t have given the guy a piece of your liver, so that he could continue drinking himself to death slowly, would you? No. Of course not. And if you would have, there’s not a surgeon in the world who would’ve taken those odds and performed the surgery. So… what *would* you have done?

My guess is, you would’ve shouted at this end-of-life liver failure patient to get his life together–about 10 years too late–and then, after screaming at him for 2 or 3 phone calls, you’d have washed your hands of it. All you’d have done, would be make a dying man feel worse.

Shame. On. You.

All the love in the world to the surviving friend, who put his career, his very new romantic relationship, and his own well-being on hold, to figuratively hold the hand of a dying friend who had done the same for him. This is what makes the world a place worth living in… people who can look past their own needs, and the fear of their own mortality, to be there for someone in the most dire of circumstances. This is what makes us special, among the other animals–the ability to communicate gently, with understanding, with compassion and love, in all kinds of extremity. We would be so much less than human, without the ability to love others at least as much as we love ourselves.

Everyone probably gets tired of hearing this from me, but if you need to talk to someone WITHOUT JUDGEMENT:

Samaritans (UK only): freephone 116 123
Samaritans email (Worldwide): jo@samaritans.org

Those are not only numbers for suicidal folk–most of the callers are lonely, anxious, depressed, at their wits’ end, self-harming, or even just old and isolated–but by all means, if you’re suicidal and want to talk about it, rather than being told why you just shouldn’t be, please contact Samaritans. The understanding really helps.

12th(?) January, 2019

12 Saturday Jan 2019

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I can’t believe I’ve kept writing in this blog–however sporadically–until I now spend more of my time feeling “super” than “depressed”… it’s vaguely fantastical, to think that I can type that, today.

Not that I didn’t have a major episode of anxiety and suicidal ideation last summer; but those are par for the course, with me. The important point is that those are fewer and farther between these days, even if when they come, it’s always the same shit on a different day: sleeping 2-3 hours or less per day; perpetual feeling of terror, of something catastrophic that is imminent and unavoidable; self-harm just to switch my brain off and take a nap; the unshakable conviction that everyone I love would be better off without me; a return to higher doses of antidepressants and, if I’m lucky and have an understanding GP, a round of sleeping pills to reset the internal mechanisms that have sprung so wildly off their tracks… and then several weeks of that fragile, almost newborn feeling: not sad, not happy, but intensively sensitive and at the same time removed, as if I know I’ll never form proper memories of this time, and so I won’t have to contend more than once with anything that happens during it.

I’m thinking of returning to university, later this year. As it turns out, even a 1st class degree in psychology is good for literally nothing, unless you’ve got clinical experience as well (I have not). And aside from the suicide prevention helpline, I’ve not even found a volunteer post that’s related to my field of study… so. It seems I should return to the drawing board, as it were, and go from there. One question remains: do I return to psychology, or my first love–language and literature?

No one ever comments on my blog, but I’d love to hear anyone’s thoughts. Hit me up. And have a good January… I seem to be having one, somehow.

November, 2018, 1

04 Sunday Nov 2018

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After my last few entries, I present to you… my efforts to chill dafuq out:

(My next entry may well be a review of Robert Wright’s book on Buddhism, and you won’t understand what he means by “Buddhism” unless you have a basic idea of secular Buddhism, so… here you go.)

https://tricycle.org/magazine/secular-buddhist/

PS: No, I wouldn’t describe myself as a secular Buddhist; I’m not any kind of Buddhist; but understanding more about mindfulness meditation (and actually making the effort to practice it, which is where I usually let myself down…) has me closer to being back on-track than any other thing I’ve done, since my summertime depressive dip.

Mental Health Update, September 2018, 1

05 Wednesday Sep 2018

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Should’ve written before now.

The thing about looking in the mirror after a bath or shower, is that I can see the smears of black and grey below my eyes, where my mascara and/or eyeliner has melted; the worse thing, is that I’m pretty sure I actually look better with smudged, clownish, day-old make-up gathering in the tiny creases there, than with no make-up at all.

Do I look so old, at 34, that even the half-destroyed remnants of yesterday’s cosmetics look better than my clean, freshly washed face? Where did all these lines–mostly fine, but some not–even *come* from?

When did my high cheekbones and readily-flushed face start to look fat and maybe as if I have a drinking problem, rather than sculpted and youthful? Have I looked like this all along? In fact:

Was I *ever* pretty? I gave up on being beautiful a long time ago–or I thought I had–but now, I doubt that I was ever even genuinely pretty, the way everyone is, before a certain age.

I think these silly, useless, vain thoughts, and I add more wrinkles (I can feel the skin creasing) between my brows, and I laugh, just a little, at myself. I will be 35 soon, and my ex-husband is 39 sooner, and my children are 10 and 12, and my parents are well into (if not past?) middle-age, and one of the four is dead already. My natural grandparents, save one, all died years ago.

