What is it like to struggle with depression?

***TRIGGER WARNING...SUICIDE AND SELF HARM***

Anxiety is my major demon, and so is usually the focus of my disseminations. Depression is my secondary illness and one I usually struggle less with. However, over the last week I have found the old black dog weighing me down.

At night I am unable to fall asleep, tossing and turning for hours and then in the morning I am unable to wake up. I lie in bed after I have woken up dreading putting my feet on the floor and facing the day.

I am finding less joy in things I usually like to do, art, gardening, photography are just not as important as sitting on the couch watching re runs of Law and order or Netflix.

It’s easy to tell you about the symptoms my depression shows the world, Comfort eating, lying in bed for 14 or more hours, sitting on the couch staring at the tv all day when the house needs cleaning. You can see these things in the dark circles under my eyes, the weight I gain, or my cluttered home.

I can pass other little symptoms off as quirks of my personality. I shudder for no reason so crack a joke about ghosts. I jump in fright too easily but that’s because I’m just highly strung. I turn up to work early every day because I love my job and want to be punctual, it has nothing to do with the overwhelming dread I have to fight every time I need to leave the house.

The hardest part of depression is trying to describe the invisible symptoms to people, the things you have never experienced unless you have fought tooth and nail with the dark morbid monster in your head.

Suicide or self-harm ideation is a big one. Yes, we all have morbid thoughts but for a person with depression these thoughts are much bigger, more constant. I used to walk past a crocodile infested river on my way to and from work. At least three times a week I would stop and think about jumping in.

At a don’t walk sign I always think about walking out onto the road. I lie in bed thinking about getting a kitchen knife and slitting my wrists. I wonder just how painful of a way drinking bleach is to die. Or how about if I swallow a balloon, will I choke to death? Is that plant in the garden toxic? Should I eat some of it to find out?

People close to me think I make these things up for attention, but to be completely honest with you there are times where the compulsion to harm myself is so strong it takes every bit of energy I have to stay alive. The only person who really seems to comprehend the severity is my husband, and unfortunately, he understands because he has seen me out on that dangerous ledge too many times.

Another symptom it is hard to explain is the pressure. Quiet often it feels like someone is sitting on top of me or hugging me too tightly, I need to take a deep breath and try and convince myself it’s all in my head.

Or how about the overwhelming self-doubt? Not just the normal humble doubt everyone experiences. No for someone with depression it is a soul-destroying doubt, it doesn’t just creep in, it rushes over you like a tsunami.

I have been convinced my husband doesn’t love and stays with me because it is convenient. I can be so sure my pets hate me, even as the cats sit on top of purring. I love my Mother in Law with all my heart, but I cannot understand why she could possibly love me. I can hold a good job with great money but be absolutely positive everyone thinks I am bad at it.

Even writing all of this, it still isn’t a good representation of what depression feels like to those of us who suffer through it.

During the witch trials a way to get a confession out of someone was by “pressing” them. To do this a person is laid across a hard surface and more and more rocks are piled on top of them, slowly crushing their bones and internal organs. One rock at a time until the pressure is too much, and they die.

That is exactly what depression is like, one black thought at a time until one day the pressure becomes too much, and you die.

Misandry is not feminism!

I have long considered myself a feminist, I grew up fighting chauvinism at home, at school, at work. In 1995 I was 19 and working as a waitress in an AFL club, a job which truly opened my eyes to male privilege and the societal blind spot toward the mistreatment of women.

I was 20 when I entered my first serious relationship, to a man (boy?) who wanted to tell me who I could see and where I could go. All he wanted was an obedient piece of arm candy, my brain was not needed. He was emotionally and physically abusive, when I finally ended the relationship more than one person expressed their displeasure as he was, “so good looking”.

At 26 I was sexually assaulted in a public toilet while out clubbing with friends. The first police officer on the scene questioned my choice of outfit, the second my sobriety. I knew then, just as I do now, neither of those things had any impact on the crime committed by the man who followed me and broke the lock on the cubicle.

During my 41 years I have personally experienced too many true moments of misogyny to count. Males who feel it’s their right to tell me I am too fat, too weird, too opinionated. Men have demanded I sleep with them, grabbed my ass, grabbed my breasts, forced my hand onto their groin all the while laughing at my discomfort.

