From darkness

It scurries back to the darkness from whence it came. 

Its attack is a sudden, total devastation. Having completed its mission, it evaporates. As if it never existed.

But it was there all along. Lying in wait. Just under the surface. Bubbling with increasing intensity. 

When it arrives, it brings with it an isolation unforeseen. How could it possibly feel like this? How could I possibly feel like this, so totally out of the blue? Unpredictable. Like a wrecking ball to my mind. It is simply a predator and I am the prey. 

So what can I do to protect myself from these attacks? How do I fight when I am encased in a bubble of doom? No air. No light. No hope. 

And how can I explain what is wrong if I don’t even know myself? How do I put words to something so implausible? 

Anxiety. I don’t want you. 

How many secrets can you keep?

This week, new stats came out about the rate of suicides in the UK. The difference between north and south, and the difference between men and women. It looks pretty bleak.

So between these statistics, and having spent the week reading Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar, and battled grief, mild depression and anxiety for the last 4 months, I felt I needed to write this blog that's been brewing.

Until now, all my mental health issues have been a past tense conversation topic. I call for there to be less stigma, more open discussion about mental health. For us to open dialogues so that those with mental health issues can talk about it with their families, friends and colleagues. So that bosses know how to help make the work environment more positive and accepting of mental health issues. So that friends don't take it personally when someone doesn't want to hang out, or doesn't even feel like leaving their house. So that families don't feel like they've let any one down or brought them up wrong. 

But now I'm in the beginnings of what feels like a long journey back to positive mental health, I feel all those things.I feel like I need to be stronger. That this is western privilege, that there are people out there with nothing and here I am with so much and I can't appreciate it. Or that I should be stronger and deal with this by myself. That I'm being melodramatic when I try to imagine the future and all I see is darkness. That I'm being stupid when I cry for no reason, or get panicked and anxious over anything. That I'm pathetic for finding solace in unhealthy coping mechanisms. That I'm letting people down.

You learn all over again to keep things hidden. To keep things secret. Or at least try to.Finding out someone has mental health issues, that they've had them in the past, can make you treat them differently. I know this because I've done it. Knowing I could not cope with a man's mental health issues because I needed to deal with my own, made me end whatever I had with him. But I also spend more time making sure I listen to my sister and ensure I am there if she needs me to be. (At least I hope I do Claire?) These acts don't counteract each other, my actions with my sister do not make ok the way I treated this guy. It's just a personal observation. I've been dumped for being suicidal, and treated with utter kindness and empathy. The latter attitude is the path that people should take, and should be taught to recognise. It's still taboo to be mentally unwell, and it shouldn't be when 1 in 4 of us suffer from mental health problems. Or in the case of my family, 3 of the 4 of us, although you could count my father's alcohol addiction as a mental health problem. So 4 out of 4 of us.

Being able to talk about having mental health problems can lift a weight so great you didn't realise how much it was hurting you to carry it until it comes off. It might not get rid of the weight entirely, but a problem shared is a problem halved, and having someone listen to you, for however short or long a time, professionally or personally, can only be a good thing. If we are scared to reveal we're struggling, we internalise that fear, and turn it on ourselves, it colours our world view. The world becomes a scary, unforgiving, unempathetic place. It becomes filled with people that we are jealous of, things we are paranoid about. Situations we can't deal with. Emotions that overwhelm us.

If you think this post is over sharing, I want you to think about why you feel that way. Are we so caught up in being polite, putting on a brave front, being so British, that we can't cope when people share their negative feelings? We don't know where to look, what to say. We squirm uncomfortably. I know, I've been there, I've done it, I've been lost for words and wondered why can't they deal with this themselves. Despite the fact I've been through this all before, despite knowing that talking about this can and will help, despite the fact that briefly talking about it to a friend online today made me feel tons better, I'm still unwilling to admit this failure publicly. Because it feels like a failure. I'm failing at coping. Coping with life, stress, work, family, all of it. I AM FAILING. Failing damn miserably.

But it is because I am so, so unwilling for you all to know, that I'm writing and publishing this post. It's self-indulgent, yes, but I need that. I need to indulge and wallow in this pain inside my brain because I'm trying to make sense of and work through it, and I know I'm not the only one. I might feel utterly alone but I know I am not alone. Out of 8 of us on the street, there's at least one other person who understands.

