Sunday, 21 May 2017

Isn’t It time we shattered the stigma attached to “Invisible Illnesses”?


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.

If you need help or think someone close to you might need help, please find someone to talk to reach out, if you have no one in your life you think will understand  there are places you can call. You are not alone!

- lifeline 13 11 14
- beyond blue 1300 22 46 36

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