My first blog is just going to explain my history and how I got to where I am. Please understand that I’m not looking for sympathy or pity, I’m just giving a brief of who I am in case anyone wants to read my blog and know my background.
I think I’ve always had some kind of mental illness. I only realised this a few months ago, when my therapist was asking if I could think of where it all started. I was brought up a “civvy” in an RAF village and so, nearly every year, the friends that I had made were usually posted and the next year I’d have to start again. I remember when I was in the last year of Junior School having absolutely none at all. I would go and hide in a gap between some conifers on the school field in the summer, on my own. I can’t remember what I did in the winter, but I remember being in the classroom on my own a lot. I know a lot of people experience this, but I genuinely think this is where it started – it’s definitely why I've developed social anxiety. I believe it’s also the reason why I can’t hold friendships or relationships down. I either distance myself from people to avoid getting hurt, or I go to the other extreme and get clingy as I’m frightened that I will lose that person.
During Sixth Form something triggered the start of my depression. Even now, I can’t think what it was. I’d started Sixth Form as a good student. I was a goody-goody really, and I’d always been in the “nerdy outsiders” group of my year. I’d done well in my GCSEs, had 100% attendance and was studying for 4 A Levels with the prospect of going to University. By my final year in Sixth Form, I’d dropped 2 subjects and was bunking off lessons for the other 2. I’d hide in the Social Area or go and meet my Mum at lunchtime when she finished work; most of the time, I said that I had study periods and could go home. In the end, I even just started being honest saying I wasn’t going in. My parents tried to get me to go back, and in the end the Head of Year threatened to kick me out. I did finish the 2 A Levels; although I didn’t get the grades I was predicted. In fact, I was very close to failing.
During this year I also began to feel suicidal and started to self-injure. I’d originally grabbed a knife at home one day, intending to slit my wrists. Of course, I cut the “wrong” way and not even nearly hard enough, but the pain and the sight of blood of what I did do, made me feel better. I felt a release and instead of feeling angry (which was what I had been feeling when I’d picked up the knife, I was frustrated with myself), I grabbed a tissue, held on to my wrist, and cried. After I’d composed myself, I cleaned and dressed my cuts, and changed into something with long sleeves. I wasn’t great at hiding them at that point, and someone I worked with did joke with me that I’d been slitting my wrists. I laughed with him and said “nah, my cat attacked me”. I found out a few years later that the guy who’d asked had self-harmed in the past. He probably knew I was lying but knew not to push me on it.
I got diagnosed a year later, after my parents found out how distressed I was and they’d found out about the self-harming. I was off work for a couple of months (I was working full-time, no university) and prescribed anti-depressants. I had a lot of hassle from people around me, saying that I didn’t need to be on medication and I heard a lot of “aren’t you off the tablets yet?!” It did me no good, and I took myself off the medication and went back to work. I tried to go on as best I could, although I was still self-harming. A couple of years later, the company I was working for got bought out and I had the option of accepting a demotion (I was a Duty Manager at that point) or resigning. I chose to leave and took a job in an office.
A few months after I had started work there, my Mum called me to say that my Dad had had a heart attack and had been rushed to hospital. I made my way home - it was the worst journey of my life. The new job was an hour’s drive or half an hour by both train and car. That day I had thankfully taken the train, although the journey was obviously still horrendous. I remember that when I made it to my car, I turned the radio off. I didn’t want any song to become a memory for that moment. A week later, my amazing Daddy had died. I had managed to stop cutting for a few months prior, but that week the stress was too much. I was trying to look after my Mum as well as I could (I’m an only child and felt it was my responsibility), but I was forgetting about myself. One of the last times I saw my Dad was the day after I had cut. My Mum touched my arm during a conversation and I flinched. My Dad asked what was wrong, but I shrugged it off saying it was nothing. I’m sure he knew what I’d done, and it haunts me still that that was one of his last memories of me. I don’t want him to think it was his fault that I’d cut, it was MY fault for neglecting myself.
I had another week and a half off work, whilst we arranged and had his funeral. The 2 days after his funeral I went away with a friend. It had been planned for months before my Dad was taken ill. I asked my Mum whether I should cancel it, but she said that my Dad wouldn’t have wanted me to stop living life. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have gone, I wasn’t great company and I just ended up getting wasted. My Mum doesn’t drive so, because I drove us to the hospital the day he died, I was feeling immense guilt that we didn’t make it to there in time to be with him.
