0936 hours Wednesday 14/6/17

So as of today I have decided to adopt a diary format for my blog.

I have for years kept a written diary that recorded my thoughts and feelings as time went by. Up until this juncture in regards this blog I have found a topic that is bothering me or that I wanted to explore, then sat down and let my fingers do the talking. However of late I have found that style has been hampering my ability to write effectively as I have felt I had covered 'all' the topics that would interest a stranger, so have written less and less blogs.

As of today I intend to sit and write a lot more regularly using all the detritus that is floating about my vacant head space at any given point in time.

As I sit writing this I am watching the horrors of the Grenfell Tower fire, the tower block in London, still unfolding to the nation via Good Morning Britain. I am not shamed to say that I have shed a tear or two watching the horrific images of people waving things at windows as they tried to attract the attention of the emergency services in what we now know was probably a vain attempt to attract rescue. I cannot help but look to the future and find myself considering the #mentalhealth of personnel who have and still are entering those 'houses of horror'.

Yesterday I had another day's worth of help from Save Our Soldier the charity that to date have already provided me with upwards of thirty hours of therapy to tackle what they believe to be my PTSD symptoms from 28 years worth of police service. In my last blog I looked at my feelings of negativity and the belief that I was not making any progress towards recovery, so yesterday we looked in depth at cultivating emotional resilience to allow me to find a life of wellbeing. We spent time exploring the concept that we can all step back from ourselves and observe ourselves in almost the third person. I need to accept that life in my future may never ever be the same again and that I need to find a way of accepting that, a way of understanding that  'I am enough'.

Fibromyalgia is a long term condition that will not just go away. It creates extreme pain in various areas of my body all of which I can say without any doubt get a lot, lot worse when I am under psychological pressure. I have to come to an understanding whereby I almost have to allow myself the permission to plan ahead and take life a lot more carefully. I need to stop battling with myself. What became clear to me yesterday is that I have been beating myself up because I can get back to being my 'old' self. I cannot just plough on through anything and everything expecting my body and brain to keep up. I may never ever have those same abilities again but that does not make me the failure I thought it did. I do not have to feel guilty or ashamed because I fear never being able to don a uniform again,  to be able to go about strenuous physical or psychological activities. There is no shame there. I am enough.

What I need to do is find my self esteem, locate the hope for my future, develop a curiosity for my life and discover a positive attitude towards my life. I need to develop psychological flexibility, an ability to accept who I am now, not what or who I have been, not who I thought I had to get back to being but who I am now and what I can achieve as the me of today. I felt shame. I felt guilt. I thought I had to get back to somebody I used to be. But my body is unwilling, my brain has been battling the notion for many months. Yesterday I realised that I can exist without my past self, I can wrap my arms around the person I find myself to be today and offer myself self compassion. There is a future without my past self, I can let her go in peace. I can stop trying to be something I am not. I am enough.

The therapist and I looked at 'What if's'

Our brains need to ponder, to pull thoughts apart. To mull things over. If left unattended it will mull over the negatives. What if I die. What if I cannot be a police officer ever again' What if I have a terminal illness being masked by Fibromyalgia's symptoms. However we can give our brains positive 'What if's' instead. Debbie called them juicy fodder for the brain. So we worked on finding positive 'what if's' for me. They are listed on the board photographed below.

Debbie identified that I have been feeling like a bird in a cage being stalked by a cat. She wants me to get to a position whereby I feel like that cat. A cat that always lands on it's feet as opposed to the trapped bird who is fearful of the world and life itself.

I am enough.

Big Steps Taken?

Life bumbles on, it's passing me by very quickly at the moment but I guess I'm not really paying it much attention to be honest.

A school run here, a club run there, a date run today (for daughter not me)

I'm just ferrying my daughter about and that's about as far as I am getting. I am avoiding going to the shops, or the petrol station, the telephone is definitely poisonous and I've even  avoided the chemist despite needing to fill a prescription! I even had to ask a dear friend to pay a bill for me over the telephone this week, as I just couldn't face the social interaction needed.

Last night my daughter came towards me holding her phone out towards me whilst uttering the most terrifying words...

"can you speak to Max's mum?"

Well you would have thought she had approached me with a grenade in her hand, pin pulled,  if you'd seen my reaction. I barked at her to take it away from me just as if it was going to kill me. Her poor face was plastered with confusion and I made up some rubbish about needing to know what it was I was meant to be discussing with this other Mother before I speaking to her, but it was lame and she knew my reaction wasn't normal. (whatever normal is?!)

Undeterred though she tried again this morning but thankfully I managed to sway the conversation towards that of a text message exchange which thankfully sufficed in the end.

It leaves me feeling that inevitable pang of failure, that useless bundle of nerves that I often feel must equate to my sum total. She asked me before I took her to her club this evening,

"why are you so tired?"

and yet again I found myself having to find a reasonable explanation for the fact I am feeling dog tired, again, washed out, again, and all from doing very little.

I wanted to say,

• Well the day started with you asking me to speak on the phone which burnt through 20% of my energy,
• I had to wash and put on clean clothes that was another 15% gone.
• Driving to town, then having to book your bowling session and paying for it before speaking to your beau that used up another 20%.
• Then the hour's dog walk along the beach used up another 10%,
• The dash to the toilet in the local theatre was another 5% as there were people in there staring at me thinking I was a weirdo (least that's what my head said at the time).
• Then there was the taxi service home, cooking that stew for dinner and
• This club run now, there's another 20% gone ...

which leaves me I think with 10% brain function for your pick up,  seeing the other parents in three hours time plus any conversations that you hope to have with me this evening!!

However I made up yet another lame excuse about the sea air sapping my strength and that it must be all the fresh air that's exhausted me! Luckily she agreed beach walks were tiring and there I was off the hook!

Anxiety is like having naff batteries fitted, they don't recharge well at night, whatever charge they do take on dissipates quickly and when you need explosive energy bursts they don't give you the strength you want!

The demons roaming about my head spend their lives poisoning those few remaining active brain cells against me whilst every external stimuli proves utterly exhausting. The demons whisper their putrid mantras along my synapses, you're useless a parent,  you're a pointless a person, you're fat and ugly, in fact anything and everything negative that they can conjure up to attack me with.