Every single one of my female friends can tell you similar frightening stories. These are the reasons feminism is needed. These are the reasons women are demanding to be heard. Therefore, as a gender we should be standing together to say no more!

We aren’t standing together though, some women are tearing other women down, calling each other names, and treating each other badly. They hide behind the banner of feminism claiming females who disagree with them are part of the problem. Rest assured it’s very easy to disagree with them, all you need do is like men. I’m not talking about being hetro or bisexual, they find it perfectly ok to date men as long as you hate them.

According to these women who call themselves radical feminists (or radfems) all men are depraved, pathetic and without a single redeeming quality. They maintain Transwomen are still men and even greater deviants worthy of more scorn then cis men. Females who profess to be happily married or in a great relationship are liars or deluded.

Personally, I am unwilling to tar all men with the same brush, seriously, it’s no different to hating all Muslims, believing all refugees are looking for a free ride or saying all priests are paedophiles.

Generalisations are never something we should become comfortable with. It is this opinion which has seen me labelled as “part of the problem”, “a lib fem”, or my personal favourite “a handmaiden”.

How dare I respect and allow someone to choose to identify with their true gender, how dare I not label them perverted and mentally ill.

How could I possibly be happy in my marriage and defend my husband, calling him a wonderful and caring man.

I am apparently an awful example of feminism, a terrible curse to all women, because I judge men individually on their actions and not as a whole group based on the actions of many.

I know my opinion is not a popular one with radical feminists, but it is still my opinion and I am entitled to it. Funnily enough, it is not me personally attacking these women, rather it is usually them calling me names and labelling me unenlightened and uneducated.

I have fought for an end to sexism and equality of the sexes for most of my life, equality is the key word here however. As a feminist I know there is a culture of misogyny we need to address. I do not believe the current wave of misandry invading the world of feminism is the answer.

         
          Why can't I be a feminist if I have male friends?


          Why would anyone want to meet hate with hate?

How is replacing misogyny with misandry a solution?

Are we really, honestly confusing feminism with misandry?

Today we lost an angel

Beryl was the most amazing woman, a true role model to everyone, not just an off the rails young adult like me.  I was barely 20 when I found myself kicked out of a share house with nowhere to live. Faced with the prospect of being homeless I had no idea what to do. It was my best friend Timmy who approached his parents to see if I could board in the empty room they had.

Mr and Mrs H being two of the most compassionate people you could ever meet said “yes of course!”, and for the measly sum of $40 a week gave me a place to live and fed me to boot. I think I must have been quite the handful back then, I remember both of them taking me aside more than once to have a chat about what was appropriate behaviour under their roof. I truly give a lot of credit to the person I became to my Mumma H and the slow but steady guidance she gave me.

I grew up a child of divorce, our mother left the family home and we stayed with our father. I do not blame my mum or think she could have done anything different but that’s another story. I longed to have a mum, to sit around a kitchen table and talk about life, someone who would love me and take care of me without keeping tally of what I owed them. Mrs H was the proud mother of four boys, correction the VERY proud mother of four boys. She longed to have a daughter to take care of and share girly things with.

We were quite the match, though perhaps Mumma H would have liked a slightly less damaged, headstrong, and rambunctious acquired daughter. Still she loved me, I was part of her family, expected to be there for Mr H’s Sunday lunch, the one day of the week the family sat down together. I treated the younger boys like my little brothers and fought with my Timmy as if he was my big brother.

As happens children grow up and young adults leave home and make no mistake the Mr and Mrs H’s house was my home. As time passed I went back to visit less and less but I never forgot the kindness they showed me. I never forgot the love they had for a damaged little girl trying to be a grown up. My most cherished gift is still the beautiful, handmade wooden key Mumma H gave me for my 21^st birthday.

Timmy is still my closest, most precious friend, more family than some of my blood relatives. It hit me hard when Mumma H was diagnosed with cancer. Even when I was in other cities and out of touch I would be asking Timmy how our parents were. I rejoiced every time she was in remission and worried each time it came back.

I could not have been happier on my wedding day to have my second mum right there wearing a corsage and approving of the man I was marrying. Timmy and I know our mum’s secretly (well in my mum’s case not so secretly) wished the two of us would marry. Neither mum seemed to care about the small problem of us both liking boys! Mumma H liked Jason though and told me he was a lovely man.

