I haven't got a stigma to wear...

Me!

When I 'came out' publicly as mentally ill yesterday, I had no idea what the reaction would be. People can often react negatively to the unknown about people they think they know. I was terrified of pushing the 'publish' button on Blogger. I've never been so painfully honest about anything in my life, let alone screaming it out loud via the twittersphere.

I have been completely humbled by the response. I have been inundated by positivity, love, hope and support since I blogged yesterday, to the point where, over 24 hours later I am still pretty much speechless. For those of you that know me 'in real life' you'll know that is a rarity. 

Words do no justice to how I feel right now. I feel emotionally lighter than I have been in years. I had built up such an anxiety about 'coming out' that I was totally unprepared for a positive response. But that is exactly what I have received. 

I'd like to say this: I'm not ever so brave, I was just tired of pretending to be who I wasn't, of putting on a facade for the world that bore no resemblance to the reality of my life. I no longer fear rejection for acknowledging who I am, because I want to dedicate myself to helping others who feel like I felt. Jumping off that emotional cliff was scary, but not doing so was beginning to feel like a life sentence. Unless more of us continue the conversation, the status quo won't ever change. I'm prepared to take up the baton and help other people 'come out' too. 

So lets all join together and make this more than just a poor Smiths' pun...I'm here when you're ready. And watch this space...

World Mental Health Day 2012...and coming out

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Firstly, my apologies for the blog hiatus. Ironically enough, given today is World Mental Health Day, my reasons for going AWOL have been all about my mental health. I'd love to say it was because I've been off travelling and doing exciting things again, alas, it was instead due to an almighty mood slump that caused me to plummet back into the well. Cue days spent in salty tears and losing interest in absolutely everything. And I mean EVERYTHING. Getting out of bed was the biggest effort. Leaving the house was too much for me. I've willingly gone back on antidepressants, alongside my other bipolar meds, paroxetine this time - about the only one I hadn't tried! So far it seems to be helping a little, at the very least I am able to get up and about and am managing to venture further than my front gate ;) Let's call it a work in progress, for now. 

Until my F pointed it out in a text earlier this morning, I had no clue that it was WMHD today. To be honest, I'm not sure I even knew it existed. Does this make me a bad mentalist? Or does it just mean it hasn't been publicised enough in the run-up? Or have I simply missed all the action because I've not been on planet Earth much over the past month? Anyway, for all my fellow ignorants out there it's a real day! Not a PR stunt day like national macaroon day or celebrate printed tights month! An actual day dedicated to all things raising awareness and breaking down the stigma cloud we all walk under. Or something like that.

This years' focus is depression, that overused, vastly misunderstood and hugely misinterpreted condition. Depression is not 'feeling blue', nor is it about 'having a really, really bad day'; its a profound mental illness that scales from moderate to life-changing severe, that makes you lose hope, feel a huge sense of loneliness, guilt, shame and terror. It can be enduring, cause crises, breakdowns and suicide. It can steal the essence of a person away whilst they are suffering it. It can last months or years. Fighting depression and living with it is exhausting. Just in case I've not been descriptive enough then please check out a video by Matthew Johnstone for the World Health Organization all about depression:

The part about 'being emotionally authentic' has made a big impression on me. I've thus far written this blog anonymously. The truth is I didn't want people to know about my mental illness. I didn't want to shout about it to the whole world. I thought I could be more honest about being bipolar, about what has happened to me if I was faceless and nameless. But that in itself is exhausting. I have felt like I'm living two lives for most of my life - keeping my emotions hidden from all but the closest people in my life for fear I might be judged, that I might not be offered work if prospective employers googled me and a whole raft of information about me being 'that mental one' was the first thing they saw. Like it or not, there is still so much negativity and misinterpretation of people who are mentally ill. When people find that out about you they sometimes recoil because they have the image of 'loonies' rattling their chains in an asylum, or immediately think of horror stories of the mentally ill murdering innocent souls in broad daylight, or snapping and killing their whole families. A number of people just don't want to have anything to do with mental illness and are content to push it, and those suffering with it, away. And I'm scared of that happening to me. I'm scared of being rubber-stamped, of never getting writing work again, of never being able to work because of coming out about my mental illness. 