Anxiety uses my own brain against me, I'm literally turning on myself from the inside outwards. Beating myself up with never ending self loathing and despair. The voice in my head knows all my insecurities and uses them against me and it is so loud that it drowns out all the other voices to the point that it is the only one I can hear.

The tiredness envelopes me like that black cloud you so often see drawn so evocatively to demonstrate depression and anxiety.

The darkness clings to me like a strand of the sticky catchweed plant from the meadow.

The darkness permeates my clothes like the smoke from a bonfire,

the darkness is so tangible I feel like trying to shake it off like a dog does water.

And what is that despicable discomfort I feel when I am in public?

It's like I've messed myself and the entire world is staring straight at me, seeing my embarrassment, watching me walk with my legs a metre apart, smelling my shame.

They're laughing, pointing at me and I just wish I could fold myself in on myself and disappear.

That feeling of unease that the worst thing ever is about to happen or that it already did.  The willpower it takes not to run away is ridiculous.

I'm definitely not to be trusted around people, I either cry or shout at them and truly there doesn't seem to be a middle ground! I say harsh things, I snap, I'm flippant and cutting... I have no filter at all and even when I'm angry I am still on the verge of crying.

I freak out even when there is no reason to but I just cannot seem to stop myself because my emotions are running riot.

The lunatics are running my asylum so to speak!

All in all anxiety is currently ravaging me and I find myself being stormy, weepy and down right unreasonable with a predisposition for being utterly spiteful!

A lovely twitter friend suggested tonight that I should give myself credit for what I have achieved today as opposed to beating myself up over the uselessness I feel and see in the mirror.

He said I should concentrate on the big steps taken ... mmm ...

sorry it's not working!!

What's your mental health kryptonite?

Last night I had a horrible dream. Well I guess perhaps it should be described as a nightmare. My eleven year old daughter drowned and died over and over. I felt the hopeless bottomless feeling of despair. A black bottomless pit, you're falling downwards and no one or nothing can stop you. I cried, I grieved. In fact it went on and on what felt like all night and when I woke up I felt so low.

I was overwhelmed to see my daughter, hold her and know she was alive. My pillow was wet and my hair soaked. Not a good night. 

I recount this with you as since my mental health has been bad again I have been having very realistic dreams. So much so that I have to stop myself when I'm awake and try and decipher whether I am remembering a reality or a dream. Quite unnerving.

I'm having a rollercoaster all around with my depression at the moment, two blogs back I was at my lowest, today I am also very low but yesterday and the previous days I was quite content if not reasonably balanced.  I can never tell until I wake up which extreme I am going to find myself at.

Yesterday I realised a lifelong dream and self published my book. I started writing it during my last depressed time two years ago and have worked on it around work ever since. It is kind of auto-biographical as the DS suffers with anxiety and depression and I've used all my personal experiences to create the character of DS Sarah James. Her emotions and difficulties with mental health are me, they are my experiences within the police service. She does my job, on my department. the murder didn't happen but the characters are true to life and it was cathartic to write.

So yesterday I published my masterpiece,  Money for Old Rope by Leasa Wilkes on Amazon Kindle eBooks',  that was a lifetime highlight and very exciting. Of course it was tainted with my normal self doubt, a need to apologise for fostering my work on the world and a massive fear that it is useless but that's fairly standard for me. Paranoia and self doubt figure in everything from parenting to supermarket shopping.  I have however had this daft dream that it will take off and earn me enough money to retire from the cops early allowing me to escape from my demons, but I fear that's just one of my dreams as opposed to a reality!

Yesterday I also had my second, 'how are you' email from work in the month since I have been off sick. Thankfully the boss did email me not ring but I can't help but thinking the timing of his contact means HR have prompted a contact as opposed to someone really caring. I suppose that could be my paranoia talking but that's one e mail every two weeks.

The thought of the office, work and even the people there makes me feel like I want to turn myself inside out. Its a creepy feeling that is somewhere between nausea and a panic attack. Revulsion even.  I feel allergic to an environment that has formed the basis of my working life since I was 19 years old. I now hate it and love it in equal measures, it is my greatest accomplishment yet my biggest weakness all at the same time. It's like my kryptonite, I feel weaker, sicker and darker when I think about work.

I made another step forwards today. I emailed Steps2Wellbeing, a free talking therapy service in the UK.  I was in their system two years ago having counselling but just prior to my fourth session and whilst I was sat waiting to go in I was told the counsellor had gone off sick with stress! Now I have always struggled with the concept of counselling as I recognise from policing that professionals are humans with their own garbage and are therefore only listening to me prattle on for their wages! So when she went sick I absorbed the blame as it felt as if all my misgivings had been confirmed. I made her sick, she didn't want to listen to me at all, she did have her own baggage and it is purely a job and she didn't give two hoots. Steps2wellbeing never re-contacted me to book me in with somebody else, or for that matter to apologise for dropping me out of their loop and I never re-contacted them.

So bearing in mind my current 'trigger' with telephones that I have covered before I have emailed them. phones make me sweat, hyper ventilate, panic and generally feel very unwell. Let us wait and see what comes of my email. But the email itself was an achievement trust me it's taken me a week since seeing the GP to get around to actually writing it!! But apparently according to my GP to even stand a chance at being considered for a PTSD diagnosis I have to see a psychologist via them?

On a more positive note I have had some great feedback from you all about these ramblings and whilst I feel I have something worthwhile to throw into the mental health mix I'll keep on writing. Feel free to follow me on twitter @BeachHutBabe24 if not already and if you're feeling really generous perhaps you could spend 99p on my book, read it and give me an honest review!!

My slippery depression slope

At the moment the only things keeping me moving forwards are my daughter, my dogs,  my writing/twitter, and a very small handful of trusted friends.

Yet even so I am barely moving at all, both from a physical perspective and a psychological one.

I have never ever felt this bad, so lethargic, so overwhelmed by something I cannot control. It feels like someone has hollowed out my brain and removed the majority of it. I am a husk, an empty shell floating around on the breeze totally aimlessly.

