Category: Mental Health

Mental Health Update: Opening up old wounds

After languishing for an epic 19 months on the psychological services waiting list, my day finally arrived. I was called up for an appointment with a psychiatric nurse who was going to assess me, I’d still have to wait months and months to receive any treatment, but it was a very slow step in hopefully the right direction.

With anxiety being my middle name, I sat in the waiting room struggling to breathe, tears pricking my eyes and a huge lump in my throat as I struggled to stay calm, or calm enough to articulate myself properly. I just wanted to make myself heard and after 19 months I felt I needed to be heard.

Over those 19 months I’d been left to cope on my own, leaning on a select bunch of close friends for support when I needed it, retreating into myself when I had to, and trying to manage my behaviour and change the way I coped with things to make them less harmful and more positive.

I have struggled to curtail my go to solution, which was to drink copious amounts of alcohol, I’ve started to try and eat better and take some exercise when I felt able to, I’ve largely stopped self harming, and when I feel myself dropping down into depression, or swirling into anxiety, I’ve reached out to friends to help centre me. These are all quite positive steps. Steps I’ve learned to take myself having had no support from my GP or local mental health services during that time.

It’s not all been good though. In order to cope on a daily basis I’ve returned to old habits, swallowing down my feelings, burying them away so I can’t think about them and I can’t acknowledge them. I had no outlet for them, no one qualified to help me deal with them, process them, accept them and move on. So they have been locked away, with a few extra shards of pain added over the years for good measure.

My appointment was the first part of a two session long psychiatric assessment process. The nurse (who was lovely) had a big file of paperwork to go though, but allowed me to talk at my own pace about what my problems were, asking some questions and wanting more detail on certain points.

I had a big snotty cry for a good hour, which was basically the whole of my psychiatric assessment. Thoughts and feelings which I’d locked away and kept hidden from myself for so long were suddenly naked and exposed to the light, highlighting my shame and self hatred. Today I touched on pain I’d not acknowledged, or allowed myself to acknowledge for years.

I know I need to open myself and my problems up to the light, but it is so incredibly painful and I wonder if some of it will do more harm than good. I’m writing this 12 hours after my appointment, I feel drained and a bit confused. When I got home I hastily shoved everything back in the box and buried it all deep down again, I just can’t let it escape, not yet, not without someone there to catch me.

I’ve got the second part of my psychiatric assessment next week, I’ll open that box again and I’ll cry my little heart out. I know it will be months and months before I can access some help. But until then I’ll carry on as I have been doing, because despite everything I’m actually doing ok.

psychiatric assessment

Prioritising Me

I’ve been pretty good lately, my mood has been stable, there have even been moments of actual joy, happiness and hope. I know, get me! I feel more in love with my family every day and they bring me so much happiness and light, but with light there is always dark.

Today my anxiety peaked. It’s been a really busy month so far with Christmas preparations, doing my usual freelance work, blogging (Blogmas anyone?) and I’ve got a part time job in a small, independent and extra lovely toy shop. The downside of all this busyness is I’m not getting much time for me, my head needs a bit of breathing space sometimes, I need quiet, I need time just to recharge and refresh myself, this hasn’t been happening.

December has been full of lovely things to do as a family and as well as numerous nice trips out I’m busy literally every evening. My days are full, my nights are too and I’m dying for a few hours to myself where I’m not working or prepping something or getting ready to go out. I don’t want to sound ungrateful for being busy, I’m not.

My anxiety kicked off today at a really stupid moment. Sat in a room full of bloggers, some of whom I know pretty well, the low level anxiety I had that morning suddenly ramped up and I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t speak, move or make eye contact with anyone, so I picked up my phone and made myself look really busy. I wasn’t, but it was better than sitting there staring into space hoping the chair would swallow me up,

It worked temporarily and then I was given a craft task, so I got on with that, focussed on the small details I needed to complete what I was doing. Folding, cutting, sticking, curling, sewing, all of that, it pulled me out of myself a bit, gave me a focus and all was ok.

Session over, I got the bus home. The anxiety started tightening in my chest again, a voice in my head telling me I’m bad, useless, a terrible, really terrible person, I’m not, I just need the world to shut the hell up for a bit. So I turned my personal Twitter off my phone and I won’t switch it back on until I can breathe again.