This Wednesday night I'm going to a networking event. When I went to the one in January, I was just round the corner and I froze with fear. I just started crying and the anxiety swept over me like a tsunami and I just drowned in it. It took a phone call with my nana to sort me out. It took several deep breaths and a glass of wine too. This Wednesday, dressed in long sleeves, I will go there a little less fearful and anxious because I know I can do it as I've done it once before.

But is that enough to get through all of this, this time? I've done it before. I can only keep trying.

Growing Old Gracefully

When I turned 23, I bemoaned the fact that I was getting old. 

I don't really want to get old. It's not that I am afraid of getting wrinkles, or my boobs sagging.

I'm afraid of being helpless.

Much as I often have self-doubt, I would still consider myself a strong woman. I want to live my life my way,  have dream and hopes and I won't let anybody try and crush them.

But what happens to after I achieve those dreams? Or if I don't, and times passes me by? How will I feel the day I wake up and realise that I'm "old"?

I clean for an elderly gentleman in my neighbourhood who has dementia. I don't know the full extent of the disease, but it is evident when he doesn't remember where his wallet is, or whether he has even posted his Christmas cards. Perhaps these are simple things that any elderly person might forget. But I suspect not.
When I went round yesterday he told me that he had gone towards the front door several times already that day thinking he needed to go out and get something, but that he couldn't remember what he needed to get.

I have never had a fantastic memory. I can do, when I'm working, but often I forget conversations and shared experiences. It's frustrating, and I look foolish. It looks as though I don't care about the memory. And when I am reminded of it or it is recounted for me, I wonder why I didn't remember it, because there is no real reason for me to have relegated it to the back and beyond of my mind.

I am worried about losing my memory. Not the shared experiences, not that time when we walked along and we all burst into song at the same time. Not those memories. The vital ones, like how to spell words, count numbers, people's names. How to function, essentially.

I am also worried about losing my health. Now, let's be honest, if you read my other blog, you'll know all about my head, neck and back problems. Whenever a new practitioner says how my back and shoulders are more like a 40-year-old's than a 20-something's, I worry about what the hell kind of shape I'll be in by the time I do hit 40. In Croydon on Thursday I spotted an elderly woman walking along, bent over double, pulling along a trolley. Walking towards Sutton earlier that day, I saw an older man walking on the other side of the road, head bowed against the cold, shoulders slightly hunched. I want to be able to stand up straight. I certainly don't want to be bent over double, barely being able to see where I'm going.

And the new Government reforms on retirement and pensions worries me too. Increasing retirement ages and rolling out flat state-pensions may mean that older people will work longer in order to be comfortable for that inevitable 20-year-long retirement. In times gone by, people would retire, and then keel over within 5 years because of a shorter life expectancy. But now, with better healthcare and medical services, we can keep going, despite any illnesses or diseases. I have seen so many older people out delivering leaflets in the cold over the last month or so, and in a way it breaks my heart. They shouldn't have to still work, surely? They've paid their dues, clocked up the hours. They should be at home, watching Morse and Bargain Hunt. I accept that perhaps they want to continue doing something because otherwise they'd go out of their mind. But maybe they don't have a choice.

My sister and I watched The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel the other night, and in it the characters are all accepting the challenges that old age and retirement bring. And it tackled all the problems that I fear about getting old - not being comfortable and having to continue to work, loss of loved ones and lack of communication or intimacy with family members or partners, and quite simply, being alone.

Cleaning for Peter, who turned 80 last year and lives alone with a rather moth-eaten cat, makes me think that I ought to get married and have kids simply for the fact that I'd have someone to keep me company, and then a younger generation who could look after me. The bloke I'm seeing readily admitted to me that this was one of his main reasons for wanting to settle down. I don't think there's anything wrong with that necessarily, but it just doesn't sit right with me. I don't think getting married and producing offspring should be a means to an end. It should be what you live for, what you want out of life.

But who will care for me, if I break a hip? If I'm alone, and I have a fall, who will get me back up, or do their own back in trying to do so?

I think these are bridges I will cross when I get to them. As it is, I am intent on focusing on the present and the near-future, not the far-flung, hip-replacement, foot-shuffling, beige-coat wearing future.
I'm content with being young. I'm 24 this year, and I whilst I accept I am approaching my mid-twenties, I am still young. I am in no way getting old. My body might feel old, but my mind, burning bright with enthusiasm and wonder, certainly isn't. And I won't be ashamed when I do get old. I will be like Jodie Foster, and declare my age loudly and proudly.

And I'm sorry if I can't remember the time that we... well, er, that time we... nope, forgotten it again.