I cannot concentrate or focus enough to make food. I stand in the kitchen staring around me, lost, confused. I cannot be bothered to lift the pans out of the cupboard and I certainly do not have the brain capacity to think about how to cook something. In fact any activity that isn't utter simplicity itself is just too complex for my subdued brain. I manage takeaways, something & chip meals or prick and dings.

I know there are things that I should do, emails that need sending to work re sick leave dates, daughters club dates that need putting in the diary but try as I might there is insufficient willpower within me to lift my head of the sofa let alone manage a complex task like putting dates in a diary.

I have never struggled quite this badly, tears are always close by and desperation a constant companion. What are usually simple tasks like driving my daughter to a club or filling the car with petrol are becoming hugely testing and exhausting expeditions. Just trying to remember how to put petrol in the car or recalling what my daughter needs are for her clubs feels like an A level standard test.

This my friends is what depression is currently doing to a police officer with 27 years service, a Detective Sergeant who was competent and capable. Professional and proud. Who has worked fulltime, juggled a home life and parenting yet here I now am reduced to the capability of a child. I can't cook a meal, I can't concentrate, I can't even think about what to watch on the television whilst vegetating on the sofa. To whom washing has become an arduous and often ignored chore instead I sit in stale smelly clothes watching endless random television and wondering when or if someone will ever plug back in my brain.

This is probably complete nonsense to some of you. A fairy tale or nightmare. This is the reality of mental health. This happens. This swallows people up and spits them out, if they're lucky enough to escape or get a reprieve.

I feel suspended in time, unable to move forwards or backwards. Feeling numb and beginning to hope that I can actually cling on to the slippery slope that I now find myself on. I've never felt quite so out of control or helpless with my previous bouts of depression as I do this time. Perhaps you fall more heavily and harder the more often you fall of your perch?

I hear myself talking to my daughter but its almost like its in the third person, like I'm somehow remote from myself. I paint on a smile whilst feeling like a fraud and hoping she doesn't notice that her Mum's been swapped out for a fake version. Am I the fake or was she? The capable one?

And yet through it all I'm somehow hoping honesty will help. If I tell it how it is, if I describe my dirty little secrets then maybe people may just start to see mental illness in all it's degrading glory.

I'm out of wine, that's an issue too. I drink every evening. Varies in amount but sometimes a bottle, sometimes less but I have none left. I feel like I need some right now.

The weird thing is as I've said,  I feel numb, unconnected to the world. Remote and unplugged yet I want the wine to dull the way I feel, to self medicate as it were. Isn't that a"contradiction"?

So for now I'm planning that on Monday I will email work, do the diary entries and then email Steps to Wellbeing for an appointment. I can't ring them. Phone calls make me feel ill, very ill. Panicked even, and cry, yes definitely. Even at the best of times I hate telephoning people but at the moment its just not possible so the doctor said I could make an appointment to get assessed by email instead. 

So that's my plan, survive the weekend, get daughter back to school, come home walk dogs and then do these chores and maybe write some more blog ...

Self loathing and the FMO

Hello,

Today as I am writing this is Sunday and I have been away from work sick since 28/12 last year, nearly three weeks now.

Tomorrow I have to go and see the FMO or Occupational Health as some refer to it. I'm guessing this early referral is because I was actually honest this time and stated depression was the reason for my absence. The last time just over two years ago I wasn't referred to the FMO for several months but initially I did not know what was wrong. (Full story in earlier blogs x)

I'd like to think the referral this time is out of compassion, concern and a desire to offer me support yet I can't help thinking it's more about bottom covering and the edginess I've created by daring to use 'that' word. In the email from my boss advising me of the need to refer me to the FMO he referred
 'to that type of illness'
being the reason for referral?! Which one is that then boss, that illness we must not name?! In not being able to discuss it openly he reinforces my feeling that it is a sordid little secret that should remain covert. Do you know if I am certain of one thing this time it is that I will not be quiet about it anymore. I will not be silenced in discussing mental health, its time the stigma ended.

By the way I am happy the boss emailed as I find telephone conversations with him difficult and my paranoia and anxiety kicks in.  I end up hearing all sorts of things he may not actually be saying. I take insinuation and can read between the lines like no other person I have ever met. Even when I'm well I can sense people's emotions like a blood hound, I feel emotional waves coming off them like bad body odour especially if they are talking to me. Times the strength of that scent by infinity if they are talking to me about my sickness record. No it is far safer to see the words written down to have time to evaluate their meaning before I go off at the deep end for no reason whatsoever.

I do feel anger towards this boss, the job as a whole, the department I work in, in fact generally I'm just angry. Angry that I feel the way I do, angry that I can't fix myself, angry that it impacts on my daughter. I am an angry person

Anyways back on to the matter at hand, the FMO. I feel anxious about tomorrow. Anxious that I won't be able to convey just how broken I feel more than anything else. I've been covering my tracks denying my mental health problems for so long that it is a new experience trying to be honest about the state I'm in. I feel confusion at how to explain how muddled my head space feels, how to speak about the fact that I could sleep for a month and yet still feel tired, how I can't remember things at all from one minute to another and just how fragile I feel with life in general. Writing is my only method of communication, ask me to speak out loud and I just ramble, feel stupid and then clam up.

I am finding Twitter an enormous help at the moment for this very reason, I can write it down, I can interact with like minded people and I don't have to speak a word. Bliss.

So as I contemplate tomorrow I feel my head pounding, the start of an anxiety headache, the ones that feel as if your head is in a vice that gets tighter and tighter making you feel like your head will explode. My guts are churning and growling out loud and I want to sit and cry. My joints are swollen and my limbs feel heavy. In fact I feel like the wreck I know I am.

You know I look in the mirror or at photographs and hate what I see. I have a set phrase that rattles around my mind when I am looking at my own reflection, I say to myself over and over 'gee you sure is ugly'.