I love Twitter, it’s often been my lifeline, but now, tonight, tomorrow probably I need a break. The social noise needs to stop and I need to look after myself, nip this in the bud, it can be done, I know it can. I can’t stop the busyness, but I can turn off some of the social noise for a while and I can snatch moments of quiet here and there. Most importantly I can be kind to myself, something usually way down on my list of priorities.

So I’m sorry friends if I let you down this week, I will try my best to be everything you normally expect of me, and be the places you want me to be. But right now I’m prioritising my mental health, because I absolutely refuse to ruin another Christmas for my family. I hope you’ll understand. It’s not you. It’s me. Sorry.

How I Minimised My Cigarette Burn Scars

When I’ve struggled with my mental health, I’ve self harmed. I’ve burnt myself with cigarettes and I have the scars to prove it. Read on to find out how I Minimised my Cigarette Burn Scars.

During the depths of my depression last year I self harmed. I’ve always found ways to hurt myself, but these were probably my first acts of visible violence against myself. I’m not proud of my actions, but I’m not ashamed of my scars either, they tell a story about me.

When you have a blog you can see what search terms people use to find it, most days someone somewhere taps “cigarette burn scars” into Google and lands up on my blog. Hi there if that’s you, welcome, you’re not alone. I’ve burnt and cut myself, the scars will never disappear, but they have faded. I suspect that’s what you want to know.

I burnt myself and am I scarred forever? Yes, probably, but do read on.

It depends entirely on how you burnt yourself in the first place. I used to rest a lit cigarette on my arm until it bubbled up. Thankfully I never ground it into my flesh. I guess if you’ve done that your scars will be worse.

My scars (pictured below) are about a year old now. I can still see them, I know what they are, I know what they represent. I have very mixed feelings about them. It’s worse for me in the summer when I’m wearing t-shirts and my scars are always on display. They’re less obvious now, they probably look a bit like blemishes. Winter and long sleeves are easier, the reminders of my struggles with depression and anxiety are less evident.

Cigarette burn scars

Like me, if you’ve burnt yourself with a cigarette then it can take up to two years for the scar to fade as much as it ever will. If you’ve just burnt yourself then it’s advisable to treat it immediately as you would with any burn; which is apply ice or run under cold water for at least 15 minutes. If it looks bad or infected then please see a Doctor.

Once you’ve burnt yourself there are a few things you can do to help the healing process. What you use depends on your skin type. Some products will work better than others for you. Vitamin E oils and capsules applied to the scar regularly can help reduce the scarring. Bio Oil can help too and Aloe Vera is renowned for its healing properties. If the scarring is bad then microdermabrasion could be an option, but you’ll probably have to pay for that yourself.

I doubt my scars will fade any more than they have done, so I need to learn to live with them, they’ll serve as a reminder to me of how far I’ve come. Your scars are your own. Like me you might have a bit of a love/hate relationship with them. Remember they do tell the story of you; of your pain and how you’ve survived and continue to survive.

Note: I am not a doctor. This does not constitute medical advice. This is just my experience of having and trying to minimise cigarette burn scars.

 

How I Minimised My Cigarette Burn Scars

Mental Health Waiting Times

Today is World Mental Health Day, which always gets me thinking about my own mental health. WMHD this year falls just a couple of days after the Lib Dems announced that from April 2015, waiting list targets for people needing talking therapy will be just 18 weeks. Great news. Ish.

When you’re in the grip of a spiralling depression as I was last year, when you’re googling ways to kill yourself because you can’t bear to inflict yourself on your family anymore, or when you’ve used your last bit of strength to reach out and ask for help, waiting four and a half months is still a horrendously long time.

I speak from experience. In August 2013, I was referred by my GP to Manchester Mental Health & Social Care Trust to see a psychiatrist. I was suicidal, self harming, a danger to myself but not to others. My anxiety and depression were at horrifying levels. My GP was throwing tablets at my problems which weren’t really helping, they were actually making life more difficult and intolerable. I was warned the waiting list was quite long, but I didn’t realise that 14 months, yes 14 MONTHS later I’d still be waiting for my initial appointment.

In those 14 months I have worked bloody hard to help myself, I’m proud of how far I’ve come with no official support, but I know I still have issues, so many issues and that the root of my problems still needs addressing because I could so easily find myself back there. I still need the talking therapy I’ve been waiting 14 months for.

