I was
diagnosed with Generalised Anxiety disorder (GAD) and severe depression eight
weeks ago, four weeks ago they added emotional dysregulation, apparently, a
nice little gift from my untreated anxiety disorder. They (doctors, psychiatrists,
and psychologists) believe I developed GAD sometime in my teenage years. I
certainly could not tell them when I first noticed being over anxious as I have
always been an over thinker, a worrier, a huge “what if-er”.
I have always had trouble knowing when to
stop, when to let go. Those inner voices, well they have always been there
telling me to do better, try harder, make sure they don’t find out you are a
fraud. Most people are happy to get a pay rise at work, not me, a pay rise
means I must work that much harder because I don’t want anyone to have a reason
to find out I can’t do my job properly.
The one
thing I have been very good at over the last twenty plus years is faking it. I
faked my smiles and laughs, developed a completely different personality to the
one living inside my head. I fooled family, friends, doctors, my husband, hell
I had the act down so well I even fooled myself for the better part of two
decades.
About five
years ago I admitted to myself that something was just not quite right. I began
seeing doctors and asking them what was wrong with me? why was I so scared of
getting out of bed every morning? why was going to work so hard? Why did I make
excuses to avoid public transport and social events? I lost count of how many
doctors told me it was all in my head, until finally one told me I suffered
mild anxiety and should learn to meditate.
Learn to
meditate, he was kidding, right? I explained to him as politely as I could my
belief in paganism and how I already meditated at least once a day. His answer
was “try twice a day then, and be more positive.”
Mild
anxiety, it took over two years and many doctors to find out I had “mild
anxiety”, it sure didn’t feel mild, but doctors know best, right?
At least I
had something I could work with, I already meditated but it became an
obsession, every night before bed, I would spend an hour in meditation, every
day I would find at least one thing to be positive about. I read books about
positive thinking, liked and shared all the positivity memes I could find. My
‘fake Sarah’ went into positivity overdrive!
I told my
manager about my “mild anxiety”, I needed to be able to explain why some days I
just couldn’t make it to work as I couldn’t get out of bed. I suffered
migraines no one could find a reason for, and it seemed I always had a stomach
bug. I persevered however, staying positive, meditating, getting massages to
help relax tense muscles.
At home
where no one could see me, things were so different, I never made a decision
(much to my husband’s annoyance), I never wanted to do anything, I spent my
free time, watching television, playing computer games or looking at my phone.
Mostly though I laid in bed pretending to sleep.
I was always
irritable and snapping at my husband, I never contacted my friends unless they
contacted me first. I was always “going to have coffee” but was always busy and
just couldn’t find the time. This was my life and I was so far gone down the
rabbit hole I didn’t even realise there was anything wrong with the way I was
living.
Sure, I had
panic attacks and was always feeling physically ill, but that was just how it
was. Doctors didn’t seem to take it seriously so obviously, I was just making a
big deal out of nothing. I just wasn’t strong enough, good enough, trying hard
enough, basically I just wasn’t enough. I didn’t make friends because the
closer people got the more likely they were to find out I was a fraud.
Then eight
weeks ago I was sent home from work as I just couldn’t get a grip on myself
after having a panic attack. Two days later, I just couldn’t make myself get
out of bed so I visited the Mental health service in my town. Within five
minutes the psychiatrist assured me there was nothing mild about my condition.
I was given
antidepressants, and diazepam for the anxiety and urged to see my GP to get a
referral for a psychologist. I was cynical about the depression diagnoses, I
didn’t feel sad or depressed, I was convinced I was a happy person. I took my pills
however, like a good girl. The diazepam dulled the senses and relieved my over
active brain of all its anxiety driven thoughts. Exactly what it was meant to
do, right?
The problem
was without the anxiety and the adrenalin it brought to the party, depression
hit me like a freight train. All I wanted to do was lie in bed and cry all day.
No one loved me, no one cared, they never had, they never will, I would be
better off dead. Why was I here? What was the point?
Suicidal
ideation was my constant companion. My husband took me to see the GP and get my
referral for a psychologist after I rang him at work in hysterics, because I
really thought I would take all the diazepam I had in the house. The less
anxiety I felt the more depression took over, within a week I went from
suicidal ideation to actual attempts.