I feel self loathing and disgust to the point that nothing matters. I don't want to wash or put on clean clothes, I do so for my daughter but not for me.  Going out is consuming in a bad way, the thought of seeing real people or more importantly them seeing me gives me chills. I wish I could go out but be invisible then I would know for certain that I'm not being judged or hated. I think I dislike myself so much that I can't help but wonder why anyone else would tolerate me.
I think that is borne from the abandonment of my Mother who always said I was useless and wouldn't amount to much and then is confirmed time and again by a Father that talks the talk but never walks the walk.

It's probably why I rely so heavily on dogs for support. They don't judge, or hate. They're loyal to the bitter end even when you're ultimately taking them to their death. Pure unconditional love, and dogs are the only source I've ever found.

So there I am ready for tomorrows events! NOT!! Laters....

Police officer with Depression ... over here!!

As I was walking the dogs this morning I started pondering my mental health, as usual, and came to the conclusion it was high time to be more honest with myself.  Honesty about mental health within the British police service is in its infancy and I find myself on that front line with a responsibility to speak out.

My personal mental health struggles go around and around my head more often than most anything else. Things like, am I imagining it ? ... and I am really just a skiving bitch? or ...Why did this happen to me? and... Now I have accepted that I suffer with depression and anxiety why can't I beat it?

Things like, can all my physical symptoms solely be attributed to depression or are they real?
Well they are real because I feel them, they hurt, they ache but are they really just figments of a brain being ignored on a conscious level that is trying in its own way to bring me down of my perch?

The police service and us the police officers remain locked in an environment where mental health is something that happens to other people and not us.
When I joined the service in the late 80's people with mental health problems or 'nutters' as we were referred to, were definitely 'them' and not 'us'. They were the people we got called out to, people who caused problems, societies drop outs, trouble makers but definitely, one hundred percent, categorically not 'us'. They were the S136 calls, the concern for welfare incidents and the vulnerable mispers but they were not police officers.

So when mental health came knocking at my door after a harrowing few months running a sex offender unit, I denied it access, turned it away, refused it a home, slammed the door in it's face because when I looked in the mirror I saw a police officer, not a drop out or trouble maker. I refused to accept that I could have 'those' sorts of problems for I was none of the things I associated with a person suffering from mental health illnesses. So the first time 14 years ago when I fell off my perch I accepted my branding as a skiver, after all being thought of by colleagues as swinging the lead, although hugely damaging, was no where near as horrific as contemplating facing the truth. I climbed back up the ladder onto my perch and battled onwards for another 12 years.

I lived in a twilight zone of self hatred and loathing,  of spiralling debt and sabotaged relationships. But any hell was better than facing the stigma of being a 'nutter'

Yet coming to terms with my reality, my bias, my stereotypical point of view has been and continues to be blooming hard work and that's from me the sufferer. So, as to what hope the rest of the police service has in getting their heads around what mental health really looks like I really don't know.

It wasn't until a couple of days ago that I finally publicly tied my mental health firmly together with my police career. I was asked to contribute to a 'Police' magazine article on mental health within the police service. Which after careful consideration I have done, although I have now received coded warnings from colleagues of the dangers of my speaking out and 'do you know the trouble you may land yourself in for being so honest' ??! Just think about that for a minute... the federation will print an article on mental health which I have helped with, which I am very honest in, yet my colleagues are fearful that I will get in to bother for it? What does that say about the current state of play? It reminds me of the stereotypes I spoke of previously and proves to me that the service may utter relevant words and try and sound like they are on top of mental health within the police service but its not yet having much impact. So far its just words and hypocrisies...

I personally have had the 'nutter' badge proudly pinned to my lapel since the last time I fell of my perch about two years ago, yet publicly to other 'police' folk especially on social media etc. I have been reticent to 'show out', for them to know that I am one of 'them' , to let it all hang out so to speak.

But I came to a decision out walking those pooches today. Someone has to be honest, the words, the sentiments are all very well but unless 'us' the sufferers on the inside of the police service speak out where will we get? It feels wrong, it feels scary and sadly it feels like I am being a 'Judas' somehow but we need to see the wood for the trees don't we?

So with that in mind I am going to be very brave... speak a truth that I have never uttered, never told to a single soul.

I have contemplated suicide in the past. There, I said it. (no lightening bolts yet!)

I have always answered 'no' to that question on the doctor's forms,

Have you considered taking your own life? NO. I always put NO.

After all if I answered honestly then I would definitely become one of 'them' wouldn't I?

I am not sure I would have gone through with it but there was one particular weekend before I fell off my perch two years ago when I sat and planned how I could make my death look like a fatal road traffic accident. Even in death I was not prepared to be judged as a 'nutter'. I wanted the world to see my death as a tragedy so my daughter wouldn't have to live with the stigma of having had a mad mummy. Thankfully I haven't visited that dark place again where death feels like the only option available but I want to reach a place in time where I would at least feel able to speak the truth about my state of mind.

Sadly I am pretty certain that I will never be a mentally healthy person whilst I am working within the police service. The police service environment has a very long way to go before it is totally accepting and understanding of having the devil on the inside of the organisation and I hope to retire well before I think things will start to change. But in the meantime I will keep speaking and spreading my truth in the hope it may just help edge the change along more swiftly.  LAW24

Anxiety - the social stigma ...

So I got to thinking about why it is so difficult for those non-anxious folk to accept that we, the anxious, generally only turn down social events because of our mental illness. Why is that such a stretch for you guys to grasp, it’s nothing personal, yet it seems to get treated with contempt and hostility.

If someone said they couldn’t attend a gathering because they’d broken a bone or had the flu there would be gushing compassion and sincere wishes to get well soon. However mention mental illness or anxiety and firstly it gets glossed over and ignored, but long term it seems to be taken as an indication that you are an untrustworthy, useless friend who should be excluded from future social functions as a punishment. Perhaps I just have dodgy friends!

Or perhaps is it my paranoia kicking in again?

If what I am talking about is a mystery to you then you’re either lucky or a non-anx person. There was a time when I lied about why I couldn’t make social functions. There was always that distant relative who needed attention, or a friend who needed my help or I had some mystery illness that was sweeping the town. However since my last really bad bout of depression, when I was off work for five months I feel compelled to be true to myself. That period of time was the first time in my life that I actually admitted to myself that I have a real illness, I finally gave myself some credit for not being that selfish stand-offish bitch that allegedly hated people, but instead I was someone who had tried to be strong for far too long.