This week cancer won, it took our beloved mother, friend, and wife. It is a sad week for us all, but I know it is saddest of all for Mr H, he lost his best friend and partner, a once in a lifetime woman. I have no words to take away his pain, how do you live so close to love personified and continue when her light is extinguished?

How do any of us go on now we have lost our angel?

Today we lost an angel

My loving second mum

Today we cry together

Our grief will make us one

Today we lost an angel

A soul so true and rare

Today she found her peace

Home into her lord’s care

Today we lost an angel

What more is there to say

Today our hearts are shattered

For we lost an angel today.

~24~08~2017~

My story of growing up with an undiagnosed mental illness

I have suffered from generalised anxiety for most of my life, it can make it very hard to function as society feels you should. It is especially difficult before you have a diagnosis, when you don’t understand what is going on in your head and body.

Before receiving an official diagnosis, it was hard to take my troubles seriously. Even harder was living with a family who didn’t understand me, teachers who thought I was too sensitive and needed to harden up and peers who openly named me the weird, moody, scary, psycho chick. I couldn’t be “normal” so I embraced the labels my peers gave me, I hid behind this imagery. “That’s just Sam” became a common statement among my groups of friends.

I hid well behind my labels, delving into the metal and goth cultures, alcohol and pot, I wagged school, sitting alone in a park because the thought of being around people made me cry uncontrollably. Of course, I always had a good story for where I was, the crazier the better, I didn’t care if my friends believed me.

High school ended and people expected me to go out in the real world. This is something I didn’t know how to deal with, but also something I didn’t know how to talk about. After all it was the 90s and mental illness was very much a taboo topic. Suicide seemingly came out of the blue, nobody knew why someone would do it. You were deemed fine as long as you got out of bed every day.

Of course, since it was the 90s it didn’t matter how late you stayed in bed or that you stayed up most nights writing morbid poetry. Being so drunk you forgot your address was cool. Smoking pot in a nightclub’s bathroom stall just a normal night out. You could find a good place to party every single night of the week and who cared if you turned up to your shitkicker job still drunk or hungover.

The 90s was the birth of grunge, and my generation took up the unwashed, grass-stained (pun intended), emotionally wrecked banner with pride. It was the perfect place for an emotionally fragile, non-functioning young adult to hide. Sitting on a couch for days getting so stoned you forget to bath while watching the same re runs on Mtv was not an alarming warning sign of severe depression. It was perfectly normal and the same thing everyone else was doing.

The 90s was probably the best decade of my life, I self-medicated without ever really admitting something was wrong. Most of the time I knew something was wrong but it was easy to ignore. My family had already written me off as a waste of space, I lost touch with all of the decent friends I had, choosing to hang around only with the ones who would party with me.

I ignored my university studies and instead took jobs way beneath my skill and intelligence level. I was a stoner, I drank too much, I flitted through jobs every 6 months or so, I played online computer games, in the words of my father I “pissed my money up against a wall”. I used to get mad at him for saying this but I could not deny I spent every dollar I made on drugs and alcohol.

Of course, the 90s ended and the last die-hard stoners of my generation disappeared in a puff of bong smoke. The things I had used to hide behind as a teenager and young adult were no longer acceptable. People actually expected me to have my life together, know what I wanted and be in a position to go out and get it.

The 00s were not kind to someone like me, piece by piece the charade that was my life came crushing down. Not being able to get out of bed before lunch time made me lazy. Throwing in a job after 6 or 12 months because I just can’t make myself leave the house made me selfish and flaky. People started throwing words like clinically depressed, anti-depressants, professional help, at me.

On some level, I had always known there was something wrong with me but now other people were seeing it too. As a teenager, I had often thought about suicide, I use to hide my father’s pills thinking when I had collected enough I would take them all.

Now as an adult with no direction I turned again to these thoughts of self-harm. I was prescribed sleeping pills from my doctor and I would often play Russian roulette with them, washing handfuls down with alcohol. I would sleep for a couple of days, miss work but eventually I would wake up and have to go on with my crappy life.