But I've realised something this week; nothing will ever change if we don't actively try to move it forwards. I want to change perceptions of the mentally ill. I'd like to educate people who don't understand what living with mental illness means. I want to help make people with mental illness see that however hard things get, there is always hope for the future. And I can't do any of that if I refuse to stand up and be counted. Gulp. So here goes: hello, my name's Hayley, and I'm proud to admit I suffer with mental illness, because there is nothing to be ashamed of. Welcome to my world. And to any trolls and haters out there, jog on.

me!

It's good to talk...?

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After an exciting and stimulating weekend spent celebrating the F's Birthday, I came back down to Earth today with a mild hangover and an early rise for my first 'focus for therapy' session at my local psychotherapy unit. This was basically one of four fifty minute sessions which involve talking through your troubles, what's bothering you, what's hindering you, and working out the things you'd like to deal with when it comes to your   real sessions.

So I braved the pissing rain for the 30 or so minute walk, and met with my (also female) assigned therapist. Now, I don't know about you, but I always seem to lose the capacity to say exactly what I mean and mean exactly what I say at these things. She probed with a load of questions to prompt me, but compared to my usual abilities to talk for England, I was mute. I also found myself so churned up that I started worrying that I must sound like I was absolutely fine, something and nothing, or that I was a lost cause and they'd decide I wasn't suitable for psychotherapy anyway.

Laying your present and past history out for a complete stranger isn't much fun. And people with mental illness have to do that a lot, many times over, so each sodding individual therapist, psychiatrist, social worker and mental health nurse can make their own notes. About you. Where do they all go, those notes? I dread to think how many tomes about my life exist on dusty shelves all over London and Berkshire thanks to my mental ill health.

They also ask questions which, if I knew the answer to, I wouldn't be in this mess in the first place. This week was all about current worries, how I see myself, and what my major issues are. Next week its onto the past. Oh joy. It'll be fun trying to squeeze that into 50 minutes. I jest a little, of course. I'm more than grateful that the local CMHT have gotten me these sessions so quickly (quickly in the the scheme of the NHS, anyway) and that the therapist herself seems like a nice sort. Even if she was sat a comically great distance from me during proceedings.

It's not the first time I've had therapy or counselling, of  course. I've had DBT, a special combination of group and one-on-one talking therapies aimed specifically at those with BPD. It didn't do much for me as turns out that's not my primary issue, but it stopped me wanting to harm myself quite so much, which is hardly a bad thing. I also began intensive psychotherapy at the Tavistock in London a couple of years ago. I waited over ten months to get an NHS spot there, and then a month after beginning to pour my heart out three times a week, I went hypomanic, and AWOL, thinking I was utterly sane and having a wonderful time of it. I didn't know this was hypomania then, but in hindsight that therapy wasn't really for me: it involved laying on an actual couch, like in the movies. If you've never done it, there's nothing weirder, at least when it comes to talking therapies...

So here I am at the start of a new chapter, wondering what the next few sessions will bring and what therapy they might decide is best for me. Now I just have to stick at it...

What are your experiences of talking therapies? Has anything worked for you? 

Domestic abuse definition widened

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The definition of 'domestic abuse' is to be widened from March 2013 to include controlling behaviour, psychological intimidation and applied to victims under the age of 18. This will mean that acts of coercive control, such as preventing a partner from leaving the house, or preventing them from having access to a phone could lead to prosecutions.

Previously, the term has been open to too narrow an interpretation and this could be one of the reasons that perpetrators have been let off by Police and prosecutors, why so few cases end up in court, and indeed why young victims have felt powerless to report offences, or did not even realise that what they were being subjected to could be classed as abuse. 

Domestic abuse has always been widely under-reported and its hoped that this legislative change will bring about greater confidence in the Police, and more victims coming forward to report the crimes against them. 

I have been a victim of domestic abuse in two past relationships and did not report either partner. I felt it was my fault and didn't feel empowered enough to tell anyone about what was happening. I hope that steps such as this will lead to a higher reporting rate and many more convictions.