It took me twenty years of looking in the mirror to accept that depression and anxiety are going to be a lifelong issue for me and it’ll never just be a case of getting better. There are good days and bad days, but admitting it to myself was and is a big deal.  As such if I’m asked why I am not going somewhere these days I am honest whether that makes people feel uncomfortable or not and I think it does make some people feel squirmy.

In the Victorian era in the UK, us, the mentally ill, or the insane, as we were once referred to, were locked away from society, placed in mental institutions or work houses, segregated and scorned. I do wonder whether that stigma still resonates in people’s minds, because there is a stigma to mental illness. I make a habit of saying it out loud these days, especially at work, although you do feel a bit like the elephant in the room when you do. Not because I am the size of an elephant, well not quite, but you immediately sense the discomfort of those around you. People almost want to physically shift away from you, to put some distance between themselves and you. Perhaps there is an automatic assumption you’re an axe murderer, or is it just an inherent discomfort that someone would admit that sort of shameful secret out loud? Or is it more likely to be the fact that many people face similar battles but have yet to see the light in their own mirror, to accept their own truths?

I have deviated from my point. I do not want to be ashamed of my mental illness.  I want to be proud of myself for working through the anxiety, for getting up on those mornings when all I want to do is cry and hide under the dining room table, for continuing to drive in to work when there are tears of panic and stress rolling down my cheeks, for getting back up every time life’s bowling ball knocks me down.

So, you non-anx folks out there if people like me shouting about my anxiety from the rooftops helps me cope and move forwards then you’ll just have to go out and buy yourself some ear plugs. Deal with it!

The next time a friend or colleague confides in you that they’re struggling or don’t feel able to do something because of their anxiety or depression then just say ‘okay that’s fine I understand.’ Give them the space they need, do invite them out again and again. Do not take it personally; it’s about them not you. They’re not trying to insult you; in fact, if they confide the truth in you, they’re paying you the compliment of trusting in you, making the assumption that you’re cool enough to understand them and the struggles they’re living with. Just know that they’re putting their heart into your hands

Mental Health & Debt

I saw something on the television this morning that struck a chord with me. They were talking about the connection between mental health problems and debt.

In recent times since I got more of a handle on my depression and anxiety spending.

Today though I have thought back to the days when getting myself into terrible debt was a regular occurrence and come to my own conclusions as to why I ran up those debts. I have considered and not for the first time, whether it was because of my mental health.

If Mental Health was a player,  I think it would  have been because I was trying to buy myself self esteem by getting nice clothes, flattering hair cuts, posh things that I thought people would be jealous of thinking they may think better of me for having flash things. Of course it has never worked; I am no more of a person now for all those purchases than I would have been without them.

Initially as I reflected I wanted to blame my Mother for the debts and my spending habits. She would never let me control my own money as a child therefore I never understood the value of money and I was thinking that, that’s maybe why I have always spent and spent and spent. But although I think my Mother and her lack of caring, and loving do contribute to a lot of my my mental health issues I think my actual spending problems were actually rooted in something far deeper and more sinister than even she should take credit for in their entirety.

I first started working straight out of school at sixteen years old, joining the police service at nineteen. I think upon reflection it started then, the anxiety, the lack of confidence and the depression. Of course there are several key life events along the way that have now magnified and enhanced the problems to where they are now. The last 28 years of my life have certainly had there ups and downs, whose life hasn’t, but no matter how much money I have spent I never seemed to be happy, or to be able to purchase that anxiety free world that I think I am ultimately after.

Is that it then, the route of the spending problems, is that me trying to buy happiness?

By no means was my depression and anxiety ever as bad as it is now back in the early days although my body has always had a habit of getting physically ill when I am up to my neck in something psychologically taxing or stressful. But gradually over the years if I was feeling down or empty I would head to the shops and indulge myself. Sometimes I bought ridiculous things that never ever saw the light of day again and often I would stand in shops considering the validity of spending the money but invariably my heart would overrule the logic of my brain the purchase would be made. Even when I knew there was no money and it got placed onto credit cards and even when the credit card ran out of credit I would just get another one. When the credit card repayments got too much I’d then take out a loan to pay them off and start all over again. Catalogues, store cards on and on and on until the debt around my neck then exacerbated my anxiety one hundred per cent. I have created a vicious circle of debt, anxiety, more debt, and then more anxiety. Being in debt is soul destroying and you think people look at you as if you are a brainless idiot, well you are, but brainless because it is incapacitated by illness and by your own feelings of inadequacy. The inadequacy that you were trying to erase with nice things, the happiness and love you were trying to buy they all then just end up even further away than when you started your whole sorry journey of spending.

So that’s what I have been thinking about today. I think the debts that I have run up and paid off over the years all stem from emptiness, from the void I feel in my life. I have tried to buy happiness, buy my way to positivity and fulfilment. I have been on the a merry-go-round of anxiety, spend,  debt, equals more anxiety, so spend more and get into more debt!  On and on and on. And even though I know what these issues are, I am still fighting them, I still fight the spending urge. Like an addict it is a habit that is hard to break. I guess it is an addiction because that small emotional pay off I get, that warm feeling of satisfaction for buying something glorious does for a few hours make me happy and less anxious.

Ultimately though peace of mind is something that cannot be bought, and anxiety is something that refuses to be paid off.

15/11/16

Paranoia & Anxiety

Paranoia.

If someone with anxiety was trying to impart to you that they also suffered with paranoia would you understand what they were describing, what their perspective was? Would you get what is was they were trying to explain to you? Shall I help you grasp the nettle?

Let’s play a little game. What was the most nerve wracking thing you have ever done? Was it perhaps your wedding, maybe school or job exams or even that all important job interview when so much rested on getting a good result? Maybe even a sky jump from a great height?
 

