Islands

No man is an island, entire of itself...

But this woman sits on her island, within an island, afraid to dip her toes in.

The safety zone expands, slowly. With help.
Forcing myself to walk slower, not to hurry away like a suspect at the scene of a crime.

The leaves fall everywhere; feels like the sky is falling in.
And everything is so loud and bright away from my island.

My ears ring from a simple trip to the outside world. 
I'm relieved to be back in the muted colours of my house.
In the quiet.
In here I can control the volume. 

The word "anxiety" feels like an understatement for the feelings of catastrophe that creep into my brain.

It's hard not to think that I myself am a catastrophe. 
One that can't be helped anymore.

Every stupid reason I've had for wanting to die or kill myself

I'm not good enough

At sport

At running

At the gym

At love

At relationships 

At friendships

At family 

At work 

At life 

I bought new clothes

I didn't have new clothes

I have too much stuff 

I ate too much food

I threw up food

I tried to starve myself 

I drank too much 

Someone I knew died

Someone I didn't know died

Someone I knew got sick

Someone I didn't know got sick 

A natural disaster happened

An unnatural human rights disaster happened

I don't have enough friends on Facebook

or followers on Twitter 

or followers on Instagram 

I don't have enough friends in life

I'm not a very good friend

I forgot to text back

I forgot to reply to that email

I was supposed to do that task and I didn't

I can't read all the books

Or listen to all the music

Or watch all the films

In the world

I can't grow my hair 

I can't grow my nails

When I grow my nails they break

I always have damaged cuticles

My boobs aren't even

My boobs aren't big enough

My hips are wide

My thighs are fat

I'm fat

My feet are wide but small and I can't find heels that fit

I don't suit [insert item of clothing]

I can't do winged eyeliner 

My makeup usually runs 

I'm short 

I can't see over crowds

People can't see me in a crowd 

People push in front of me in a queue 

I always have a headache 

I keep getting sick 

I take too much medication and I'm taking up NHS money and time 

I don't want marriage

I don't want kids 

There is and was context to everyone single one of these thoughts, ranging from "they don't deserve that to happen to them it should have happened to me" to "I will never be good enough so I should just end it". But the common theme is that my depression and anxiety plays havoc with my reasoning and will use anything it can get its hands on to fuck with me. 

It always comes down to being a burden. Being a waste of space. Believing with my whole head and a heavy heart that the world would be better off without me. 

It comes down to being selfish in a whole other way. I read this list back and I am struck by how self-centred it all sounds. But we can only view the world as ourselves, so our default settings are self-centric.

September was, and is annually, Suicide Prevention Month. Back in August, Sam (my now ex-boyfriend) knew something was up one night and he called me. He asked me what was wrong and I vaguely told him but I didn't want to go into it. I had already made up my mind that I was going to overdose when I got home. I didn't want to burden him with my unimportant problems. 

So he talked to me about Game of Thrones. He made me laugh. We debated certain references and theories.

And he brought me back to life.

I didn't overdose in August. And now, at the end of September, I have made it through another month. Sometimes with depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts and other mental health issues, you have to take it one month, one week, one day or even one hour at a time.

That hour might be awful. It might be horrific. 

But the next hour might not be so bad.

If you need help to get through that hour, call someone. or text. or email. or write it all down if that helps. Listen to a music track you love. Maybe read a poem or a chapter of your favourite book. There are so many reasons to be alive. 

You might find that you don't want to die anymore. 

The day I was reminded that 'Casualty' is not real life

When my Nanna phoned me at the pub last night, I thought I was in trouble for not calling her. I went straight on the defensive: I was sorry, I hadn't had a chance, I'd barely had a lunch break, I'd had meetings all day, then I was at a football match and now I was at the pub. 

And then I let her speak and she asked me to come to hers and stay the night because she was getting chest pains. 

My heart skipped a beat, though not in a medically dangerous way that hers might have been doing. 

Just the day before she'd said she was feeling "permanently under the weather". 

Had she jinxed herself? 