At one stage, I had a paranoid suspicion that mental health waiting lists are so long because they’re just waiting for people to kill themselves and naturally shorten the list that way. It’s an insane thought I know, but maybe there is one person in the system who crosses the names of the dead off the list and thinks “well that’s saved a couple of quid”.

In fairness I can see the situation from both sides. I worked in the NHS for a long time and I know how stretched services and resources are. How massively underfunded mental health provision is and how undervalued and overworked the staff generally are. Most staff and managers are trying to make the best from what little they’ve got.

The National Health Service, the pride of Britain, shouldn’t be run on a make do and mend basis. If you want services to have shorter waiting lists, then the funding and resources have to be put in place to achieve that. If you want quick turn around in clinics with long term positive outcomes for patients, then services will need support to achieve that and patients will need the time, all the time they need to find their own normal and their own wellness.

Six sessions of CBT is in most cases probably not enough. CBT can be brilliant, but it’s not a miracle cure for all mental health conditions. Learning to think your way positively out of situations is great and something I’ve taught myself to do in the last 14 months, but for me and countless others it’s just a patch up job. The root cause of my anxiety and depression needs dealing with. I’m not alone in that.

Having an 18 week target is a fantastic step forward for mental health service provision, but what it really needs is investment in services, help for patients which is easy to access and staff who are paid what they deserve and who are given the resources they need to make their services be the best that they can be.

I’ll be watching how this 18 week target scheme pans out. I wonder if I’ll get my initial appointment before April 2015. I’ll not hold my breath.

mental health waiting times

Tots100 Best Blog Posts by Parent Blogs

Joy the store – bipolar is no laughing matter

I’m not a bandwagon jumper, a waver of placards or a maker of petitions. I believe in equality and justice and just plain respect for other people. I am just one person and I know I can’t change the world, but likewise, I know the only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good men (and women) to do nothing.

On Sunday morning I saw a tweet about Joy the store, so being a nosy type I had a look. Basically they were selling a greetings card which said “don’t get mad…take lithium”. There followed the usual Twitter storm which I followed on and off all day.

Joy the store

 

joy the store

The card did make me tut and shake my head, I thought we were getting beyond this kind of thing, I thought maybe companies had learned a bit of a lesson after the ASDA mental patient Halloween costume from last year, but it appears not. It’s sad, misguided and ultimately disappointing that this card was produced in the first place, but what I find most disappointing is the response from Joy the store.

As you can see from the tweets above their response is pretty flippant and jokey, and their apology (below) is really very poor.

joy the storeMental health is serious, it touches most of us directly or indirectly. Bipolar, schizophrenia, dementia, depression, anxiety, PTSD, whatever the diagnosis, whatever the condition, it’s not a laughing matter. People wouldn’t joke about cancer, there are no big laughs about ebola. Why so flippant about bipolar Joy the store?

Before you think it, I’m not po-faced or humourless, honestly at times I see great humour and irony in my illness; but that’s a humour for me to find and enjoy, it’s different to being stigmatised and mocked. I thought we’d moved on from pointing and laughing at “mental people”. Don’t point and laugh, because honestly in the blink of an eye it could be you, or you child, or your parent or friend.

Mental Health: What does a Panic Attack feel like?

I’m having a panic attack, I’m not sure why. Today has been a pretty good day, got lots done, sorted lots of stuff out for work and at home. It was a bit stressful in parts but nothing I couldn’t handle.

An hour ago I went to bed, hunkered down and closed my eyes, maybe I thought a little about my day as I tried to drift off, but then a nightmare I remember having last year flashed through my head and every time I close my eyes I can see it. So I can’t close my eyes and now I’m having a panic attack.

Mental Health: What does a Panic Attack feel like?

I’m lying in bed, twitching and trembling, scratching away at my skin until it’s raw again. My chest is tight, tightening, getting tighter and I can’t catch a breath. I grab the iPad by my bed to distract me, it works for a bit and I calm down a fraction, I close my eyes and the nightmare flashes through my head again, this time with images of the bodies of people I love contorted in death.

That’s a clue, a hint as to part of what’s going on, it’s too horrible and personal to openly discuss on my blog, but I’m part of a community in mourning, of mothers fearing for the futures of their children.