Select your event and put yourself back there, back into those moments, in the hours preceding this nerve wracking event. Close your eyes; feel the agitation, can you remember how you felt? Was your stomach churning, butterflies in clogs dancing around dipping and flipping. Had the rest of you insides joined the protest, a dirty protest maybe, with nervous diarrhoea and wind? Did you feel like your heart is missing the odd beat before speeding up and slowing down at will leaving you breathless and probably sweating? Were you having trouble concentrating or recalling the important things that you needed to remember?
 

I bet it was exhausting for you, burning through all that adrenaline, your neck was probably aching from the tension of the situation and your head was enduring a chronic banging headache.

When you tried to speak did you find that you had a dry mouth, maybe you even muddled your words or messed up what you wanted to say?
 

Now consider on top of all those feelings how it would feel to think that everyone around you had a downer on you? That you have no support, you feel isolated. You suspect that even your family and close friends look upon you in exasperation for being a complete loser.
 

You sense people are looking at you oddly aren’t they? You start to analyse every last thing that is said to you. People clearly hate you; I expect they think you’re really ugly too. If you look in the mirror and see such a lump of uselessness why wouldn’t they? You suspect colleagues cannot understand why on earth you’ve got the job that you have, let alone ever think you would be deserving of another more well paid position.
 

You can sense peoples disdain; you can feel their hatred prickling at your skin. When someone who you’re utterly convinced has been hating on you, someone who you are certain really does hate your guts speaks to you, you’re likely to have worked yourself up into such a frenzy imagining all the vile putrid things they have been saying about you that your attitude in response to their question or query is frankly down right rude. You’re cross; you’re wearing your heart on your sleeve and you snap something at them. Short and sharp immediately regretting it but unable to retract it you sit in stony silence. Now you know they hate you because you were such a bitch to them.
 

Maybe they invite you out for a drink. You should go they’re your friends right? But they don’t really want you there you know that, they hate you right? Ignore that and go out and have fun your inner voice shouts over the doubters. But you know you don’t deserve any fun, you’re a bitch. You’re a crap friend; you suspect they’d rather you didn’t go out anyways, at the end of the day you have nothing to offer the group and of course you were rude earlier.
 

No you decide it is for the best if you give it a miss.
 

Trouble is they now know you are a standoffish bitch don’t they? The next day they really are hating on you aren’t they? And so the cycle of doubt and paranoia goes on.
 

Anxiety and paranoia go hand in hand in my world. I consistently feel as if the most nerve wracking experience in my life is likely to happen imminently. I take drugs to dampen the feelings but even with them it is palpable.
 

It is exhausting physically and emotionally. The feelings of isolation you create for yourself are harsh, leaving you feeling desperate and lonely. But you still cannot break out of the cycle. People just make it worse. The more people there are in any given place or situation the more people there are to judge you. Keeping people at arms length is survival. If they are not close they won’t be repulsed by you, they won’t know enough about you to start hating you. You will not offend their senses.
 

It is a never ending conveyor belt of doom, a long dark road of uncertainty and sadness. The path undulates this way and that but the net result is unwavering in its conclusion.
 

7/11/16

Epiphany Day - Anxiety = Creatvity

Well today has been somewhat of a rollercoaster.

Around midnight I was holding my daughters hair back whilst she threw up in the bathroom sink her bottom fixed firmly to the toilet seat expelling waste that end too! I held my nose so I couldn't smell anything, however as I nursed and comforted her my mind was totally fixated on the fact that  I knew she would have to be off school sick today. In fact for two days with the 48 hour exclusion rule in the UK. I had appointments booked at work that had been in the diary some three weeks, one in particular with a very difficult person who I knew would be utterly incensed by my inability to keep the appointment, then there was breaking the news to my colleagues without small children who I knew full well would chunter and discuss my shameful, inexcusable lack of commitment to my work behind my back.
That was all before I even contemplated breaking it to my boss who I knew already had a very low opinion of me. So as the vomit persisted and the weariness started to engulf me,  my head was full of anxiety and stress as I anticipated the conversation content I needed to have with various people come daylight. As per normal for you then I hear you shout!

Worse than normal though as having to bail out of days at work at the last minute I knew would add fuel to their fire about my mental health. They'd think I was swinging the lead. Hell even the child's father had a pop at me today about how 'sickly' a child she was today! So colleagues have no hope do they of seeing the wood from the trees.

One thing did come to me today, my anxiety, my heightened sensitivity, my constant concern about other peoples tone with me and what that means if you read between the lines. My perception of the world at a seemingly different level to others and my yearning to commit everything to paper by capturing moments in time as word pictures. It came to me that if I wasn't a depressive, anxiety ridden creature would I still have the same burning insatiable need to be creative? Does the anxiety feed my creativity? Am I creative because of my depression? I came to the conclusion that for me the anxiety feeds my creativity. The enhanced feelings, guilt, sorrow, stress whatever they may be at any given time I seem to suffer them 100% more than most folks. I'm like a bug under a magnifying glass burning with stress when others around me are barely breaking a sweat!

So my epiphany for today... my positive thought for the day?! Me and positivity, wonders will never cease!

My anxiety and depression help me to write, whereas all along I have seen my writing as a therapy to help me recover and cope with my mental health.

That's my thought for today anyways!

02/11/16

ANXIETY - 'That's not fair' ... is it?

Do you get along with the people you work with, or do they get on your nerves?

Am I the only one who suffers from the psychological stress of internalising frustration and anger whilst outwardly remaining smiley?

My anxiety makes coming to work quite a difficult chore at the best of times, but when I get here and people are such complete and utter idiots it makes my time here even more unbearable!

Lazy people, liars and those people hell bent on promotion not to mention those members of secret societies who wheel and deal their way up and around everyone else.

I have worked for the same organisation for 27 years and I cannot wait to retire as things have become so utterly political in every way.

I think the fact that I have always saddled myself with ‘the fair’ rule could be half my problem. What’s fair and what is not fair have always been bench marks by which I measure any given situation. If someone gets promoted because they’re good, make rational well considered decisions and are good to have around in an emergency situation I would think ‘that’s fair’ if someone gets promoted on who they know as opposed to what they know I would think ‘that’s not fair’.

