The first few weeks taking anti-depressants I was a mess of emotions; hope that this would be the start of a new season, fear that it wouldn't work, and anxiety about potential side-effects. Being physically ill has always been the focus of my anxiety, so taking any kind of chemicals, anything new and unknown into my body, was terrifying. I think this was one of the reasons I had resisted anti-depressants for so long...
Once I had decided to take anti-depressants again, (read from the beginning of the series about this decision here) there was one other recurring thought I had to grapple with. This was it: That taking anti-depressants was something that weak people did because they weren't brave enough to face life on their own. It was cowardly. It was shirking the hard work. It was taking the easy option. Now I know in my heart of hearts this is a load of bollocks. But years ago, when I was still wearing the brittle shell of invincibility that youth gives you, this was what I thought. It...
At the beginning of this year I made a decision to start taking medication for my anxiety. This is part 2 in a series about making this decision and its impact. If you want to read this from the beginning, part one can be found here. The relief I felt about my decision to start taking anti-depressants again was sweet. Instantly my breathing regulated itself, I felt calm returning. Sometimes just the decision to do something practical about a problem can bring respite, as if one proactive action tricks us momentarily into thinking we are cured. But hot on the heels of this...
Okay. Deep breath. At the beginning of this year I made a decision to start taking medication for my anxiety again. Anti-depressants. This is part 1 in a series about making this decision and its impact. About mistaken beliefs and new starts. About shame and truth and hope. I started to write about this in January, but everything was too new and raw. It was too much to write about it, let alone share it. But I'm ready now. Last July I wrote a post (you can read it here) about a panic attack I experienced that was terrifying and humiliating and probably in my top 5 panic attacks...
I was in the garden the other Sunday, and as I began to tackle the enormous weeding task that lay ahead of me, I listened to Poetry Please. On this occasion, the Sunday morning quiet, the warmth of the sun behind the clouds and the gentle tones of Roger McGough, found me moved by the first poem I heard. I stopped, closed my eyes, and listened. It is called Now I Become Myself, and is by May Sarton Now I become myself. It's taken Time, many years and places; I have been dissolved and shaken, Worn other people's faces, Run madly, as if Time were...
Today was one of those days. You know, nothing major, just nothing great either. It is the end of the Easter holidays and we have had fun and been busy, but today (and yesterday if I'm honest) I have felt tired, and bored. I have one child who is coming down with a fever, one who is a little over tired and one who hasn't stopped talking to (at) me for the last 36 hours, mainly about lego dimensions, of which I have no interest. My husband is well, but busy with work and distracted. And our house has been upside-down as we...
March has been a good month. A month where I have been able to get back out into the garden, and no one has had any sick days off school. As I walked along the beach in Anglesey this week I thought about what I have learnt this month. Criticism is hard. Public criticism is even harder. This month I set up a Facebook page for my blog and as a consequence I seem to be getting new readers, which is great. More people I don't know in real life are reading (hi!). This has been exciting and slightly nerve-wracking....
Mental illness isn't treated like other illnesses. I know this comes as no surprise to you. We talk about brave sufferers or survivors of physical illnesses. Those individuals enduring big-ticket diagnoses are (rightly) seen as heroic. We give them flowers and cook them meals. We look after their children and ask them how they are. However, when we discover a friend or colleague is suffering with a mental illness it is rarely the same. We don't know what to say. An invisible illness is harder to talk about, more complicated to recognise. Even if we ourselves have experienced this kind of struggle, we get...
Three years ago I was adamant I was not and would never be a writer. I told people on a regular basis, I am not a writer I am a director, I put other peoples' words and ideas on the stage. To anyone who asked, I said, I definitely couldn't, wouldn't, have-no-skills-in-this-area, and no desire to, write. ...
It is the shit in the soil that creates the best conditions for growth. "We asked, 'why is it that we learn from things that hurt us? Why do we need pain before we can grow?' There aren't any easy answers to this one, but all artists know the truth of it, and not only artists: it was Jung who said that there is no coming to life without pain."* When the shit hits the fan. When we find ourselves 'up to ours ears' in it, or 'up that particular creek without a paddle'. When pain and destruction, and deliberate attack, or unpredicted misfortune fall on...