I also hope there can be better education for young men and women about what are unacceptable and abusive behaviours, so there isn't yet another generation of violent and manipulative abusers to come.

If you or anyone you know are experiencing any form of domestic abuse or violence please call the Police, and contact the National Domestic Violence Helpline, run jointly by Refuge and Women's Aid on:

0808 2000 247

Stay safe xx

Acceptance

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Suffering from a breakdown or being diagnosed with a mental illness is down-at-the-bottom-of-the-well tough. Depressive feelings can feel as if they steal the essence of you. At least that's how I've felt during my depressive episodes, that all my potential, all of my intelligence counted for nothing because I was never well enough for long enough to harness them.

I've raged at myself, at my 'black dog', at the World for stealing my life from me, for making it impossible to function. But it hasn't gotten me anywhere. I can't change what has happened in my past. I can't change that I have suffered, and continue to suffer, with mental illness. So instead, I'm trying to come to terms with it, and in the process, accept it.

I haven't always had a name for my uninhibited highs or the crushing lows, indeed, I didn't have one until I was 25. Even then it wasn't quite right, but I accepted it without a second thought because a psychiatrist knew better than me, right? Wrong. It took another five years of ups and downs, being unmedicated because I was told that medication didn't really help people with BDP anyway. Accepting that meant another five years of my life were spent on an emotional roller coaster. Until, that is, I came screeching off the rails at a hundred miles an hour, crashing headfirst into a pit of darkness and despair. Again.

Being diagnosed with Bipolar affective disorder was great initially. I knew something more was going on, and I felt vindicated by both the diagnosis, and the psychiatrist who spent three hours thoroughly assessing me and talking to me like a human being, and not just another sick person.

But in my mixed state, both at the present time and in years past, I've had moments of denial; there's nothing wrong with ME, they're labelling me, they don't know me, I just need need to pull myself together, I'm NOT mentally ill. And the danger for me in those feelings is that, as has happened previously, I fall off the grid, go AWOL from psych appointments, CMHT meetings, therapy, I go hypomanic.

I'm realising now that acceptance of my condition does not constitute weakness, that in fact its something that might help stabilise me and help me recognise when I'm about to leap off the emotional cliff, that my feelings of despair, anger, denial are a part of my illness, not flaws in my character. It's going to be a long journey, I think, in fully accepting those things, and in completely accepting my condition, but its one I'm willing to take.

But, I also need to work on believing that accepting my diagnosis doesn't mean I'm labelled for life, that things have to always be shit because I'm bipolar. I don't have to always be on benefits, I don't always have to be skint, I don't always have to feel utterly unfulfilled and screwed up. That when I'm stable again, I can take responsibility for myself and have faith in my decisions, plans and dreams.

What does acceptance mean to you?

Drunk drunkedy drunk

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Having a cold glass of cider/wine/lager/g&t (delete/add as appropriate) on the five or so days of summer we've had is heavenly. Getting obliterated, not so much. So why can't we just say no, kids?

It's no secret that some people with enduring mental health problems self-medicate with drink and drugs. Sometimes we need a little something to take the edge off a bad day, but drinking on bad days can lead to bad things. Like overdoses: I was drunk before every one of mine. Because that's the thing, alcohol isn't a stimulant; it depresses brain function. One or two cheeky shandies, no probs. Binge drinking? Probs.

Long-term heavy drinking actually changes the chemistry and psychology of the brain, reducing its ability to deal with anxiety naturally. It depletes serotonin, meaning you feel more depressed and more likely to drink more in order to deal with the slump. And as if by magic, a vicious circle is created.

I was, at one time in my life, called an alcoholic by a therapist. She was a bitch, mind you. And there was no way she was getting me listed as a 'dual-diagnosis' patient (meaning you have a substance abuse problem alongside your mental health issues). I'm not in denial when I say I'm most definitely not an alcoholic. I would however admit to having had an emotional dependency on it at certain junctures when I was younger. My best friend and I both had shit going on at one time, and we turned to one another, and the bottle, for help. We'd get through 6, maybe even sometimes 8 bottles of the cheap 2 for £5 corner shop wines that tasted like vinegar and probably rotted your stomach in one sitting. And I'd do the same when out with my then boyfriend. Only, the more it happened, the more the cracks started to appear. Mainly these involved me getting sad, then angry, then sad again, and this boyfriend had to put up with an awful lot of shit from me when I'd had a skinful and was raging at the world, him, and myself.