The trouble with viewing the world through the ‘fair’ goggles is that it impacts on your mood quite substantially often turning a sunny day cloudy, and a cloudy day stormy!

Supermarket queues are a hot bed for fair or not fair adjudications! If I have queued a long time and someone else walks straight up to a till that just opened and gets served straight away I’m immediately furious because obviously ‘that’s not fair’ is it?!

Whereas if the till operator acknowledges those already queueing and beckons you across then ‘that’s fair’ surely?

This annoying and invasive habit of contemplating each situation through these fair goggles blights my life and much like Japanese knotweed it seems virtually impossible to eradicate.

Why do those people that shout the loudest, are the rudest always tend to win through and get their own way? That’s not fair… yet calm, measured, mild mannered people often get stomped all over by the afore mentioned idiots as they make their way to the front of the queue!? That’s not fair is it?

That day you chose and organised a BBQ for all your mates, put lots of time and effort in to it and then it rains? That’s not fair is it, yet that adhoc affair organised at the last minute by the golden child gets stunning weather! That’s not fair, right? You get the drift and extent of my problems!

Well as I sit at my desk listening to the utter drivel being bandied around by my co-workers I tend to experience multiples of these ‘that’s not fair’ moments.

Back to back, wall to wall, top to bottom twaddle… Invariably leading me to be in a frame of mind that could loosely be described as tense! Well very tense actually, if not bloody fuming!

That steam coming out of my ears fuming, that feeling the urge to stick pencils up my nose and run up and down the corridor in my pants sort of cross.

Yet here I sit calm on the exterior, being polite when spoken to and seemingly quite content, when really I want to run around everybody’s desks chucking their files in the air shouting wibble!

Do you think I should see the doctor to up my anxiety meds?! Is this how axe murderers start their cycle of offending?!

Seriously though I do wonder how much more of this internal fire fighting I can cope with before the blaze gets out of control. Which comes first the anger or the anxiety? Am I angry because I’m anxious, or does the anxiety ramp up because of the anger issues?

Anxiety as many guises though doesn’t it?

For instance when I’m depressed and anxious I get this brain fog! Standing or sitting staring into space, aware you’re looking vacant but unable to snap out of it or even recall what you are meant to be doing at that given time. It’s like someone hit the pause button and you can’t find the triangle on that remote to initiate playing yourself again! I go shopping but stand in the middle of the aisles looking absentmindedly around hoping to find a visual clue that might stimulate my befuddled brain.

Then there are phone calls…urghh. I hate speaking to people on the phone. I have no idea what it is about the phone that puts the fear of god into me but it does. I am more than capable of having a rationale and intelligent conversation with all most anybody yet the concept of picking up that phone or even answering it fills me with dread and I tend to go to extreme lengths to avoid it.

Social events, how can you not want to go out so strongly that it feels like a physical fear and yet psychologically feel really put out that you can’t go and feel like you are being left out! It’s such a contradiction that I barely understand it myself and yet I live in hope that my friends will understand my ‘stand offish’ behaviour. More often than not they don’t and I have a bad reaction to having missed events. They get the hump and then I feel guilty which in turn reignites my anxiety.

Headaches, oh the headaches, I have had real problems with these. My whole head feels like it is likely to explode, in fact it physically hurts to the point that I want to wrap it up and rest it somewhere soft. The nearest I could describe it to you non sufferers would be the headache you get when you’re dehydrated.

Joint aches, I feel half of the time almost as if I have flu. My joints ache and ache and then ache a bit more!

Ironically though despite all my physical symptoms anxiety is actually a mental illness often associated / connected with depression.

I suffer with depression and I would say my anxiety goes hand in hand.

I do struggle however to understand why as a high functioning anxiety sufferer I cannot sort myself out. I know what the problem is, I am reasonably intelligent, and I am medicated so why can I not pull myself up by the boots strings and get over it?

Frustrates me a lot that one but the reality is I cannot so I just have to take one day at a time, sadly along with one bottle of red wine. Self medicating with alcohol has become a nightly occurrence as I dull the anxiety into submission. I know I am drinking too much but I am struggling to curb the cravings.

At the moment survival and not having any more time off work is my priority. I need to stay upright, not fall off my perch and keep the Jenga upright.

Death, guilt and signs from beyond ...

I was busily checking my Facebook timeline on Thursday morning when I saw something that pierced my heart and made me feel very sad and tearful.

If you have read my blog in the past you will know all about my family and issues with my Mother. In a nutshell my Dad left her for another woman in 2002/2003 and my mum issued me with an ultimatum. She said I should dump my Dad or she would never speak to me again.

I didn't dump my Dad, she has had nothing to do with me ever since.

My daughter was born in 2005 and she met my Mother once at a family do around 2009, somewhat by fluke as opposed to planning, but nothing since, not even a birthday card.

I wrote to my Mum when I was pregnant offering to try and arrange some form of contact with my unborn child so that they could at least know each other even if we were at odds. She wrote back saying 'it was a fate worse than death'.

My Mum is one of four children born to parents in Cornwall in 1948. Two boys and two girls.

I haven't spoken with her since that day that she issued me with her ultimatum, never likely to now I would say.

Because of the issues with Mum the other brothers and sister have found it very, very difficult over the years to play on both sides of the fence so to speak. They donned a 'Team Mum' shirt and always sounded like they thought I was lying to them when I discussed the situation. Whenever I visited I had to book an appointment so as not to coincide with Mother. It made me feel dirty, unwanted, unloved.  After 4-5 years of this stunted relationship I stopped contacting them. They didn't contact me. We let sleeping dogs lie.

In the mean time my grandfather and their dad died of old age. It was deemed unsuitable for me to attend the funeral, apparently it would have upset the proceedings.

On Thursday 27/10/16, I discovered through a Facebook post from my Mums younger brother that my Mums sister had died of cancer on Tuesday evening. I hadn't even known she was ill. Devastation.

I sobbed all day, through grief but also guilt I think.