I started seeing doctors to try and get help, but I would never admit I thought about suicide and instead told them I just over thought things too much. For years all I got was sedatives and sleeping pills which I took too many of never caring if I would wake up or not.

It wasn’t until I met the man who would become my husband that I realised I really wanted help and started truly looking for doctors who could help me.

Reaching my late 30s without ever being diagnosed with a mental illness made finding a doctor to take me seriously quite hard. Eventually I did find the help I needed and if you would like to know about that story it is the first blog I posted on my mental illness, Isn’t It time we shattered the stigma attached to “Invisible Illnesses”?

My story of growing up with an undiagnosed mental illness is not original, there are many people who would be able to tell you a story like mine. Many people suffer in silence however, afraid the world will judge them for being open and honest about mental illness. Others are not sure if there is anything wrong with them, like I was they are trying to make sense of not being able to function “normally” in a world they are not equipped to deal with.

Being diagnosed with Anxiety and Depression was such a relief for me, I would really love to hear from others how they found themselves feeling about their diagnoses.

Anxiety's crappy little "non-refundable" gifts!

I have been seeing a psychologist for ACT therapy (Acceptance and commitment therapy), which is about accepting our unpleasant emotions and thoughts and committing to techniques which diffuse and lessen the power these things have over us. I asked her how ACT therapy is going to help me with the physical sides of my anxiety. The answer was not thrilling. It isn’t going to help with the physical symptoms at all.

All this therapy, learning about “clean emotion” versus “dirty emotions”, all the self-help and mindfulness exercises and anxiety is still going to be my constant companion. Yep, that’s right, I get to accept the unpleasant feelings, (which I will admit makes the feelings less intense) but I am stuck with all the wonderfully crappy gifts my anxiety gives me.

Sweaty palms, racing heart, nausea, stomach complaints, indigestion, dry mouth, tension headaches and migraines are all here to stay. I can not stop the night terrors or insomnia, I just accept these are part of being me. The saddest part of all of this is these crappy gifts are source of more anxiety.

 Who likes going to a high stress job tired and cranky with your head feeling like you’ve been hit a few times with an axe? No one that’s who, once we realise the above scenario is a bad idea we stop getting hangovers on work days!

When I already feel bad I know it will be a hard day at work, I can accept my feelings, choose not to show them which I am really good at by the way, I did it for years. The physical markers of high anxiety are still there however, I am that co-worker who runs to the toilet too many times. The woman who seems to cry at absolutely everything. The person staring at a wall not hearing what you are saying. I’m chewing quick eze or sucking on a peppermint. Guzzling water to combat my dry mouth and stuttering my answers.

This is what all of anxiety’s crappy little gifts look like to you. I seem like a happy smiling, well adjusted person. A little scatty perhaps and slacking on the job because I “hide” in the bathroom, but I’m friendly and nice to people.

So, ACT therapy is not going to help me with any of these things, all it is going to do is make it so I no longer see anxiety as a big bad insurmountable emotion. Don’t get me wrong, this is a good thing, a great thing, it’s just a little disheartening to realise this is my life. Anxiety is my life, sleeplessness, nightmares, hot flushes (oh yeah, they aren’t just for menopause), headaches, none of it is going away.

Next time you look at someone who tells you they suffer anxiety, depression, or another chronic or mental illness just stop and take a second to consider how strong they must be. They are out there trying to get through life, smiling when they can and battling the emotional demons. They are doing all of that while dealing with all those physical crappy little gifts their illness gives to them on an hourly basis.’

Look at them and realise they are a freaking superstar, brave for admitting to a mental illness and braver still for fighting through the fog and symptoms every single day!

I am more than a stereotype of my mental illness

I am more than my mental illness, I have dreams and hobbies which have nothing to do with anxiety, or depression. Sometimes it's hard to remember this. I struggle every day with my condition, I talk about it constantly to those I love. I seek reassurance and validation constantly.

At least once a day my husband asks, “how are you going?” He expects an honest answer about my emotional state. As do the multitude of friends who constantly ask, “are you ok?” I try to answer honestly but I get sick of seeing the pity in their eyes, so I lie and say, “I am much better, thank you”.

With everyone reminding me to take care and not over do it, it's no wonder I get caught up in the world of my illness. I believe there should be no shame in admitting to mental illness. So, I do talk about mine openly, (mostly) honestly, and loudly.

