Frosty Feelings

At the moment, I'm enjoying watching the series 'Once Upon a Time' where a collection of fairytale characters find themselves in our world. Currently Elsa and Anna off 'Frozen' are big in the storyline. As I think is the case in 'Frozen' itself (I did eventually give in and watch it last year but I remember remarkably little), Elsa struggles to control her magic. In fact, it seems that times of strong emotion result in Elsa causing damage, without trying. She is considered dangerous: a monster. Others feel the need to be wary of her and she feels isolated and quite the outcast.

This has really struck me due to my recent diagnosis of Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder (aka Borderline Personality Disorder). I'm still not entirely convinced what this is and I'm rather unsure as to whether the diagnosis is correct, but being told that this is my problem has not been easy.

There's a lot that could be said about all this but today I will focus on other people's reactions. I am thankful for a few friends who still see me as Laura: someone who struggles but ultimately is still a person, capable of good and bad, and loved by God. Unfortunately, however, not everybody has been so lovely. I am prepared to accept that I probably project my feelings and worries onto some of my friends and decide that they are giving me a wide berth even if they aren't. But there are some people in my life who are now treating me as highly dangerous. They seem to have decided I'm a monster. I feel like an outcast, someone who might cause damage at any moment if their emotions take them that way. In that way, I feel like Elsa.

She seems to get a happy ending. I don't know whether I will or not in this life. But what I can be thankful for is the happy ending written for me by God, where, thanks to Jesus' death and resurrection, I have been saved from death and offered eternal life with him. Because of Jesus, I can see Revelation 21:4 as part of my happy ending (can it be called an ending if it never ends?!):

'He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.’

One Comic Disorder?

I have an annoying tendency to look back upon previous blog posts and cringe, but yet even as I re-read them, I'm not quite sure that I want to delete them. Maybe I wouldn't write them in quite the same way now but I am glad that I made the point that I did: I do want to change people's views on mental health issues.

In many ways, things do seem to be going in the right direction in terms of awareness but, as my friend said to me earlier, things are pretty bad when it comes to OCD.

People will all too easily make some throwaway joke about how they are 'so OCD'. They laugh at the fact that they felt an urge to straighten up the line of coloured pencils or don't like to step on the cracks in the pavement. I'm no judge and these certainly could be symptoms of OCD, but I think that the majority of times that such comments are made, they shouldn't be. OCD is a hideous disease that can take over the sufferer's life, not something that neatly fits around their tidy life to get them attention when desired. Indeed, it is listed by the WHO as one of the ten most debilitating diseases.

Perhaps I'm being too harsh, but when tests come up on my Facebook feed, which tell you 'how OCD you are' based on a series of spot the odd one out questions, I can feel my blood boiling. That's spatial intelligence or something, it's not OCD.

My first encounter with OCD was when I was about 10 and my little sister was diagnosed with the beast. I didn't understand at all. She'd wash her hands endlessly: that made some sense, she liked things clean, I guessed. But she'd stand on the stairs in a complete trance for long periods of time, oblivious to however much you might shout at her to move. She'd count under breath; constantly retrace her steps (family walks were painful); she stopped eating chocolate because my (very) little brother told her it was cursed. As I said, I didn't understand and I'm not sure I even tried that hard to, but I do know it upset me. I remember one meal time just completely losing it with her. I'm not proud of this, but such was the mystery and evil of this thing that taken over my once playful sister. It affected her hugely and it also affected us.

Then came my own first hand experience of OCD. It had decided to enslave me as well. Over the years, I've been affected in varying ways by it and to varying degrees of severity. I am very thankful that right now it doesn't have too much of a hold on my life. But let's rewind a few years...

I am walking round Sainsbury's trying to work out whether I might have made a girl really unhappy because I looked at her funny. Perhaps she was already really depressed, on the brink of suicide and maybe I'd just pulled the trigger. She was going to kill herself and it was all my fault. If I hadn't looked at her, she would have survived but because of me....oops, I knocked a trolley. Oh gosh, better move it back. But is that quite right? Oh gosh, I don't think it is. Now somebody is going to come along and trip in it and it will all be my fault. They might be old and die from the fall. Oh and there's also that girl I might have killed. But what should I do about the trolley? I don't know what angle it was at so I'm sure I've made it more of a trip hazard and I don't know how to make it better. I guess that will do. I walk on, worrying. Oh no, better go back and check the trolley. Also, it's one thing potentially killing these people, but maybe it was deliberate? Surely it can't have been; I'm so worried, I can't have wanted it...but maybe I did?

Can you sense the distress I felt, albeit totally irrational? It was hidden but it was there. I didn't want to tell anybody because I thought they'd think I was a murderer. I'd generally have to swallow my pride and phone my mum to ask whether I should be going to prison. I'd have to check from every angle. She'd get annoyed. I would cry but check from a few more. I then may or may not be convinced that all was fine but before you knew it another problem would appear.

OCD is probably the most hideous thing I have ever experienced. It's really not a joke.

My renewed ability...

I wrote last time about how I had got to the point of not crying. Well, things have changed. Quite significantly. I am currently in the process of changing medication. It is a painful process and it is hard to know how I am going to get through the next few hours, let alone days or the five weeks it is supposedly going to be before my body settles down. I have hardly had the energy to do anything and don't really have the energy to describe how horrible the last few weeks have been. I shall just say they have been dire. A nightmare. Hideous.

Anyway, one result of all this is that a lot of crying has happened. It is quite nice to be able to cry again but that is, I reckon, about the only good bit in a mound of distress. 