A sure sign that your self-medicating is going too far is when you wake up, realise the night previous is a black hole, and have to text friends or call your fella and ask if you pissed anyone off or did anything outrageous when tanked up to your eyeballs. Memory loss, dear void, is bad.

Now, I don't drink like that anymore and haven't in years, but just recently there have been a spate of parties where everyone has been slugging it back, and in the process, I've woken up with a black hole again. Luckily I haven't been sleep walking in my nightdress through a hotel (this actually happened to me once) or starting world war three amongst my friends, but cringing and having to ask the F if I'd made a tit of myself brought back many an unpleasant and shame-inducing memory from years passed.

Moderation, dear void, moderation's what we need...

Do you self-medicate? 

Perfection or bust

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The quest for perfectionism is, for me, never-ending and exhausting. It used to be that I was a perfectionist over my studies at college, and later, university. I worked hard and for many hours on completing projects, performances, dissertations, presentations. Sure, I also went about it in a haphazard way because I also happen to be dyslexic. I became an old hand at pulling all-nighters to get my work in on time. My chaotic personality relished the pressure, the tiredness, how ridiculous it all was. A fabled occasion was when writing my university dissertation on post-modern feminism and the rise burlesque. Gathering all the information and doing all the interviewing had been fun, but actually sitting down to write the thing was another matter. I was staying at my parent's and basically sat up writing all night for three weeks. The day before I was due to hand it in, I worked from late morning until 5am of the big day, proofing, referencing, printing. I had an hours' sleep, then I was up, grabbed some toast and a shower and travelled in to London to hand it in. There are times when going a bit hypomanic is fantastic. This was one of them: I got a first in my degree and was awarded the Dean's prize for 'Outstanding Thesis'.

The last few years have been somewhat less enchanting: I've found throwing myself into work extremely difficult. Perhaps I've just never found what I wanted to do with my life. So, my perfectionist tendencies have instead been focused on my appearance. It started when I moved to London, where there is a definite pressure to look and dress a certain 'way'. This was especially true of the sectors I worked in: beauty and grooming journalism and PR. As a journo I was mingling with the fashion and grooming editors from the big magazines, all of whom were just endlessly glamorous, even in a simple blouse and jeans. I often felt out of place with them, dressed to the nines in chic designer get-ups, whilst I was busy trying to make my high street tat look passable. That said, on the whole that circle were lovely and welcomed me into the group. When I moved into PR (error), I was thrown into a pit of younger, cooler girls who I felt looked 10 times better than me and the feelings of inadequacy grew. Only, I started getting comments about how glamorous I was from different departments, how I always looked great. But was I really part of the fold? Did I fit in? Did I bollocks.

Now I'm living back home its highlighted what a neurotic mess London, in part, turned me into. I stress for an hour over which top to put on with my jeans: does it look fashion-forward? Does it flatter me? Is it making me look fat? Emphasising my thunder thighs? And where might I be previewing said outfit? A walk to the shops to pick up some milk and cereal. Tragic.

And the joke about it is, no one, unless they know me very well would have any idea that I put myself through this exhausting regime every day. That I have to look just so. That my make-up has to be perfect, and my hair too, except its dry and shit and never looks it. That sometimes I'll go through the whole routine, and then feel so ashamed of myself, of how disgusting I think I look, that I don't even bother leaving the house at all because I can't bear any eyes on me.

Not that I think people are going to take time out of their busy schedules to stop and stare at me, because its not about wanting to look gorgeous, this perfectionism thing. Its about feeling vile. Its about crippling self-loathing. It's about a rock-bottom lack of self-confidence. 

It's a prison I want to break out of. I'm tired of this bondage.