Moods can go down as well as up: coming back from depression

Time to Change assert that 1 in 4 people will experience a mental health problem this year, and half of those people will feel the isolation or perceived shame of their condition is worse than the condition itself.

I was diagnosed with depression on 9^th October 2017, but my shame started some time earlier. I know now that my depression built up over many months during which I gradually lost confidence in myself across almost every aspect of my life and I felt certain that others had lost confidence in me.

 

Much more than just a bad day…

I’ve worked long hours in rapidly-changing environments for 25 years. Last year’s professional challenges were no worse than I’d experienced before, except that I responded differently.

• I felt ground down, chronically exhausted. My mind felt like treacle: I struggled to concentrate, to finish even simple tasks.
• I could see colleagues working long hours. They seemed to be coping, so what was wrong with me? Was I inefficient, or just not up to it anymore?
• Some days I was snappy, others I felt like I was moving in slow motion. I was convinced people would notice, but when no one said anything it was merely more ‘proof’ that they couldn’t rely on me and were managing without me.

 

Flight, not fight

No two depressions are alike. It’s an intensely intimate condition, to which our reactions are entirely personal and often irrational.

My feelings of low mood, inadequacy and guilt had little basis in fact, but I believed them. This in turn affected my behaviour in ways that became increasingly self-fulfilling.

I was sure I wasn’t good enough; at my job, as a Dad, as a son. I started avoiding social situations where I might feel vulnerable, even going to the pub or cycling with friends. But while not doing things reduced the immediate anxiety, it only exacerbated my low mood and isolation.

 

Getting there…

My colleagues and the directors at Indicia have been outstanding in their support towards my recovery. I could highlight four key areas:

• Communication: it really is good to talk. I was consulted about who would be told and what was said to colleagues and clients about my absence. I’ve always known I can speak to colleagues and bosses who will listen and hear me without judgement.
• Sensitivity: when I returned to the office after 2 weeks away, I was amazed and moved to find my email inbox virtually empty. Someone had thought to remove the hundreds of client project messages, internal announcements and other emails. I was kept away from client emails until we all agreed I could handle it. This made a huge difference.
• Patience: it took me 3 months since returning to be ‘back’, during which time I was on reduced responsibilities and hours with limited client contact.
• Flexibility: the variability in how I feel day-to-day has been significant and unpredictable. They have taken this in their stride without me feeling any more guilt than I piled on myself.

 

Ladders and Snakes

Over these last months I’ve often felt that I’m ‘not depressed enough’ or in the ‘right way’. I still sometimes experience huge variability in Good Days and Bad Days, or even volatility in the same morning that it makes me afraid people will lose faith, or that I’ll never be ‘right’ again. It’s as though I have a very full glass, into which something even quite small can make it overflow.

Fortunately, I have learned many things about myself and my depression since October. I know that it’s a selfish disease that can isolate you, often without you realising. So, in my recovery I’ve started to work and live far more consciously in many ways:

• Setting clearer work priorities: on a daily basis, being aware of what has to be done, and what might be distractions: just getting things done
• In tandem with that, clearer boundaries between work and home
• More awareness of, and conscious efforts to have better sleep, exercise, diet
• A mix of counselling and self-help exploring CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy) and other techniques
• Daily Mindfulness, usually 15-30 minutes at lunchtime to (re)focus and understand how I’m feeling. This can be both proactive (training for my brain) or remedial (to give myself some space, reduce anxiety). I recommend it to everyone.
• Medication

 

Looking Forward

I’m also setting myself a longer-term goal for the months ahead. The Sue Ryder Hospice in Cheltenham cared for my Dad during his last weeks in 2017. It’s the only full-time residential palliative care facility in Gloucestershire and its staff are fantastic.

2018 is the 30^th anniversary of their Cycling Sportive, so on Sunday 24^th June I will be riding 80 miles from Cheltenham around the Northern Cotswolds to raise money for the hospice. A month later, on Dad’s Birthday, I will complete my first ever 100-mile ride, starting from home in Tetbury. Having had 5 months off the bike over the winter I’m now back in training, which is also helping my recovery.

I’m setting myself a target of raising at least £500, but with your help I could raise much more. Your donations would support me on the roads in training and on the day. If you want to join me in person on either ride, please let me know. Please visit my JustGiving page, and give whatever you can.

Thank you.

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…will I always feel this way?

Let me count (many, but not all of) the ways I have felt anxious, scared, overwhelmed in the last week or so.