Not to dissimilar to me in age she had been the younger sister I had never had. She showed me the ways of the world! She taught me about men, drinking and was just so loving, so kind and gentle. So unlike her older sister. I used to ask her 'why couldn't you have been my Mum?' She'd always reply 'oh my bird she loves you really'. She called me bird you see, a colloquial term of endearment.

Shell shocked and sad I've pondered the events. I feel like I should have risen above the crap and kept in touch. I would like to have said good-bye and I love you. I feel robbed, punished and wronged. If I didn't already despise my Mother I do now. In fact I feel like the universe took the wrong sister. She was mid 50's and did not deserve to leave yet, maybe she had learnt what she needed to move on to the next phase of this universe and our tests?

I feel selfishly that I was in a bad place anyways before this shit hit the fan and I'm wobbling more and more as my proverbial 'Jenga' game (discussed in last blog) heads towards the deck more and more with each passing hour.

I have work tomorrow and all the ensuing cack that goes with dealing with complaints for a living and I'm dreading it so much.

Last night as I passed my dormant computer in the pitch black to let my dogs out for a night-time wee the screen activated. It never does that! Normally you have to click the mouse and hit the enter key. There on the screen was a bird, very colourful sat on a perch. Not one of my usual screen savers at all, never seen it before or since.  I stood shocked wondering if I was imagining it or maybe still dreaming. I turned to let the dogs out, shaking my head and at that moment it powered down again and was gone.

I'm hoping that was Tina dropping by to let me know she's okay and to acknowledge that she knows I loved her dearly. Hopefully love really does transcend our human bonds...

30/10/16

Jenga and my anxiety...

Why does it feel so lame to say the words  'I suffer with anxiety and depression' ... why do those that care about us not get 'it' even when trying their hardest to help and understand us?

They don't get 'it' though do they? Not in my world anyway.  It's like we're raising our voices in our best British accents shouting at people in another country hoping they'll understand us because we're British! Of course they don't, they try to help, they offer whatever they think you need, but ultimately they don't understand what the hell you're going on about.

That's how it feels in my world trying to get people to understand me... I shout, I scream behind closed doors, I joke about it, I ridicule myself but no one seems to get 'it'

Two years ago I fell off my perch and after several months off work sick and the right meds I headed back up there.

There were the compulsory questions, there was a risk assessment,  but there was no understanding. Not even an attempt at understanding if I'm honest. Two years later and I've never had a follow up, I work in a anger driven, hate ridden environment with lots of grief and nastiness but do I or any of my colleagues for that matter get anyone ask us if we're coping... nope. Has anyone from supervision ever sat me down and discussed my case load with me, even if its just to offer morale support ... Nope.

It's a lonely place feeling desperate and its crushing to me having been a high functioning problem solver not to be able to snap out of it, not be able to fix myself.

When you look in the mirror... what do you see? I see something that I don't like, in fact I often repeat the same mantra to myself   'gee you sure is ugly'   There's nothing in my reflection I want to see, looking is a necessity for social compliance. I need to fit societies mould. One day though I suspect I'll stop looking altogether.

I have my ups and downs. Good times and bad. I've learnt to see when things are sliding down hill... that's where you find me today.

A little tearful, banging headache, aching joints. Wanting to get drunk but not even sure I can be arsed to do that.

I feel like I'm in that moment just as you trip up when you're still upright but know full well you're headed for the deck. That secret second when you know your future before anyone else.
That moment when you've sent a text message, a 'shitogram' expecting it to go to your best mate who you've been remonstrating with about whoever has pissed you off... then you realise you've just sent it straight to that very person. That moment when the world stops and your stomach feels like its dropping out of your arse! You flush with embarrassment heart beating swiftly as you think of the cover story you're going to tell!

I feel that secret moment now, I fear that fall, I'm considering my cover stories...

Yet being the reflective type I do ponder how people are meant to get 'it'. Lets face it, life is full of unique experiences and we all tread our own paths so can't possibly know everything or be expected to have the empathy to match every given situation can we?

I know that when I get to this wobbly stage its because of a combination of problems. Much like the start of a game of Jenga I can be strong tower, a force to reckon with, but start to chip away at me and I'll start to wobble. That said even a wobbling Jenga game with a few cornerstones missing can remain standing, ...right?

I am currently still standing, fighting my demons, trying to steady myself.

25/10/16

MONEY FOR OLD ROPE ... Murdering police officers? #amwriting

Well I was only thinking the other day, why don't I write a blog and then it struck me!

 I already did !!

Two years have flown by and I'm still working 'there' but with retirement fast approaching I'm lurching along hoping I reach that mile stone before I crash and burn!

I sated my need to write over the last two years by writing a novel. A crime murder/mystery.

The main character a Detective Sergeant has anxiety and depression... mmm... who could that be based on?! Set in a PSD department of a small force it takes the readers on a fast paced, excitement packed journey of discovery uncovering corruption and evil as it goes.

 MONEY FOR OLD ROPE is what the trade describe a police procedural.

 

My book opens with the murder of a member of the public who has filed a complaint against a senior police officer alleging they were in an inappropriate relationship together.

The victim, Melanie Adams is then found hanged in her opulent flat just before she was due to provide crucial evidence in this misconduct investigation to Detective Sergeant Sarah James of the local Wessex Police.

 

Sarah James a seasoned detective, single mother and depression sufferer is the investigating police officer from the Professional Standards Department. A high functioning anxiety sufferer she risks life and limb to seek out the police corruption she senses and detect Melanie’s murder despite some fierce opposition from within the force. 

 

The murderer’s identity is withheld from the reader until the conclusion.

 

Is there a murdering police officer loose? 

 

Will DS James survive to find out?

 

Why was the unemployed murder victim living in such a privileged circumstances?

 

Ha - I am hoping that one day I might get it published. But best of all is that I have immortalised some of my struggles with anxiety and depression during my career within the police service albeit behind the protective guise of fiction. That way one day my daughter can perhaps better understand 'me'  and why things are they way they are.

 

Why I find social events difficult, why I sit trying to relax yet often find myself fighting an overwhelming panic for no apparent reason. Just why I am the way I am....

 

More soon.... publishers contact me ... pretty please!!

 

#amwriting #policemurder #anxiety #depression