This is life, I think to myself. “The slow, inexorable march… to the grave,” as someone cheerily wrote before me (no, wretched brain, I see you evidently will *not* deign to recall where you heard it, nor from whom). No matter. That is what all this is–only a passage from birth to death, and why should I care if my crows’ feet are worse than my mother’s were, at my age?

(Not fair, not fair, she’s smoked 2-4 packs of cigarettes every day of her life since before I was born, I’ve never smoked beyond taking a drag off a friend’s cigarette now and again in my teens and early 20s to confound people who KNOW how anti-smoking I am, why should my skin be mottled with acne scars and rosacea and surgical cuts from boils that had to be excised in a doctor’s office, why should I have lip lines at all, why should a single glass of wine–taken no more than 5 or 6 occasions per year, and most years, less often than that–flush my face beetroot, and stain my teeth, which used to be so lovely and white and are now just pale beige, despite my still brushing them 2-3 times each day… )

Shush, now, I tell myself, trying for the firm, yet somehow still gentle, endlessly soothing tone you would use with a small, slightly hysterical but generally good-natured child, that you love with all your heart. Shhh. It will be alright. You are far from home and you are older every day, but you love, have loved, will continue to love, and you are loved in return. Can you doubt it? 

And even I cannot.

Shhh, there now. It will be alright.

Mental Health Update, August 2018, 6

30 Thursday Aug 2018

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A little dip is to be expected; school starts again soon; ringing about transport (where is the letter we should have received a week ago?) new uniforms, new shoes, and psyching myself up to actually wake before 7:30 each morning, all take their toll.

My sweet babies, my darlings. They’re nervous about going back, as well. Summer flew past so quickly this year, and they lost me for a fortnight of it. Guilt will not help me to parent them any more successfully–rather, it is almost certainly a hindrance.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

The playground, today. Gabe’s friend remembering us despite the long break, and walking us home, after delighting Gabriel with his antics for the best part of an hour. (What does it say when another child remarks on my boy’s energy levels? He is so ALIVE, he is so beautiful.)

My precious, tempestuous girl, so far into puberty and adolescence now, so much a teenager in every way but actual years, wanting Squeezy, and letting me comfort her.

Being a 12-year-old girl is hard–I know, I remember, I can even now be tripped up by the things that happened when I was her age–I wish I didn’t empathise *quite* so much, some days. I worry that my empathy is sometimes excessive, and makes it worse for both of us… and yet. She let me do Squeezy, today. She let me help, when she was distressed, and she always has, really. Perhaps I’m not so terrible at being her mother.

It is typically easier with Gabriel, provided I have the energy to engage fully… but it’s just as rewarding, special, important, to interact with Naomi. I’m not trying to convince myself of that–I know it, in a way I know few other things–but I worry. If she ever finds this blog, what will she think?

The main thing I know of both my children, is that I love them more than my own life. Do they know it, though?

How many times have I said “worry” (or obliquely referred to my anxiety) in this one post? I should’ve made time for an entry yesterday, mayhap.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Go do a mindfulness. Don’t try to get out of your head–that’s where you live, and don’t you know it–but you can try for a little equanimity inside your head. Think (but not too deeply) about 2-3 weeks ago, and be grateful. This is imperfect, but it’s so much better than it was, and it will get even better again.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

At this point in time, a little dip is to be expected.

Mental Health Update, August 2018, 5

27 Monday Aug 2018

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Better again, today, overall. The shadow of How I Felt Yesterday And The Day Before and the Day Before That, etc, is humming a sly, mocking tune under its breath, and I will have to stop and listen at some point (I know by now that it will trip me up, if I go too long without acknowledging what it has to say) but for now, I am safe. For now, I can breathe a little, and just take a day or two to feel like “myself”–the myself that is, for the most part, relatively content.

One good thing, I will write One Good Thing: Naomi and Gabriel, the play-acted scene where Spin was arrested. I imagine that makes no sense to anyone who wasn’t there; but I *was* there, and it’s worth a lot of misery and heartache and even some terror, just to hear them playing together.

You see, Amanda? You see. I am willing you to see.

Things always get worse, again–you won’t feel this peaceful forever–but then, they always get better, again.

Did you think, when she was 4 and had lost all her words, and he was 2 and had never so much as babbled “da” or “ma” that they would act out a scene, using full sentences and different voices and laughing with joy at each other’s antics? You didn’t dare hope, and yet, here it is.

It is objectively good, that your children enjoy each other’s company. Even when *you* don’t feel it, even when you’re too lost in your own despairing ruminations and unrelenting terrors to feel anything but pain, their relationship is A Good Thing.

And today, you lucky girl, you *could* feel it.

Mental Health Update, August 2018, 4

26 Sunday Aug 2018

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Better.