I practically fled the pub, and was storming the wrong way in Bethnal Green when I got a reassuring call from my mum. Don't panic. Yes the doctor said to go to hospital, but she had had these pains before and there are complications with diabetes that we couldn't know for sure that this was a serious heart problem. 

I calmed down. My cantankerous grandmother was refusing to go to hospital but she had good reason not to panic the same way I was. 

After a change of shoes at home (heeled boots are not practical if you need to run around after an invalid) and picking up my stuff I arrived at hers. She was gasping for a cup of tea, and it wasn't long until she hit the wine as usual. So far so normal. 

She was breathless and groaning. I hooked her up to a TENS machine and we watched Silent Witness. We went to bed at midnight and I got a lie in, as I was working from home. 

She'd slept fitfully, and phoned the doctors who sent an ambulance. The pain was still there, and they needed to be sure she wasn't having a "cardiac episode".

The paramedics were great. Cheery, pleasant, accidentally turning on the ECG machine with an automated voice exclaiming they were "starting CPR".

No one outside of my family appreciates the hysterics we go into when explaining how my uncle once tipped my nan out of her wheelchair, giving her a black eye. They transported her very carefully in the wheelchair and subsequently the trolley bed. 

So, we're at hospital. I'm waiting in the relatives room. It can only be described as a roomy broom cupboard with a sink and a sofa. I shared with two women whose parents were in. They were in their 40s or 50s. They discussed Cornwall and how hard these doctors work. They blamed Theresa May for the shortage of doctors. One by one they got called to go into their loved ones. 

I sat in the broom cupboard for an hour before someone asked if I was Joan's granddaughter.

A quick aside: when the paramedics called my nan Joan I thought she'd given them a false name. I had forgotten that's her real name, not Alison (her middle name ) or any variation of Nan I come up with (nan, nanna, nanny, trouble, mischief) 

She was in a gown, on a bed. She has a chest infection (Again? Still?) and she needs to be admitted for intravenous antibiotics. 

This soon became oral antibiotics because her right bundle branch block wasn't too bad, and the chest infection was likely causing the pain. 

Then there might be fluid on the lung. 

An ultrasound revealed there wasn't, not really? 

And finally another blood test revealed that yes it was raised (not sure what, something to do with her heart and her blood?) but not significantly enough to keep her in and we could go merrily on our way. After I'd waited half an hour to pick up her two new medications. 

As I write, dear reader, she's drinking tea and being fussed over by her cats. And granddaughters. 

In Casualty everything is much more dramatic. Because it's a drama. 

But life isn't just a drama. It's a comedy as well. 

Back home I announced Claire would be coming over for dinner. And Nan said "oh, to see you?"

"No Nan! To see you! You've just been in hospital!" 

The Handmaid's Tale of the Destruction of Democracy

Warning: spoilers for Hulu's/Channel 4's The Handmaid's Tale

"In a gradually heating bathtub, you'd be boiled to death before you knew it."

Things have never been so good, right? It's 2017 and more than ever before women are MPs, there is same-sex marriage and a muslim Mayor of London. Our country has never been so diverse, so progressive.
So much on the brink of regression.

10 people could be all it takes. 10 people could be the difference between the rights of gays and lesbians to marry and adopt, or not. 10 people could be the difference between the legal right to abort, or not.

No, not really. They're only 10 people, you cry. 
No, really. Because 10 people are currently the difference between Theresa May forming a government, pushing through policies that will make people on benefits poorer, make pensioners poorer, make food banks more necessary and keep people in debt for years - or fighting every policy battle endlessly for the next 5 years.

Is this where it starts? Where the tightening of security and the questioning of human rights begins?

If you haven't read The Handmaid's Tale, I implore you to read it.
If you're not the reading kind, then watch the new TV series. It's right here on All 4. 

And if you don't want to read it or watch it because you've heard it described as "feminist" or a "woman's story", then I roll my eyes at you so hard they fall out of their sockets, roll down the drain, into the sewer system and end up in a reservoir so pretty and clean I that I can't believe my eyes... 

