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

My mental health in the police service...

So lots to catch up on...

I guess the biggest news is that I fell off my perch again. I have been trying to think about new analogies' for my depression and I conjured up these two...

Number one - A game of Snakes and ladders is after all just a kids version of life. There are plenty of snakes out there who want to see you 'go down' and there are plenty of ladders too if you're healthy enough to attempt the climbs. Throwing the dice, pure chance, again like a lot of life. Being in the right place at the right time and not what you know but who you know are mantras I am all too familiar with and are positive experiences if you are on the right side of them. A lot of my life I am content climbing those ladders and throwing those die, however once and a while my anxiety and depression kick me down a snake. Sometimes one of those small ones where you only lose a few squares but sometimes it gets me from the top of the board to bottom in just one throw. Floored, having to start afresh again...

Number Two - also equates to a game I recall from childhood that used to be on television as part of a UK kids television show called crackerjack. The game I think was called 'Double or Drop' although I could be wrong on that but essentially a child was handed one toy, boxed or otherwise after another until they could hold no more. Then they were told they could double their winnings beyond what they were already holding  by taking just one more parcel without dropping all the others.

That's my life, me stood on a raised platform being given parcels to hold, daughters bullying, work anxiety, family politics, cleaning, shopping, bills, car servicing and so on until I get to that place where I know if I take one more parcel I am likely to drop the lot. I always do though, take the next parcel that is, as the lure of wining is just too great.

Then inevitably it happens, in trying to take that one extra parcel, in pushing myself just that bit further I drop every single one of my parcels that I'm holding on to for dear life.

Or I slip from top to bottom of that snakes and ladders board and bam the world spins and I end up a blithering wreck back in the doctors waiting room.

It was coming for weeks, I think I even blogged about feeling the wobble of my Jenga blocks... (I do so like a good analogy!) but they've toppled and I've fallen by the wayside. I also think the more often you fall that maybe it gets harder to get back up again? This is my third major episode in adulthood, one was fourteen years ago, one was almost three years and now another. I was already wobbling but then over Christmas 2016 my beloved Penny Dog, a loyal friend of fourteen years, who actually saved me the first time around, died and taking her to the vet to be put to sleep was brutal.

So brutal in fact that it was the final parcel so to speak, so not only did I fall but I crashed and burned into the dirt big time taking all my parcels with me.

I kidded myself for a few days that I would bounce right back after I'd had a good few days of crying but I didn't and here I am again having to break the news to work bosses. Going to the doctors and admitting another defeat.

At the moment I'm feeling completely ruined but I keep trying to bolster myself up with the previous successes I've had at pulling myself out of the dirt. Watch this space and I'll try and keep a progress log of how things go third time around.

I have also helped write a piece on #MentalIllness for #Police magazine which is utterly frank and truthful about my personal experiences of mental health within the police service.

There is a lot of talk about what 'we' do to support people in the service who are suffering from mental health problems but personally to date I've not seen any practical evidence of that, I've just heard and read the words. The smoke screen as you like.  However let me clarify this is a personal blog, about me and what I feel and think. My experiences...

I'll let you in to a little Police secret... those strong, competent, astute, brave, police officers who go out  into our societies day in and day out, night in and night out, festive season or not, are human beings!
Shock horror, I know its a lot to take in!!
Another secret...they have feelings, they have families and they are made of the same stuff you are! Who would have guessed!

We break like anybody else but our police culture is such that coping and being the problem solvers is what we do and what we're expected to do come rain or shine. When we break we think we can and should just fix our own problems, after all that's what we do.
So generally we tell nobody of our woes as we think it'll spoil the illusions we've created of us being some kind of superheroes who don't bleed or feel.
When we realise that we can't actually fix ourselves or reboot there often comes another phase, a period of time where we 'womble' around!! Now when 'we' the afflicted womble about we look just the same as your normal common or garden problem solver, yet this wombling soul will be much like a robot whose programming has corrupted. We may talk slightly oddly or slowly. We may sit staring off in to space. We may snap with fury at the smallest provocation yet eventually someone will notice the womble and offer help. TAKE IT!!
Eventually the mask or underpants will slip off the womble otherwise and reveal the human being beneath in all their crumpled glory which can have catastrophic repercussions if it happens at the wrong 'job' or with the wrong 'client'

Have you been, or are you being a womble? Do you know a womble you could help?

Mr or Mrs, even Miss or Master Womble ... Don't wait until you drop your parcels or slip down that snake... go and get yourself some help you deserve it x

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