• Driving to visit Mum to help her getting settled in her new house. All the way there I knew that I’d get within 300m of our family home, but then have to turn right instead of going straight on
• Having left the office early to do the school pick-up, checking my email at home and seeing 5 emails about the meeting in the morning
• In Tesco to buy milk and bacon for Saturday breakfast, Mariah Carey bellowing over the speakers about what or whom she wants for Christmas
• Trying to book a train home from London after an evening event with clients (avoiding engineering works and replacement bus services)
• Not wanting to go out in the snow where our children were excited, making snowmen
• Being in a meeting room with 25 other people all making small talk
• Thinking about Christmas presents, shopping, food shopping, logistics
• Seeing old colleagues for the first time in ages and how to respond when they smile and ask “how are you”?
• When Rachel is upset about her own Mum’s health and stressed with too many things going on at once (I feel it’s partly my fault for not supporting her more)
• Catastrophising about when my employers might start getting impatient about how long it’s I’m taking to recover and be back at full responsibilities. In truth, they’ve been brilliant, but that doesn’t stop the feelings
• Doing a Mindfulness meditation that’s supposed to help me feel better, but I don’t
• Being at that client event, 20-odd people sat around a massive table; eating, drinking, laughing, talking
• Leaving that event early, hoping no one notices or calls out after me
• While Rachel was downloading the details of everything she’s been dealing with in terms of family logistics, the electrical, decorating and plumbing work we’ve had done and whatever else (as well as doing her job in the last week of school term)
• When someone asks me what I’m up to this weekend

I’ve had good days. For most of the time on most days I’m OK, but these things keep coming through, and they’re often pretty intense.

I’m trying to accept them, not to fight or resist them.
I’m trying not to retreat into my Safe Place where I just watch films or listen to music or podcasts on my own.
I’m trying to take things one day at a time, to be present in the moment.
I’m trying not to feel ashamed that I’m not coping with ‘life’, that everyone else seems to cope with reasonably well.
I’m trying to do some sort of exercise.
I’m trying not to blame myself for being scared, thinking and feeling things that objectively aren’t true.
I’m trying to talk to friends.
I’m trying not to feel guilty about how my colleagues have to cover for me, how I’m not getting better sooner.
I’m trying to be, feel and act positive(ly).
I’m trying not to judge myself.

…Will I always feel this way?
So empty, so estranged…

Ray Lamontagne – Empty

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…our castle and our keep…

My parents moved into my childhood home when I was 5, in 1974. I only remember anywhere else from photos: Sunny Cottage was where I grew up. Earlier this week Mum finally moved out, downsizing to a smaller place barely a few hundred yards away. And so our home is no longer home.

In fact Mum has been keen to move out for years, but for a long time Dad resisted. The big garden was his pride and joy, filled with densely planted flower borders, fruit bushes and trees, carefully tended vegetable beds and a greenhouse loaded with tomatoes and cucumbers. Eventually it became too much and it was great that, a few months ago, they chose the new smaller house together before he died.

Instead of mourning this hugely significant and symbolic change, I instead hope to reflect a handful of the positive times, memories and experiences I can recall from my many years in Sunny Cottage.

The original cottage is the section to the right of the white porch and is over 250 years old. The middle of the three windows is the original front door. This was our lounge, the heart of our home. Here’s where I played; downfall and computer battleships when they were the latest thing, creating Space Lego crafts and space stations. Here’s where Dad taught me to lay and light and maintain a real fire in our beautiful fireplace, where we toasted bread on a Sunday evening. Here’s where I made countless tape-to-tape compilations on the Technics stack system, first watched Not The Nine O’Clock News, The Young Ones and Blackadder, where I spent entire Saturdays watching Swap Shop in the morning then Grandstand all afternoon…

The fireplace earlier this year, when we no longer had real fires…

Upstairs from the lounge on the far right was my room. The stairs and corridor to reach it are narrow, so when we moved in apparently my bed had to be hoisted in through the window. When we helped Mum and Dad earlier this year to start the clearing-out process, the bed left the house via the same window.

My room, where I listened to Radio Luxembourg late at night, face pressed against the speaker, sound as loud as I dared. So many times I woke up with the corner of the radio digging into my cheek, batteries dead or dying. Here’s where I practised French Horn, created worlds during my Dungeons & Dragons phase, revised for exams, plotted countless visions of a future I was actually clueless about…

As Mum prepared to move out, she traced out the inside of the door to the cupboard under the stairs. This is where we would periodically stand, shoes off, flat on the floor and she would track our height (I’m on the right, then my brother Mike, then my daughters). The first measurements here were taken in 1979, the last just last week. Now our younger daughter is 12, it turns out she’s the tallest of all of us at this age, while my brother is the (ahem) least tall…

For me the best thing about our house was the garden. It’s sprawling, with countless opportunities for imaginative play. We’d play football against the Cotswold Stone Wall, cricket, frisbee, boules, mini golf, anything – even using plant pots and bamboo canes to create obstacle courses for amazing Spacehopper races (look it up!)…

I remember trying to be Ian Botham in 1981; hitting the ball over the fence into the (main) road meant ‘Six-and-out’ and you had to go and retrieve it. We often had so many apples that we’d use the fallers for smashing around with the cricket bat, spraying pieces everywhere.

