I think… I think I’m ready to talk about my mental health. I think it feels like time. I think it’s important that you know what’s been going on and it’s especially important because I guarantee that someone you know is struggling with their mental health right now. That someone you know might even be yourself.
Let’s talk about it
So, here I am talking about my relationship with depression. Surprise! You can travel the world, smile in photos, laugh with your friends AND have depression too!
In fact, those who tell me it’s a surprise – thank you. I’m glad I did a good job of hiding it. Trust me, it took a lot of effort and I’m glad that hard work didn’t go to waste. Because to be honest, I’m not sure I could have unburdened everything I was feeling onto you back then and I’m not sure I was ready to reveal the darkest part of me to everyone I know, especially those I love, plus the Internet.
But now I am ready. I’m here, I’m “out” and I actually want to start the talk about it – something I thought I would never do on this blog. Now marks the final session in my course of CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy – my A Level psychology teachers would be so proud) and it’s my six-month anniversary of being on medication. Happy depressionniversary to me!
(Note: yes, it’s possible to be depressed and keep your sense of humor too.)
And as you may have gathered by now, I don’t mean depressed as in having a bad day. I don’t mean depressed as in my favourite character died in Game of Thrones. And I definitely don’t mean the kind of depressed that is cured by people saying “cheer up!” or “go on, give us a smile!” or even “who died?!”
Me. I died. I sank deep into an abyss that I can only describe through metaphors. The tentacles of a deadly kraken wrapping around me and sucking my choking body into the depths, while those on the shore waved and shouted at me to “Just swim faster!”
Why did the kraken choose me?
I’m not here to focus on the “why” of it all, but it does bare some brief discussion, even if it’s just to acknowledge that not every disease, neither mental nor physical, has an exact cause that you can pinpoint.
If there is one thing I have learned in navigating this long rambling journey through the labyrinth of a depressed mind, it’s that often there is not a single cause. It’s not as easy as that. The brain is as complex and unexplored as the deep, dark canyons of the abyss where my kraken lives.
Depression is more like a knotted ball of wool; you can only untangle one knot at a time, but it could reveal an even bigger knot underneath.
For example, here is a list of potentially unrelated/potential causes of my depression:
Side effects from acne medication. A history of mental illness in the family. Being bullied as a teenager. Perfectionism. Living abroad. Moving back to the UK. Struggling for work. Struggling in my relationships with people. Struggling for money. Struggling to find a place to live.
Until it just became… struggling. The more I tried to pin down a single problem and fix it, the worse I felt. When I got work, I felt worse. When I earned money, I felt worse. When I travelled, I felt worse.
My point is that no one knows what monsters lie in the black abyss. Maybe there’s more to it than just a kraken. Maybe there are weird translucent jelly creatures mixed up in there as well.
And it wasn’t like I just sank one day. I spent years treading water, trying to claw my way back to the surface, trying to fix everything. Have you ever found yourself repeating the mantra “I’ll be happier when…?”
- I’ll be happier when I’ve moved out of my parents house.
- I’ll be happier when I have more money saved.
- I’ll be happier when I have full-time work.
- I’ll be happier when I’ve moved back home.
- I’ll be happier when I’m working abroad again.
- I’ll be happier when…
Yes, I was swimming as fast as I could, but when you see nothing but blues and blacks in the endless incubus of the deep, how do you know which way is up?
Why am I talking about this on my blog?
Why am I revealing all this? Why am I telling a story so personal? Why here, on a literary/travel blog?
I recently travelled to Malta, my first trip solo since I was formally diagnosed with depression and started treatment. I was nervous to take the leap, but I felt a release I hadn’t felt in a long time – a cloud lifting. I found myself scribbling and typing out notes on my phone, finally ready to express what I had been through.
I never meant to share those thoughts on this blog, I just wanted an outlet to try and make sense of my long battle with depression. But then some other things started to happen. Someone I knew from university opened up about his mental health problems on Facebook – someone I really didn’t expect. A friend of mine confided that she was starting to feel very low. One of my writing and travel heroes, Anthony Bourdain, took his own life.
I remember during my lowest period last year, I watched Anthony Bourdain clips on YouTube, telling myself I would never be as successful as him; I would never be as good a writer, or as well travelled. It just goes to show that you never know what people are going through.
That’s when I realised I wanted to share my mental health story on this blog, the very place where I tend to share a lot of good things in my life, but seldom discuss the difficult things. It’s important to be vulnerable; to acknowledge the good and the bad. I’m not ashamed or embarrassed of my mental health. And by sharing my own struggles, I hope I’m encouraging someone else to reach out.
And because I have something important to say:
It could be you.
I was on the other end of a computer screen just like yours once, reading stories of other people who suffered with mental health problems and I thought these sort of things: “No, I’m fine. I’m not that bad. It’s OK. I can handle this myself. I don’t want to seem like I want attention. I bet medication or therapy wouldn’t work anyway…”
But let me tell you a story about how that lovely dance with denial went…
The First Doctor
This time last year, after three years battling with my demons and getting worse by the hour, I finally caved and saw a doctor. I bawled my eyes out in front of a GP, desperately trying to articulate why or how or what I was feeling. All I knew was that it was pain, invisible pain, and I couldn’t take anymore. I could barely get out of bed. I couldn’t concentrate on anything. My eyes were sore from crying all the time. I no longer trusted myself. I couldn’t tell which of my thoughts were my own; which were false claims of a sick mind and which were true and attributed to me. I hated myself – even blamed myself – for getting into such a pathetic state.
This is what that Doctor said:
“You’re not depressed, you’re just a bit sad.”