His death took a physical toll on me too. My periods stopped. They’ve always been irregular so I didn’t particularly care, as I knew I couldn’t be pregnant. I should’ve gone to the doctor but after the last reaction from my previous colleagues to my mental illness, I convinced myself there was nothing wrong with me and started treating myself with herbal anti-depressants. My periods came back and I carried on pretending everything was normal again. The cutting was still present but not as often.
Fast-forward to August 2011.
My cat that I’d had since 1991 passed away towards the end of the month. (Lame for some I know, but my pets are my extended family. I’d grown up with him since I was 7, and I used to refer to him as my little brother.) We knew his death was coming, as he’d got very ill, very fast. The vet said she could do no more for him, and we made the decision to help him to the other side. My Mum couldn’t bear to stay and watch, but I was still racked with guilt that we weren’t there when my Dad died, so I wanted to be with my cat until the very end. It’s a weird experience watching someone die; it was so peaceful yet so traumatising at the same time.
A week later, we picked up his ashes and took him home. The night before was Friday night. I had gone out with some people from work. It was an odd night out. Not as in a dodgy club, but from my own personal and mental point of view. I felt like I wasn’t really there. I wasn’t drinking as I had to drive home, and I wasn’t taking the herbal anti-depressants anymore. Loads and loads of thoughts were running round my head, and I was watching everyone like a hawk as I was scared that they could tell that I was being boring and miserable. Every time someone laughed, I thought it was because of me. I’ve never tried drugs, but I imagine it was how an addict feels when they go through the paranoia stage. I’ve never totally relaxed around my colleagues in this company, but I had made improvements with people since 2009. Although I had made a close friend, she was a very negative person and wasn’t having a great effect on me. She could be quite controlling and didn’t understand my need to sometimes be alone. That night, all I wanted was to go home. I managed to make excuses and left.
The following Monday, I was half an hour late for work. This was nothing new as my timekeeping had completely gone out the window over the last year. I had a really supportive boss, and because I used to do a lot of overtime, he was lenient with me. I’d had problems concentrating for months and months, and my supervisor was aware that my productivity had dropped. But he too, was very understanding. For the last few months I said that I wanted to sit at the empty end of the office alone; I told them it was so I didn’t get distracted, but really it was because I couldn’t bear to be around people, I couldn’t bear to have to make conversation with people. They had actually both spotted I was having trouble before I did.
But that Monday, I noticed it all. Like someone had thrown it all at my face in one go. I was physically exhausted. I'd never felt like this before - my body really did feel numb. I tried to work for 2 hours but nothing was happening. I was just staring at my computer screen. I emailed my supervisor and boss and asked if I could speak to them in private. They agreed and called me over.
I poured out everything to them. Everything that I’ve just typed here. It felt so good to finally tell someone everything. (Someone other than my Mum.) They let me go home and organised some time off until I could get to the doctor.
My doctor signed me off, started me on 50mg Sertraline and referred me to a counsellor.
Long story short, as I’ve waffled on for long enough, I was repeatedly signed off and raised up to 150mg over the next few months. This was spacing me out, so he took the dose down and prescribed Nortriptyline alongside it. He’s carried on taking the Sertraline down and the Nortriptyline up. I’m now on 25mg Sertraline every other day and 75mg Nortriptyline every night.
As of the end of April, I no longer work. I decided to resign for many reasons, but it’s clear I won’t be making a full recovery until we get my meds right. I don’t want to go on to benefits so I’m trying to make a name for myself on Etsy as I enjoy making jewellery and other craft-type things. I know there’s nothing wrong with being on benefits when you’re ill, but I feel guilt very easily and I’m nervous about going on to them. I know it will probably be inevitable eventually, but for now I want to see how it goes.
Another thing that I worry that some people will think is “If you can make jewellery and crafts to sell, then why can’t you work?” Simply because jewellery making and crafts aren’t a contracted job. I don’t HAVE to do it. If one day after making something for half an hour I lose focus, I can stop and take a break for as long as I want. On bad days, I may find that I can’t physically do anything. But on good days, I can have the productivity of a work-horse! It’s the flexibility. The flexibility and control over what I do, and for how long. That’s the only way I can function at the moment. I don’t have the stability to have a binding contract with anyone right now. I will know, and my doctor will know, when I am stable and ready to look for contracted work.
The self-injury comes and goes. At the moment it’s horribly present. The dark days are really bad right now. For instance I’ve been up all night. I’m only just starting to feel tired and it’s just gone 7am...
I think I’ve included everything, I’ll slip anything I’ve missed into my next blog as I think I’ve written enough this time! And this one was going to be short too!
If you got this far, thankyou for reading! The next blogs will hopefully be more interesting (and shorter!) than this one!
Take Care,
LBW xxx
About Last Night. Adele Parks by Adele Parks