The Handmaid's Tale is a story about the dismantling of democracy, of the ripping away of civil liberties and human rights. Yes of the society we've built, which I'm not always in favour of, but we're creating equality too. (slowly)
It tackles the stigma that gay people face, the idea that they are 'unnatural'. 
And the latest episode even includes FGM, not originally in the book, but that women and girls across the world face - with an estimated 137,000 in England and Wales. 

I hold my hands up and say I'm a hypocrite. I dismiss things for being too "girly", too "manly". These are stereotypes of behaviours that I have had drilled into me from a young age that I need to undo. 
There is really only one kind of behaviour - "human".

We all deserve equal opportunities, regardless of age, race, religion, ethnicity, ability, sexuality, or gender.

We have the opportunity right now to stand up and oppose the erosion of human rights. 

A word about common sense and how sometimes I don't have any

So, occasionally, I show remarkable lack of common sense. 

This week I got sunburnt in a record 40 minutes. Trying to tan my legs, I instead burnt my shoulder.

I shaved my armpits and then put on an extra strong deodorant. The instructions, which I hadn't read, said not to do this. 

Now my armpits are grossly red and infected. 

 I went to the supermarket and did all my shopping, only to realise at the till I didn't have my purse. 

And then there's the common sense I lack due to my mental health.

Like did I pick up my antidepressants?

I did? Ok, where are they? If I were a box of drugs, where would I hide? 

Turns out, they're in the drawer they're supposed to live in. 

The common sense I possess is twisted. 

"I can't self harm because Sam will see."

"I cant kill myself yet, I've got theatre tickets and a holiday booked." 

This common sense is accompanied with an utter sense of worthlessness that contradicts the ideas that my existence needs to continue until such & such a date. Because I don't want to disappoint people. 

Wouldn't killing myself do exactly that? 

No. When I get these suicidal thoughts, they are about protection. Protecting me, from the pain. But a lot about protecting the people I love from the hurt I could cause them. As if the hurt of killing myself could be any less than what I could inflict on them throughout life. 

I lack common sense. But I still have some compassion. And I'm directing to myself. And my poor armpits. 

And nothing will ever show my lack of common sense than putting potatoes on the radiator to dry...

Talking about last night

Last night I was the kind of "crazy" that people take pains to avoid on the street. 

The kind muttering to themselves. Twitching and moaning. In a world of their own, not in an adorable distracted way.

  

last night

It was burning, and I was crying and shaking, but I couldn't stop it. I was wringing my hands violently as if to shake the itchiness out through my fingers. At one point I can pulling on my right index finger because it was on fire with itching. 

It started with the crying. I felt despondent, I lay protracted on my bed wondering why my brain was so slow and making everything so hard. 

I tried to harm myself by pulling my hair out but it didn't hurt enough. 

I used a self harming alternative which succeeded in making my arm sting. 

Then I got a sudden burst of energy and I tidied up my room. 

And then that's when the itching started. 

First it was my arm where I'd drawn all over it in pen in a bid to not cut.

Then it spread up my arm. And across my chest to the other arm. 

And then I was scratching my arms as if I was possessed. 

It started spreading to my legs and my face and I decided there was nothing for it but to run a bath. 

A shallow puddle of cool water. I lowered myself in hurriedly and I would never normally have a bath that cold but I needed relief.

The act of getting my thoughts together to run a bath had helped me become more lucid. 

I scratched a bit more in the water but it helped me to calm down. 

I went downstairs afterward to take an antihistamine. And then I phoned my boyfriend. 

this morning

This is a more tangible side effect of withdrawal than the headaches, or the anxiety. You can see the damage it does immediately. The sunburn effect I experienced on my body last night faded to leave these bruises. I write this the day after and I itch. My hip itches, my hands itch, my head itches. 

And these bruises will fade, and my sanity with it? 

1 more day. 

Cold turkey: the re-heat

Let me tell you about the time I took an anti depressant 7 days into cold turkey withdrawal. 

Or, as I call it, "Being Human". 

(Without the vampires, werewolves or ghosts, but with the sofa) 

7 days into withdrawal, and I was facing my birthday as a zombie. 