Still it feels all I can offer the world is my wisdom and experience, hard earnt by fighting every day to accept myself and be accepted by others as the beautiful yet flawed soul I am.  However, I want to be known for more.

I want to publish my poetry, finish my first book, complete my diploma of photography, and make money capturing the beauty in the world around me. I want to do well at my day job, and be known for being a kind and caring person.

I want to be an Aunty my nieces and nephew can look up to. Most of all I want to be a wife who can contribute equally to the household and its maintenance.

Some days I bounce up and do these things, and some days I count it as a win if I can even get out of bed. Sometimes I laugh and joke and it is almost as if I am the person I want to be, but something always happens, something triggers a thought or emotion and I can’t come back from it.

Everyone has doubts and even people who never have and never will fight with mental illness can self-sabotage or doubt aspects of their life. For someone with Anxiety or depression however, self-sabotage and doubt is an Olympic sport, and we are training for gold.

I am more than my mental illness, but at times when a major episode hits it feels like all I am is my mental illness. “How are you today?” is one of the most used social niceties, when someone says it to a person they know suffers anxiety or depression it becomes more than a social question. They stare intently at you waiting for a dramatic answer, tears, or overreaction. The worst thing about this is on a bad day I’ll give them exactly what they expect.

I still write, I capture beautiful pictures, I laugh and play with my nephew, and visit my sister and grandmother. I try to spend time with my husband and do all the things it is easy to “forget” about. I battle people’s misconceptions every day, hoping my transparency can perhaps dissipate some of the stereotypes surrounding anxiety and depression.

Mindfulness is more than just another trendy buzzword.

Anxiety is a constant lump in my chest; smooth, hard, shiny, and solid like a big marble. This is how I visualise my anxiety during mindfulness. When all the chaos and mixed emotions are cleared away and I am looking at anxiety alone as a feeling it’s not as big as I think it is. Knowing this I should be able to function out in the world just like everybody else, right?

I mean everybody gets stressed, everybody gets scared, you just have to relax, and think about something else. It’s something everybody deals with sometimes, what makes me so think I’m so different?

The distinction is, I don’t have a reprieve from my worries, the back of my mind is always ticking over with concerns and things I should be afraid of. For me mindfulness is not just a buzzword, it is a daily requirement to be able to get out of bed. I know I’ve got to go to work and make money, however, without mindfulness exercises I can’t even leave the house.

See, I know how small anxiety is inside my chest because I look at it every day. I clear away the dirty emotion surrounding this one little uncomfortable lump. My anxiety is only small but it attracts other emotions to it like moths to a flame. What starts as a little black marble becomes a swirling grey mass of pain, fear, anger, hopelessness, anguish, anxiety about  anxiety, paranoia, you get the picture.

If I don’t clear away these other emotions I quickly become incapacitated. My brain shuts down, my body follows. I go from an articulate, some might say intelligent woman to a stuttering, stumbling mess, who cannot remember even the simplest of her vocabulary.

Since I suffer Generalised Anxiety Disorder, that marble of anxiety will always be there. Everything is potentially a catastrophe in my world, if my husband doesn’t say I love you enough he doesn’t love me anymore. If he says it too much then he must be guilty of something.

We went away for a day and a half on the weekend, I spent most of the time imagining our house burning down, one of our cats dying, someone breaking in, the highway flooding so we couldn’t get home for work even the house flooding because we live close to the river. I don’t mean I thought about these things and blew them off knowing I was being silly, these thoughts in my head seemed so scary and real I could almost convince myself they had already happened.

Of course, we came home and everything was fine. I prepared to return to work Monday morning for the first time since my Hospitalisation. Which just means Sunday night gave me a whole new set of concerns for my anxiety to chew, like a dog with a bone.

Mindfulness is my saviour. Closing my eyes and breathing in and out slowly ten times thinking of nothing but the air going in and out of my lungs may seem rude to people around me, but checking out of the conversation for a minute or two is better than hyperventilating and becoming a hysterical mess in public.