Before the path around the house was gravelled it was paved, which made it a great race track. The lane alongside the property went up into a field of allotments (long since developed into houses where Mum now lives). We would ride our bikes up the lane into the field, then come screaming back down the hill and skid spectacularly in the dusty grit at the bottom. We’d laugh and do it again, and again.

Garden Frisbee, 1989, post-interrailing holiday

Rachel and I celebrated our 10th Wedding Anniversary in the garden in a joint party for Dad’s 70th Birthday. Next year we’ll reach 20 years and he would have been 80, and we’ll have to celebrate and commemorate elsewhere. But nothing can diminish or extinguish the sunshine I’ll always carry from our Sunny Cottage home.

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Every picture tells a story…

A recent thing that’s been doing the rounds on Facebook has been the 7-day Black & White Challenge: post one photo a day for a week that reflects your life. Photos should contain no people and carry no captions or explanation. And like the best (sic) memes, you’re encouraged to challenge another person to take the challenge each day. 7 times the fun!

Of course, in the grand scheme of things, this is hardly a challenge, and apparently it’s caused far more ranting on social media than I’d wish for from a civilised society in 2017. But never mind that, I took part and enjoyed it. But why should I let the pictures speak for themselves when I can speak for them?

Birthday Cake
The first day of my challenge happened to be Eleanor’s 12th Birthday, so there was cake. She’s an avid baker and indeed she made this red velvet cake herself, and the icing, and iced it!

Whiskers
We adopted Whiskers on 1st July 2016, almost on a whim. We knew the family of his elderly owner, but she had to go into residential care, so he needed a new home. We went round to meet him and he was so immediately friendly that we took him there and then. He’s 9 years old, adorable and adoring, he craves and loves attention. I can scarcely remember a time without him.

Bedside Table
These are a few of my favourite and least favourite things, some of which remind me of my mortality every day. Is it a cheat to have these pictures of Rachel, Jamie and Eleanor? I love (not in the same way, obviously) cinema, films and Empire magazine. The Handmaid’s Tale is my current much-overdue reading material. We’ve been watching the stunning TV adaptation, and in fact experiencing the two simultaneously has in fact enhanced my appreciation and admiration for both. A rare feat.

I’m less keen on needing two pairs of glasses now, and two different daily eyedrops to keep my glaucoma under control. Nor am I thrilled about the Citalopram tablets, but after 6 weeks, I genuinely think they’re beginning to make a difference.

Sibelius
This coming Saturday the Stroud Symphony Orchestra is playing Sibelius’ 2nd Symphony. It could prove to be an emotional evening, as it’s the first concert I’ll have played since Dad died in August. It will be something not to have him in the audience, as he (and usually Mum too) came to virtually every concert I’ve played in the last 20 years. Sibelius is one of our shared favourite composers, and this perhaps his finest symphony. The epic, triumphant final movement might be tough to play without tears.

Headspace
Rachel has been a practitioner and advocate for mindfulness, meditation and self-compassion for a couple of years, especially after she took a course locally with Linda Thomas. I’m using the Headspace app (free for a 10-day basic trial, paid-for after that, packed with loads of good stuff). Just taking time out, focusing on my breathing and how I’m actually physically feeling, not suppressing thoughts, just noticing them and letting them pass on by without beating myself up; observing, not judging. It’s worth a try…

Map
I’ve loved maps since I was a child watching my parents navigate our way through France on holiday, and closer to home. I love OS maps and their symbols, contour lines and clarity. This is centred on Tetbury and barely a day goes by without me pausing to reflect on how much I love the Cotswolds. I’ve planned many bike rides on this. Strava is great, but it’s not everything.

Clock
My last picture was taken on Wednesday, a Bad Day. I’d been working at home but it hadn’t gone well. After a poor night’s sleep I was down, distracted and dismayed all day. Sunday and Tuesday had both been Better Days, but Wednesday certainly wasn’t. By the time I needed to go and do the school run, I felt like I’d achieved virtually nothing. The clock ticked on and I felt lousy. The volatility and seeming randomness of what can make for a Good or Not Good day is almost debilitating.