Not back to normal–unless we’re taking my “normal” as “moments and even minutes of relative calm, liberally interspersed with minutes and even hours of abject terror” and I hope that’s not my fate–but I *am* better, today.

Oh, ye gods, though. The sick upward spiral of nauseating fear, and the silent scream of despair as you start to come back down. I wish I had the words, just so I could talk myself out of being afraid of the sensation itself.

Still. I went to the mall, today, and it was crowded and awful and I still had fun, in between the moments of really NOT having fun. When the kids returned from their weekend at their dad’s, I kissed my son on the top of his head, and he asked me to tie the drawstring on his shorts which was an easy thing I could do to help him, and he made me laugh, some way or other. It is worth noting that he makes me smile every day, possibly more often than any other person on Earth. My daughter spoke to me (she spoke as her imaginary friend, in not-quite her natural voice) and she was playful and funny; and if I’m tempted to complain about her putting on a persona in order to speak, I should remember that there was a time when we never thought she’d speak at all, and now, she speaks in short sentences, responds to my sentences, and makes jokes. Also, she let me cuddle her, briefly.

My husband has made me laugh at least 3 times, today. I’m the sort of person who laughs dozens of times in a day, when I’m at my best… but 2 weeks ago, I was crying dozens of times in a day, and having panic attacks, besides. Nary a laugh to be seen.

Forward progress is being made, and that’s all we have; the hope that things will be a little better tomorrow, or will stay nice for a little while, when they are nice. I shall be 35, before this year is out. I thought I might not make it that far, at earlier points in my life (not to sound melodramatic, but it’s usually best to be honest) and just the realisation that I have, gives me a little hope and a little peace and a little desire to try a little longer.

Good Lord. Reading back that last sentence, I actually sound worse than I thought I was. The “anxiety,” though… that utter, awful, unrelenting terror of nothing and everything that they call “anxiety”. I do wonder if I’ll lose the battle against it, someday. (Again, I’m just being honest.)

But. But but but. I might lose the battle, but I haven’t today. I know it’s a cliché, but there it is: I am happy I’ve made it through one more day, a little calmer overall, and that’s enough, for now.

Mental Health Update, August 2018, 3

21 Tuesday Aug 2018

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How can it have only been 4 days since the last entry? It feels like a fortnight, and every second of it stressful.

Waiting for an assessment with the mental health team (not to be confused with the crisis team, who already saw me) and hoping for some long-term support. I’ve been so afraid of being thought of as weird for so long, I’ve avoided getting help and to some extent, let myself get to this state; at times, even been smug about it… I’m trying to get it sorted out now, but dear God, the waiting.

Will it always be like this? Will *this* feeling always be just around the corner?

To put it into perspective, though–it has been years since I’ve felt this terrified, for hours and days on end. It lasted about 3 weeks last time, before settling noticeably… awful as this is, I have to believe that if I can hang on a little longer, this, too, shall pass.

My Christian upbringing is showing, again. Well. There’s nothing wrong with that, as long as you don’t let your upbringing turn you into a dickhole.

Always a risk with me, but I’m trying my best.

Mental Health Update August 2018

13 Monday Aug 2018

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Just what it says on the tin.

I was doing so well. Volunteering with a suicide prevention helpline, making tentative plans to see actual people out in the actual world, had a mini-vacation with my husband and kids… now I’m spiralling. Down, not up, but not happy… just anxious.

I got 5 hours of sleep Saturday night, and less than 4 last night, despite being exhausted both nights. The real acid test is this, though: I couldn’t sleep right now, in broad daylight, with another adult in the house, despite being so tired I’ve had a fatigue headache since before going to sleep this morning (it was light outside before I dozed off, despite having been in bed for 5+ hours, at that point). I just can’t switch off enough to rest.

If it makes me feel any better (it does not) I have yet more evidence that social media is the trigger. I joined a large Facebook group about a week ago, and I’ve been more and more cheerful each day–as soon as I got some genuinely negative feedback in the group, eventually getting one of my posts removed (they disliked a pic I shared, despite it being a legitimate reference to the overarching theme of the group) I was ripping at my nails, crying a little bit, starting to hyperventilate, the whole 9 yards. I tried to move on; I engaged in what I thought was going to be a civil discussion on a friend’s FB Wall.

After a few opening comments were made (both by me, and by other people) some random suggested I “find something more productive to do with my time” rather than joining in a discussion between several of my friends, and someone I’ve known for the best part of a decade liked the comment.

The same guy (who has never met me, as far as I know) went on to call me self-righteous, a horrible person, not a real friend of my friend, etc, because….? I genuinely don’t know. I didn’t launch a single ad hominem attack at him, nor at anybody else.

I can’t understand why my “friend” would like me being bullied (that’s what it is, when someone singles just you out, tells you to leave the conversation that’s open to everyone, and then starts hurling abuse at you). I don’t understand what to do about it.

Yes, I do. It’s just hard. Wish me luck.