I’m jittery, scared to close my eyes, scared to sleep, I can’t get the nightmare out of my head, nor the images. I’m lying here in bed writing this, my hands are shaking as I tap the keys, my breathing shallow andrapid, I want to get out of here but I can’t, I want to walk and walk and walk until it either all makes sense or I’m exhausted and I need to sleep. This is what happens when panic attacks.

Fight or flight, fight or flight. I’d choose flight but I have to stay and fight. I don’t feel like there’s anything that’ll calm me down right now. I could go walking for miles but I can’t do that, I can’t leave the house. So I’ll stay and write, write it all out of my head. I’ll try not to close my eyes, try not to think, overthink, just find peace. Fight of flight? Can’t do either so I’ll write.

Mental Health: What does a Panic Attack feel like?

Read more of my mental health posts here.

Is the full moon making me anxious?

The last few days I’ve felt really stressy. I’m riddled with anxiety, and I’m trying to figure out why. The few friends I’ve spoken to about it have also wondered why now. Why? I have no idea. I have no clue what’s set this off and why I’m feeling this way. A chance conversation with a nurse friend made me look out of my window for the answer. Is the full moon making me anxious? Is full moon anxiety a thing?

full moon anxiety - Is the full moon making me anxious?

A quick Internet search suggests it’s very, very possible, but also that it could be in my head because I’m clearly demented for thinking like that. There’s plenty of anecdotal evidence linking full moons to changes in behaviour, not just for humans but for animals too. This of course can be explained by science and logic, the extra brightness of the moon at this time disrupts sleep patterns, making people and animals more edgy, tetchy and anxious during the day.

Oh yes, that makes perfect sense, except I live in Manchester, it’s rained pretty solidly for the last 3 or 4 days and you’d be hard pressed to see the moon through the cloud. Also, I’ve slept like a particularly exhausted log recently. So maybe, just maybe there’s something less scientific going on, forces beyond my ken, so to speak.

Whilst trawling the interweb for evidence (essentially googling “is the super moon making me crazy”), I came across this BBC article which pulled together evidence from a number of studies. It concludes that no, it probably doesn’t make you mad. Wikipedia sort of concurs, saying there is some evidence that it does effect human behaviour and that other studies say it doesn’t. Complex this science business isn’t it?

With no firm conclusions thrown at me by the mighty google, I can only say how I feel about it. I think if blaming the moon for my anxiety and current mood makes me feel better, and gives me hope that when the moon becomes less full in a few days I might start to feel calmer again; then I’m going to cling on to that thought.

I’m interested in what you all think of this. Are you experiencing any behavioural or emotional changes at the moment you think might have something to do with the moon? Do you have full moon anxiety? Or do you think it’s all clap trap? I’m genuinely interested in this. If science can’t crack it, I’m darn sure bloggers can!

full moon anxiety - Is the full moon making me anxious?

Is the full moon making you anxious? Is full moon anxiety something you experience too? I’d love to hear your stories and thoughts.

Why I Self Medicated with Alcohol for My Anxiety

A year ago when I was just a big ball of anxiety and self medicating with alcohol, those who had trodden the anxiety path before me warned me that alcohol and anxiety don’t mix. I ignored them because I knew better, and besides, there was nothing else on offer to help me, no pills, no strategies, no therapy. They came eventually, but I needed a beer or three to get me through.

The main problem with mixing alcohol with an anxiety disorder, is while the alcohol perks you up, stops you spiralling, levels you out; the morning after your mood drops, the booze messes with your serotonin levels, it dehydrates you and makes you miserable. You might also have drunk enough to make some poor choices. You’re hungover, moody, anxious and now you’ve got guilt about what you did last night too.

The really rubbish thing about self medicating with alcohol is that if you do it for long enough you could end up being an alcoholic. Cards on the table, I like a drink, there’ve been times in the past year where I’ve needed to drink. I’ve binged and binged often. A few people have suggested I have a problem, that I might be a social alcoholic. I don’t think I am, but then that makes me a bit of a cliche, denying it doesn’t it? I don’t drink much any more and I don’t self medicate with alcohol these days. My nights out are rare and I never drink alone in the house.

I’m largely on top of my troubles these days. I have the odd wobble, but I’ve got a fairly sound self-care routine that I can slip into when I need to. It’s human to feel sad or anxious, but it’s when these feelings bubble up beyond normal levels then I need to be watchful of myself.