As an itchy, tearful, spaced out zombie.

1 pill to rule them all. 

I'm not a fan of birthdays but that didn't mean I wanted a shit day. I wanted to have a clear head, and be able to walk to the station without stopping twice for a breather. 

So I took the Citalopram. I have a months supply in my drawer and I haven't touched it.

I wake up transformed. 

I wake up before my alarm. 

I wake up with a smile in my heart and on my face. 

I have 5 hours straight sleep and get to sleep with little trouble in the first place.

All of sudden, I'm human again. I still have pain in my stomach, but I eat pre-9am for the first time in weeks. 

I talk. It's like my mouth has been unchained. 

I read without feeing every word drag past my eyes. I drink and eat like I ordinarily would. 

My heart sang yesterday. Yes it was my birthday and yes I met a sloth. 

But my heart sang to the peaceful melody of medication. 

Oh Citalopram, why do we have to part? 

Is it true? Are you really damaging my insides?

There's only one way to find out. Coming off them.

Only I've found out why people don't go cold turkey off anti depressants and I've decided I'm not going to keep trying. 

Instead, I'll be going more baby learning to crawl speed. One laborious shuffle at a time. 

Cold Turkey

This is not a blog about Christmas leftovers.
About sandwiches with cranberry sauce.
Or about dead poultry.

This is a blog about withdrawal.

I have been off my anti depressants for 7 days. 
I was on them for 18 months and in less than 18 minutes I had made the decision to stop them. Dead.

It is not advisable to come off anti depressants suddenly, to go cold turkey with them.

I am learning why.

I itch.
My legs, at 1am.
My shoulders and armpits at 3am
My palms, at 5am.
My feet, right now. My head, all the damn time.

I am dizzy. I could look down at the ground and then up at the sky and lose my balance.
I am light-headed. I feel like my legs are jelly and I am going to topple over at any minute.
I put this down to the lack of food. Because I can count the number of full meals I have had in the last 10 days on two hands. Most of them were this past weekend. 

I can count the days I haven't thrown up this month on one hand.

I cannot sleep. I did not understand why I am so, so tired all the time and yet now I get into bed at night and sleep does not come. And when it comes, it does not stay. When it comes the dreams are just...weird.

I did not expect to itch, to not sleep or have even weirder dreams than usual when I do sleep (seriously: Ice cream. Crow people. Packing. Crime. My weird dreams just got weirder).

I did not research or ask about withdrawal before I stopped my Citalopram. Google says all of the above are expected withdrawal symptoms.
That the half-life of Citalopram is 36 hours, so the speed of it took me by surprise but if I'd done some research it wouldn't have surprised me at all. 

I am an itching, dizzy insomniac. All within a week.
And I am crying. This is the only symptom I expected. Naively, I thought that the only side effect of coming off anti depressants would be the depression making a comeback. Because that's what they're for, keeping the depression (or the worst of it) at bay.
I expected the suicidal thoughts, the tears.
I cry at adverts, at the news. I cried about the snap general election. I cried at Guardians of the Galaxy last night.
I'm crying now!
I am a crier; I sobbed down the phone to Oxfam once. But this is kind of ridiculous.

Except One Directioners, who cries at Harry Styles music?! Me, the wet-faced dizzy insomniac who can't stop scratching, that's who.

I should also expect headaches (got that down, 11 years in the making), anxiety (wait, why was I on this drug again? oh yes...) and nausea. Wait, nausea? You mean, the very thing I'm trying to eliminate by coming off the Citalopram?

I am desperate to stop throwing up. I am desperate to be well again, to stop feeling nauseous, to stop getting stomach pains. And that is why I have gone cold turkey from my Citalopram because if it is the cause behind my mysterious sickness, then I will work to find other ways of managing my depression. Another anti depressant, CBT, Mindfulness; the list of possibilities is endless. 

There is also the possibility that it is not the Citalopram causing my sickness.
But by the time my body has worked that out, I will probably be withdrawn from it anyway. 

NOW I'M CRYING AT GREEN DAY!