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

What a bad day looks like when you suffer anxiety and depression.

Today is a bad day. For a lot of people this might mean they forgot their wallet, or spilt their morning coffee on their shirt, perhaps they made a mistake at work and their boss told them off. For someone with anxiety and depression, someone like me, a bad day means I couldn’t get out of bed.

My husband brought me a cup of tea, reminded me to take my medication, cooked me brunch and made sure I ate it. We watched a comedy sitcom on tv together before I crawled back into bed for the afternoon.

He came in and hugged me and I had to grit my teeth and not yell at him to go away. I wanted him there and I wanted to know he loved me, but I also wanted to be able to lie there and cry without having to explain my tears.

On a bad day, my tears have no reason, my emotions are all over the place; anxiety makes me think about everything and I cannot switch off, while depression makes me apathetic and numb and I cannot care. So, when someone wants me to explain how I am feeling, I can’t. I’m too befuddled by everything, and nothing.

I feel dazed and confused, no words coming when usually I have no problem communicating. My vocabulary shrinks, I stutter and stumble through sentences, I repeat myself and then I get frustrated because no one seems to be understanding what I am trying to convey.

I look at the world through a foggy lens which leeches the beauty and wonder out of everything in front of me. On a bad day, I just lie in bed thinking how I am not good enough I will never be good enough and trying to make anything of my life is futile.

On a bad day I feel unloved, unwanted, and as if no one understands me, no one cares. It’s on these days suicide ideation seems like the most normal and natural past time, I’m not doing anything with my life so why keep wasting oxygen?

These are the days I need my friends the most, but also the days I won’t reach out to anyone. The days I fear my own emotions, and what I may do. I try mindfulness, meditation, grounding, I read a book or colour in, most days these strategies help and I can get up and get on with it, but sometimes there is nothing to pull me back and all I can do is get through the day and hope tomorrow will be better.

Tomorrow isn’t always better, this is my third day in a row where getting out of bed has been such a struggle. I still hope for tomorrow though, and hope is like a lifesaver I cling to while trying not to drown in a sea of deadly emotions.

So, yesterday was a bad day, today is a bad day, and tomorrow, well I just can’t say yet. What I can say is whether tomorrow is a bad day, a neutral day, or a good day, it’s a day I’ll still be here. I’ll still be fighting to keep my head above the choppy waters. Tomorrow I just might even make it out of bed!

Some days my smile is real and some days you would never know I'm faking it

Here’s the thing with anxiety and depression, some days I feel better than others. Some days my smile is real, and I may laugh at your silly joke. Other days though it’s all fake, the smile, the laugh, the assurance that I’m doing fine, none of it is real, it's just a really good act. I’m just waiting for the people to go away so I can break down and cry alone.

These are the hard days, I need something from other people they can’t give me. I’m not even sure I can put what it is I want into words. It’s not sympathy, or empathy, it’s not encouragement, or positive words, nor is it compassion or understanding. It’s an elusive need, one that is rarely met, I’m not even sure I know what it is I am needing. All I know is I don’t have it!

When depression over rides everything else and I feel like everything is pointless my chest becomes heavy, I can’t believe anyone sees anything worthwhile in me. I can’t see anything worthwhile in myself. Depression is a nasty beast whispering constantly in my ear, “Why am I here? What’s the point of my life? Why does anyone care? They don’t really care, why don’t they stop pretending?”

If I was just battling depression perhaps these questions would remain unanswered and just be thoughts flitting through the back burner of my mind. The thing is, my true demon is anxiety, and she loves nothing more than to scream the answers at me. She screeches at top volume, it makes my head ache, my eyes hurt and my throat constrict. It steals the breath from my lungs and makes my stomach roll. All the while her shrill voice is shrieking answers to questions I don’t want to be asking anyway. “you’re a mistake! Your life is pointless, worthless. You’re a fraud. No one cares, they are all using you, if you tell them the truth they will run. You’re dumb, pathetic, always making mistakes, you’re a bad sister, a bad friend, a bad wife. You’re a bad person, everyone is laughing at you, you can’t do anything right.”

I take my medication, follow doctor’s orders, I meditate, I practice mindfulness, I see a therapist, but I still have these bad days where it feels like I am moving backwards. Days where it is all too much and I want to hide away. I want no one to come near and no one to touch me, except, I want to be reassured, and I want to know my friends and family care. On these bad days where I’m caught between a beast and a demon, I know I am too needy, too fragile, I cannot be pleased. I am aware of how many bad days I have (there is no need for anyone to need to remind me), and I wish it really was just as easy as “snapping out of it”.

I’ve lost friends, who think I fake it, I’ve had family call me narcissistic, I’ve fought with my husband because I seemed irrational, I have been both actively and passively suicidal, I’ve lived in self-denial; I have lived through these things and I am proud of myself for surviving. It doesn’t make the hard days any easier. It doesn’t mean I’ve killed a rabid beast or slayed a wretched demon. It just means I have survived, and hopefully with the blessing of my gods, the right medications, and watchful eye of my husband I will keep on surviving.

I may never lay my beast and demons to rest, but I will never stop trying. I will never stop sharing my struggle, never stop trying to let others know they are not alone with their monsters in this scary wilderness called life. Will you fight your demons with me?

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