After trying
to drown myself in a bath tub, my husband knew he wouldn’t be able to keep me
safe at home by himself and so I found myself in a mental health unit (MHU) for
the next 13 days. My medication was changed, increased, doled out to me on a
strict schedule. I slept a lot, cried a lot, stayed locked in my tiny little
room writing poems and reading books. More people than I ever thought cared about
me came to visit or ring, sometimes so many people in one day I would get
overwhelmed and need to ask for no more visitors.
My husband
spent this time learning what he could to be able to help me, he felt bad about
the debates and disagreements which could have been avoided if we knew what was
going on. The most helpful thing he has given me is the option to say, “this is
too much right now” and walk away with no questions asked. But I do digress
from what this post is about, how my mental illness affects my relationships is
a whole other blog for a whole other day!
I was
fragile and tired at home and while I was trying hard to get back into life,
being around people made me shaky, leaving the house drained my energy at
tremendous speed. I still had suicide ideation and thoughts of self-harm. I was
definitely not ready for the rollercoaster of emotions real life was going to
throw at me.
I lasted ten
days at home, eight days where I coped with the big bad world and two days in which
I have no recollection of events, except for knowing I tried to end my life
again. I ended up being transferred by ambulance in the middle of the night from
my small town with no after hour mental health facilities to the same MHU I had
just been discharged from.
My anxiety
was screaming inside my head, what a failure, back to the same place, you are
such a loser, who tries to kill themselves over something so stupid? My
depression was screeching at me life is no different to death, you’re miserable
here, no one gives a shit, just find a way end it all.
I was going to have to face the same nurses
and some of the same patients, I was sure it would be humiliating. However, it
wasn’t as bad as my anxiety made me believe. In fact, while I was there two
other patients returned as well, it is not unusual for patients to return
quickly after their first discharge.
Both times I
presented at the MHU I entered as a voluntary patient, this second time however
it was made very clear to me by the attending doctor that any attempt to leave
the unit while they had me under observation for the next 48 hours would result
in me being placed under the mental health act. Even irrational, I’m better off
dead Sarah knew this was not something we wanted.
It all went
so fast the second time, no one knew where I was, there was no visitors no
phone calls (except for my husband). By talking to him I pieced together things
from the two days I do not remember. The one thing that scared me, that made me
realise I really needed to do whatever it takes to get better, was finding out
when my loving husband asked me not to over dose on tablets because he couldn’t
live without me, I told him to take the tablets too.
I asked
someone I love more than anything in this universe to die. Hurting myself is
one thing, hurting someone else is another thing entirely. I’m not that person.
Self-loathing, self-belittling, self-harming, yes, all those things, but I care
for other people I would never want to hurt anyone. At least the me I once was
would never want to harm another person.
Again, we
played with my medication increasing my anti-depressants and anxiety pills
again. I had seen a psychologist while home but this time I saw the MHU’s
psychologist. It seemed doctors and nurses were much more in my face being a
returning patient. No longer was I allowed to hide in my room reading and
writing all day, I had to sit in the garden and talk to doctors, nurses, peer-support
workers.
At first it
was hard, it was scary, it was tiring, I didn’t want to go to art therapy and
relaxation. I walked around with my kindle and made a point of opening it
during meals to read instead of talk. This was not because I am mean or I hate
people, rather my social phobia kicks in anytime there is more than three
people in a room with me.
The thing
that kept me going to group activities and eventually trying to eat a meal
without my kindle in my face was knowing I had to get better. I had to do whatever
it takes to get back to the person I know I am. The kind of person who would
never encourage their husband to die alongside them.
I started writing
in a notebook while in the MHU for the second time. It is my recovery book, one
side is full of my research, and techniques my psychologist and I are trying,
flip it over and it is my recovery goals written out over many pages with space
to write notes as I achieve things.
Two of these
goals have led to this blog, and will probably lead to more posts about my
Illness in the future. The first of these goals is, start writing again, write
every day, write for pleasure, write for release, write to reach other people.
The second goal is to stop lying to myself and other people, be open and honest
about my mental illness, to be a public voice helping to break down the stigma
people with invisible illnesses face.
To all the people who tell me how brave and
inspirational I am talking about my anxiety and depression on social media,
thank you for your kind words. I don’t feel brave or inspirational though, mostly
I feel tired and depleted, full of fear and overly emotional. By sharing my story,
I just may change the view of one person who thinks mental illnesses are not real
illness, help one person suffering in silence to seek the help they need, or
even just make someone fighting their own anxiety and depression know they are
not alone.
- lifeline 13 11 14
- beyond blue 1300 22 46 36
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