Why am I writing this? Last night I went out with friends, I intended to have two or three beers and leave it at that. I ended up drinking far more than I planned to. I made a little bit of an idiot of myself and staggered home. I’ve spent the day in bed because I was too hungover to move, and my mood has gradually sunk through the floor.

The anxiety which occasionally bugs me is in full force, I’m practically fizzing with it; my breathing is rapid, I can’t sit still, I can’t focus on anything, I’m a mess. My head is full of negative thoughts, there’s a constant chatter of self hate in my head right now. At first it confused me, why was I feeling like this? Then I remembered alcohol is a depressant and I was able to rationalise what was happening in my head. It’s just chemical reactions, but they’re really messing with me.

A year ago I didn’t know how to stop it and the spiral would continue. These days I’m better equipped to deal with it. Hopefully I’ll self-care my way out of it. I know that chances are I’ll be ok in a few days; but the worry, the fear is always there that my full on anxiety will return and then I’ll be in trouble. This is why I hardly drink these days. I’ve come so far, I don’t ever want to go back.

Mental Health: Why alcohol and anxiety don't mix

 

Recovery: A year on and I’m surviving

It’s been a year since I fell apart. A year since I spun recklessly out of control and off the rails. A year since my mind raced and I struggled to keep up. A year since I made every mistake possible. A year since I begged my GP for help. A year since my GP gave me sleeping tablets instead of the anxiety medication I so desperately needed.

It’s been a year since my husband would come home from work and I’d run out of the house to escape its oppressive walls. A year since I started heavily self medicating with alcohol. A year since I made poor choices. A year since I started cutting myself. A year since I counted the correct number of tablets I’d need to kill myself. A year since I was nearly driven to that.

It’s been a year since I really worried my husband. A year since I worried my family. A year since my friends grew concerned. A year since strangers from Twitter saved me from harm.

It’s been a year since I looked at my son and thought he’d be better off without me.

In the last year I’ve come back from the brink. In the last year I’ve grown stronger. In the last year I’ve discovered heaven and hell. In the last year I’ve learned so much about me. In the last year I’ve tried to atone. In the last year I’ve worked to recover. A year spent in recovery from life.

In the next year I’ll try and get stronger. In the next year I’ll try to be better. In the next year I’ll try to get better. In the next year I’ll recover some more.

Recovery

Being Brave – Anxiety

I have anxiety disorder. I do a number of things to try and keep on top of it and not let it overwhelm me. One of these things is to try at all times to stay within my comfort zone. Whilst this keeps a lid on my fear-of-new-things anxiety, it does limit me considerably. Slowly I try and incorporate “new” experiences and things into my life, on a measured basis and always with lots of friends and support around me.

Today I launched myself far, far outside my comfort zone, and you know what? No one died, no one lost an eye. This girl done good.

Last year I had two spinal operations, they were moderately successful but I’m left with constant pain and I’m limited in what I can physically do. Looking after a lively young boy by myself can be challenging, it’s ok if we stick to the local highways and byways, as I know people can get to me within minutes if I get in trouble.

Today I launched myself off the deep end and we went on an adventure. One hour on the train by ourselves to Delamere Forest, three hours picnicking and frolicking, followed by another hour on the train by ourselves. Pah! That’s nothing, that’s regular parent stuff I hear you cry. But to me, a girl who can’t lift and carry her own child, who can’t chase after him when he goes AWOL, that’s a bloody big deal.

We coped. I didn’t lose my temper once. Eating painkillers meant I could almost keep up with him. He tried to help mummy and be good, as much as a three year old can try to help and be good.

I was heartily glad to get home, exhausted, to the bone exhausted. But we’d had a really lovely day. He’d really enjoyed having fun with mummy. Mummy who rarely joins in with much of the fun and games that other mummies get to do. It was in truth a truly special day.

Apart from really connecting and laughing with my son, the best thing for me is that’s it’s given me confidence to do more things with him, and it’s squashed some of that fear-of-new-things anxiety. Yes, I’ll take a big gulp before I dive right in again, but I know now that I’ll be alright and I can do things, even though the little voice in me tells me it’s too risky, or too hard, or I just can’t cope with it.

I looked fear and anxiety in the eye this morning. This afternoon I punched it on the nose and put it in its place. Today I’m winning.

Anxiety