While we are on the subject of tears though... (Soon my eyes will have no secrets left from the world!) Despite the fact that I have (let's just pretend that the last 18 months don't exist) always been quite a crier, one thing that has been unlikely to make me cry is any kind of film or TV program. I have, however, found an exception! BBC's recent three part documentary 'Don't call me crazy' had me in floods. 

The aim of the program was to show what life is like for people who are spending time in a mental health ward for teenagers in Manchester. It was such a well made program and, as I have read many people say, it did an excellent job of not displaying those struggling with mental health issues as a load of nutcases. Instead, we were shown the pain that the patients went through and given an understanding of how their problems were nothing to be ashamed of. I am so glad that finally progress is clearly being made in fighting this stigma attached to mental health. 

I particularly appreciated the way in which Beth, a seventeen year old who struggled with depression and an eating disorder, was often shown appearing very happy as she messed around on the ward. 'Appearing' being the operative word. Yes, there are ups and downs in life and I dare say there are times when she genuinely isn't feeling so bad. However, this was a girl who clearly spent a lot of time in utter despair. It just goes to show that you can't know who is suffering. Mental health problems are everywhere. Do not be fooled! 

I spent this evening with a group of friends. I had seriously considered not going out as I was feeling so miserable but I forced myself onto a bus into town to see them. It was not too bad in the end, as is often the way once I have won the battle to get out of bed. At the end of the evening, one of my friends gave me a lift home. 'I'm glad things are getting better for you', he cheerfully remarked. 'Err...they're not really...' Where did he get that idea from, I wondered. 'Well you were very cheery this evening so you are clearly not too bad at the moment.' Hmm. I can see myself making the same mistake with others but, nevertheless, how wrong he was! I really am not having an easy time at the moment. As I said, don't be fooled!

The Tears Are Gone

All my life, if you had asked someone to describe me, I am pretty certain the frequency with which I cry would have been mentioned. It was an unusual day if I didn't cry. That is until a year ago.

Ah great, you may think! My life must have got better! Except it hasn't, it really hasn't. I don't really understand to be honest. The tears just fizzled out.

In 2011, I was desperately depressed and this involved many tears. Things started to look up for a few weeks after I started taking antidepressants again, early in 2012. But alas, not for long. I cried and cried and cried one night. It was uncontrollable. Everything was dire. How could I go on?

Eventually, the crying stopped and I got to sleep. I think that was the moment. The moment when my depression became tearless. It was no less painful but the tear ducts must have decided they couldn't go on. My brain had dried up, so why not my eyes too?

***

It's all gone wrong

It's all too much

The pain is here

It's eating me up

Without a smile

Life goes on

But who knows where

The tears have gone.

Things are dull

Things are grey

Oh how I wish

They'd go away

But oh no

They carry on

Nevertheless

The tears have gone.

I struggle away

I groan and sigh

My minds too full

I want to cry

But on we go

On and on

No crying as

The tears have gone.

Time to be open

As I sat on the bus the other night, tired after a long day, I wasn't too happy when a couple of people arrived behind me and decided that talking at below, maybe, 80 decibels was just no fun. I'm not in much doubt that every single person on that bus could hear exactly what was being said, even if they didn't want to. 

The girl announced in rather a throw away manner that she had hardly had any sleep that week.

'Oh that's rough' replied her friend.

'Nah, it's ok. I'm bipolar see. I don't need sleep when I'm manic.'

I was startled. Firstly, this girl was not in the least bit embarrassed about telling her friend (who I got the impression she didn't even know that well) but, moreover, she didn't care that the rest of the bus could hear what she was saying.

My thoughts turned to me. 

I have been in a pretty much constant cycle of anxiety and depression for at least 6 years now. It wasn't until last year that I really told any friends. I remember how embarrassed I was upon telling my housemate. We had an awkward few minutes where we sat there waiting for me to have the courage to admit to having OCD.

'I have something to tell you...but I'm not good at talking about it so I might just suddenly come out with it but I will need to be ready...this might take a while'

It has to be said that in the last year I have managed to tell quite a lot of my friends but there are still many I haven't told. In public, I will hush my voice if I am talking about it and do what I can to hide it. There are some friends with whom I tip toe round the subject. It's like the elephant in the room but i don't quite know whether they are aware of the elephant! I sometimes allude to the truth but never actually say it. So, how many people know I am depressed? To be honest, I just don't know.

Sometimes I wish everyone knew so I could just be totally open when I am asked how I am or when talking about why I am not working or what I have been up to. People must think I am lazy, pathetic and annoying when they hear of how I only went into volunteer for 1 hour all week (I am meant to do 4 half days) or how I slept all day.

The problem, however, is that I am embarrassed. Embarrassed and ashamed.

I shouldn't be; I know I shouldn't be. Depression is as genuine an illness as cancer. I am always encouraged when I remember how I was told 'you wouldn't tell somebody lying on the floor in agony with a broken leg to stop being pathetic and to get up and run. Depression is the same - you can't just say pull yourself together and get on with life.'

I believe this; I completely and utterly believe this. What's more, when I come across others who are struggling with depression, I really care and I don't look down on those people; I don't think they have reason to be ashamed; I am simply sad that they are struggling.

There is something in society that makes mental health so hard to talk about but as this girl talked so openly and loudly about her struggles and went on to say (needless to say, at top volume), 'look at this photo of my sister, I reckon she's anorexic. Mental health see - it runs in my family.' I was deeply encouraged. The statistics seem to vary but about 1 in 3 people will be affected by mental illness in their life. We need to be open.