I have piles of colouring books, rocks I touch for texture, and guided mindful exercises on my phone. I walk mindfully, paying attention to the things I see along the way.  I even have tricks for when I am in public. If you see me rubbing my left hand in circles on my left thigh, you guessed it, I’m being mindful. All it means is I am thinking about nothing but what I am doing, seeing, physically feeling. I am bringing myself back from the edge of panic giving myself something to think about besides the growing ball of messy emotions whirling inside my chest.

Now, I’m no mindfulness expert, but this is the way I understand it. This is what helps me. I practice some form of mindfulness at least 4 times a day. Most times it is a quick one or two-minute exercise, and at least once a day I do a ten or twelve-minute exercise.  

Mindfulness doesn’t always work but I am calmer and better equipped for being out in the world as long as I remember to be truly mindful and not just someone who can throw a trendy buzzword around.

What activities do you apply mindfulness to in your life?

Just some poems about anxiety and depression

Hollowed out and beaten down

Still you hold your tarnished crown

Eyes are burning, muscles sore

Head is aching, you can’t take anymore

You once were queen upon your throne

Now you wander lost and alone

Your mind is trapped within your past

You fake happiness which cannot last

You need release you need to cry

You need answers you need to know why?

If not why then how? you ask

How do you fight? What an impossible task

When the danger dwells inside yourself

When the problem is your mental health

How do you fix it? Why should you care?

Why does it matter if you don’t wash your hair?

You hold your crown but deep down you know

Your castle and throne were all for show

Your mistress of nothing, you rule over none

You can’t even make sure your housework is done

There must be a way to get yourself back

To get this life of yours back on track

Perhaps the first step is to polish the crown

Wash your hair, find your shoes, and buy a new gown

Or maybe you let go of a past tarnished and frightful

And look to a future which just may be delightful.

                                     09~05~2017

Endless noise and endless fights

Forever thinking means less sleep at nights

Hard to stop the incessant noise

Hard to control my perfect poise

All this inside my mind each day

No wonder sanity feels like it’s slipping away

Two personalities with their own thoughts

My mind becoming their private tennis courts

The left side lobs a thought across to the right

The right lobs one back with all his might

I’m stuck in the middle trying to survive

Constantly wondering if I’ll get out alive

This constant noise can get so loud

Its hard to concentrate out in a crowd

I need time to myself, I need time to rest

Distractions from thoughts, but sleep works the best

No noise when I’m sleeping, except for the dreams

But that noise is different, we’re untinted it seems

Why does my mind seem split in two?

And to stop all this noise what do I do?

If I can’t get along with the thoughts in my head

If they constantly bicker about what someone has said

How can I know what is fake, what is true?

Why do friends stand by me with all I put them through.

23~04~2017

Hiding behind a perfect mask

A girl so shattered yet no one will ask

What is wrong? Why are you so sad?

Why do little things make you so mad?

They can’t see the sorrow, despair, or the pain

Only the cheerful mask, the smiles she can feign

She is scared to show the world her pain and true face

She instead moves along with kindness and grace

Helping another with whatever she can do

Her generous nature the one thing that is true

You’ll look at her passing you out on the street

You’ll look right through her never missing a beat

No one will guess she thinks she’d be better off dead

You’d never guess at the commotion inside of her head

Strangers often stop and tell her their sorrow

She listens and shows them a shoulder to borrow

Other people mean more to her than she does to herself

She will give all she can no thought for her own health

She always says yes, she hates to say no

Works so hard to make sure the truth doesn’t show

She could be your mother, your sister, your wife

Or any random female you know in your life

So take the time, stop and truly talk a while

Pay attention and you may notice what’s behind her bright smile.

 20~04~2017

Falling Further down the rabbit hole

Nothing to stop you nothing to hold

The darkness grows dense around your soul

No heat to thaw the heart numbing cold

Fall far enough the pain just may cease

But of course, this is just another lie

There is only chaos no room for peace

So, you yell and scream and ask the gods why

Why am I like this? Why am I here?

Why am I damaged beyond all repair?

You can fight, beg, or hide from your fear

But the ground hits hard, best beware

How far you fall or how deep you go

Changes each time you fall into the hole

Till you stop falling you never can know

If you’ll make it out unscathed and whole

When you hit rock bottom yes it will sting

No free rides are to be had in this wonderland

You must pick yourself up and get back in the ring

Fight back at your monsters, win your right to feel grand

20~04~2017