Dark Times...

Well it's been a lot longer than I would have liked since I last posted. And that is mainly because I've been going through a particularly difficult time. It's funny that the last post I wrote was about joy - as since then I've been diagnosed with anxious depression (you've got to appreciate the irony!)

When I think about it, I've not felt "right" for a while now, but I've been pushing it under the surface - I'm worryingly good at hiding stuff from myself. A couple of months ago, I had a conversation with my husband where I managed to verbalise that I felt I'd changed, that I'd lost the hope-filled, optimistic person I have always known myself to be.

Then one day in February half-term as I walked to work I started to feel panic-stricken. (For some years after my Dad died when I was nine, I suffered from panic attacks. Yes, sometimes they were put on as a way to get out of cross country, but most of the time they were truly petrifying and completely out of my control. I haven't experienced anything like that for a long time, and I've got to say, I didn't welcome the sensation as it came flooding back.) My boss had actually already told me to take some time off that week (which I had of course ignored up to that point), and now it seemed like a good idea, so I was able to head home and rest.

The next week, I came in for staff meeting as ususal on Monday morning. As the room filled with people, I filled with terror. I clenched my fists and dug my nails into my palms, literally having to will myself not to get up and run from the room. Perhaps unsurprisingly, by the end of that morning I had cried myself out, been sent home, and "strongly encouraged" to visit the doctor the following day.

I truly expected the doctor to tell me to pull myself together, stop wasting her time and get on with things. At a push, I thought she may tell me I was suffering with stress and to rest for a few days. Instead, around a week later, after some blood tests which showed nothing but that my iron levels were a little low, I was prescribed anti-depressants and signed off for a month.

Well, I'm through that month now, and I'm starting to come back to work part time. (Which is blumming hard by the way.) And I've been throwing around the idea of writing this post for a little while. Am I ready to be this vulnerable with just anyone who may come across it? Will people look at me differently, judge me in some way or think I'm weak because of what I'm going through? Can I handle that? Is it anyone else's business? Will anyone even care or be interested?

I've made the decision to post this because over the years I have stated over and again - to young people I've worked with, to interns I've led, to friends I've journeyed with - that there is no shame in mental illness. That if they had a broken leg, they wouldn't feel they had to hide it. That if they had the flu they would seek treatment. It's time for me to prove that's what I believe (which it is!) If I had broken my leg, I wouldn't hesitate to share my story. If I had the flu I would probably seek out all the sympathy I could find. What I'm going through may look and feel different to you - it does to me - but it's not.

It's the same.

I'm ill. I didn't do this to myself, I didn't choose it, and I can't control it. I would like nothing more than to pull myself together and be fine - to be able to do all the stupid everyday things that I "should" be able to do without it costing me so much. But I can't. I will come through this. So I am told, and I do believe it. I'm already so much better than I was just a few weeks ago. But for now, this is me and this is what I have to live with.

And I'm glad I wrote about it.