I’ll never forget taking in those words, as I wiped mascara trails off my cheeks. Three years of working up the courage to reach out had come to this. Apparently, because my appetite and sleeping patterns weren’t affected, I didn’t display enough symptoms of being depressed (apart from the depression part, which didn’t seem as relevant to this particular moron). And so I left the GP surgery with all my thoughts of being a failure reinforced by that once sentence.
Because of that “diagnosis” I didn’t go back to the doctor for six months; I called myself pathetic for making a fuss about nothing as I cried myself to sleep. When things got a lot worse, I refused to seek help, not wanting to be humiliated again.
But then I hit whatever place is below rock bottom and I told myself I would try once more, just once.
The Second Doctor
I went back and saw a different doctor; one who sat and listened to me without interruption. Once I was finished, he talked me through my options with medication and therapy, what to expect from side effects and waiting lists, actions I could take in the meantime, phone numbers I could call when I was feeling low, his personal recommendations, and then he wrote a prescription and insisted on booking me a follow-up appointment there and then for two weeks time because he understood that people who suffer with depression often lack the motivation and energy to simply pick up the phone and book an appointment.
It was a revelation. I had expected to have to argue my case, but this doctor believed me. He never questioned what I was feeling. He didn’t offer me a shoulder to cry on or tell me it was going to be OK – he treated my illness like any other and got on with getting me treatment. I was actually a little bit shocked. It was the first time I understood that I wasn’t broken or pathetic or a failure – I was sick.
And if I was sick, then I could get better.
The hardest part is…
Which comes to another reason why I’m writing this post. I hear people say all the time, “The hardest part is asking for help.” I disagree.
I’m here to tell you that the hardest part isn’t asking for help. It’s having to ask a second time. Or even a third. It’s being taken seriously. It’s getting your voice heard. It’s demanding a second opinion. It’s insisting that you aren’t on the right dosage. It’s calling up the therapist’s office for the third time in a week, asking where you are on the waiting list because your case has been overlooked.
The hardest part is fighting for the help you deserve when you feel like you least deserve it. It’s finding the determination to get better. It’s having the motivation to pick up the phone, book and turn up to a doctor’s appointment.
The hardest part is accepting that not everyone will believe or understand. Good friends will be left speechless. Family members will shuffle uncomfortably in their seats and change the subject. Medical professionals will dismiss you because you don’t meet their required list of symptoms.
They’re not bad people for it – mental illness is still taboo, and still not fully understood even by those who have studied it. Until depression happened to me, I had friends who confided in me about their mental health issues and I acted in exactly the same way – convinced it was the right thing to ignore, to distract, to wait until they came to me rather than call and ask how they were.
The hardest part is clinging onto the smallest hope you have left that things can and will get better, when there are ten thousand other loud and angry voices in your head telling you that you don’t deserve help or support, you’re pathetic, you’re worthless and you might as well give up.
The Warrior
I used to think of myself as weak for suffering with depression, but now I’m starting to understand it to be a strength.
Anyone who has a mental illness has experienced unbearable, internal, inescapable, invisible pain and battles it every day. You can’t take a break from your own mind. You can’t describe how it feels to someone outside of your own skin.
From the moment I wake up and my depression tells me to stay in bed because I’m useless and can’t do anything anyway, I groggily unsheathe my sword, flip the visor down on my helmet and set my feet into a fighting stance.
It’s early. I haven’t had coffee yet. My breath smells. But I need to lift up that sword, so that the kraken knows: not today.
People with mental illnesses aren’t weak, they’re warriors.
And so, fellow warrior, I’m here to tell you that if you’re reading this, you’re already doing a good job. Whether you’re battling a kraken, or a tiger, a snake, a dementor, or even just a little piranha; I want to tell you that I see your strength. I admire your courage. I am awed by your power.
If you need a few extra soldiers in your squad to help you win – therapists, medication, loved ones who have your back, your favourite literary travel blogger – then don’t be afraid to reach out and claim the help and support you deserve.
Keep talking until you find someone who believes that your monster exists.
And if you don’t fall into that category, your fight isn’t over either. If someone confides in you about their mental health issues, then listen, ask questions and offer help. The worst words you can hear when you’re opening up to someone are “Well, you know where I am when you need to talk,” before they quickly change the subject.
When people say that phrase to me, I feel like screaming: “NOW. We’re talking NOW. I need to talk NOW.”
Even better – don’t wait until they come to you! Ask your loved ones how they are, especially if they seem low or are acting out of character. Be brave enough to facilitate difficult conversations. They might be waiting for you to ask. So, be assertive, be ready and be open.
We are stronger together.
Happiness is possible.
So, where am I now? Have I defeated the kraken for good? Did the warrior slay he monster and live happily ever after?
Well, although I’m not sure if the kraken will even truly be defeated, I’m relieved to tell you that I’m finally wading in the shallows. I’m out of reach of the kraken’s grip, the shore is within sight and although sometimes I’m exhausted from all the swimming or the riptides get the better of me (as with any illness, the path to recovery is rarely a neat, straight line), I want to thank you all for continuing to wave from the beach and call out your messages of support.
I can finally plant my feet in the sand, wipe the salt out of my eyes and wave back.
I’m almost there, guys.
I’m almost there.
Resources
If you’re feeling low or think you’re affected by any of the issues mentioned above, then there are lots of phone numbers, websites and organisations that are set up to offer support and advice.
Here are just a few:
United Kingdom
- Help for suicidal thoughts (NHS and Samaritans)
- Mental Health Helplines (NHS)
- #MarkYourMan with Romesh and Rob (UK Male Mental Health Charity, CALM)
United States
- 1-800-273-8255 is the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
- Mental Health America
- MentalHealth.Gov
Rest of the World
The above two comprise the main readership of this blog, but if you live in a different country, then here is a list of suicide crisis lines all over the world.
You are amazing Amy.
Right back atcha! x