But today I’ve genuinely tried to be present, in the moment. I’ve not thought about next week or next month or should I go to that meeting or what about Christmas Shopping? And it has felt productive. Laundry, cooking food, writing this, doing yoga, going to the gym. It might not seem much, but it’s been a Good Day.

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The City for people who don’t like cities…

We recently spent three days in Amsterdam, the best family time we’ve had in months. The last time I visited there was just for a few hours after a work meeting, on a frigid drizzly January afternoon. Even then I enjoyed walking along the canals, soaking up the history and architecture.

This time we were blessed with fantastic Autumnal weather and a terrific Airbnb apartment within walking distance of everything we wanted to see, and we absolutely loved our time there. Perhaps the highlight was our open boat tour of the central canal network, starting in perhaps one of the busier spots opposite the Rijksmuseum, where cars and bikes and pedestrians come together just like in any major city centre.

But within minutes, the boat had slipped down a canal-alley onto a parallel channel. We were 200m away and 80db quieter. We could have been in the countryside, it was that quiet. And with only 9 of us in the boat, our pilot and guide gave us a fantastic tour, complete with history, architecture, politics and social niceties of this most un-city-like city. We loved noticing all the ‘wonky’ houses, assessing the different styles of rooftop, revelling in the effortless beauty of the place.

Compact & Bijou? Skinny House.

Not quite straight?

 

Bike Bingo

And then there are the cyclists. Bikes and their riders are everywhere. I Reckon about the same amount of space is dedicated to cycle paths as to car/bus lanes as tram lines as pedestrian pavements. It’s very equitable, and this can make for some difficulty crossing the road, as there are so many different things to be looking out for!

Most importantly, however, is the atmosphere around the cyclists in Amsterdam. When I was thinking about this post I was going to consider a series of cultural comparisons on why cycling in this Dutch city looks and feels so different to cycling in Bristol (where I have commuted) and London (where I’ve observed commuters). But that just seems fraught with potential for people to take offence, so I’ll reserve my comments to observations rather than judgements.

In three days in Amsterdam, I noticed

• traffic signals seem far more geared to the needs and priorities of cyclists and pedestrians than cars: we hardly ever had to wait more than 20 seconds to cross
• more male cyclists in suits and female cyclists in (proper) high heels than wearing lycra
• most bikes in Amsterdam rattle, have baskets or panniers, and look like something from a different age
• very few have racing/drop handlebars
• hardly any cyclists seeming to ‘race’; very little overtaking or jockeying for position
• many cyclists wear headphones, many ride along using their phone in one hand
• parents doing the school run with huge child carriers on the front, or remarkably young kids sitting behind the saddle, or toddlers in special seats mounted on the handlebars
• people carrying huge bouquets of flowers, or large paintings, or guitars, or briefcases
• almost no-one wore a helmet or high-vis jacket. Quite a few cyclists at night didn’t use lights

We loved playing ‘bike bingo’ scoring points for spotting different behaviours from that list above. Through the three days we were there, no-one looked stressed: there was no fuss, no fear. I didn’t see a single incident or anyone raising their voice to anyone else, even at rush hour. If we strayed onto the cycle path (this happened quite a bit on the first day) noone yelled, they just rang their bell (everyone has a bell) and we moved quickly away. I’m not saying I agree with all of this (especially those not using  lights at night), but it felt very different from cycling in Bristol, and almost entirely in a good way.

Our younger daughter Eleanor described Amsterdam as a city for people who don’t like cities. Perhaps that’s why it’s one of my favourite places.

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…you’re overwhelmed by what you haven’t done…

The response to my last post was at once astonishing, heartwarming and more than a little worrying. So many kind words, so much unconditional support, not even a hint of the hard time I was giving myself, that I feared might come my way. And so many people who have clearly experienced similar feelings and issues themselves.

THANK YOU to everyone who has sent kind words and thoughts, recommended reading, shared experiences, or contacted me to ask how I am and if you can help. It’s been humbling and uplifting.

More than 3 weeks on, and I’ve been riding the clichéd emotional rollercoaster. In the immediate aftermath of my diagnosis, I felt a wave of relief, of validation. It was official: I had permission to feel shit.

Too good to be true?

Then for a few days in that week I felt really good. I went cycling with friends, twice. I did yoga and played my French Horn every day, went for Autumn walks, talked with friends. But then I felt like a fraud, because I felt good. How can I be off work when I feel this good? How can I have depression? The tablets don’t kick in for a few weeks, apparently, so am I making it up?

But then we went for dinner with friends on Saturday, and I didn’t enjoy it. The food and company were great, but by the end of the evening I wanted to run away. A recurring symptom of my particular depression is an anxiety about being around people, even good friends. I want to curl up on my own at home, where it’s safe and I don’t feel like I have to justify myself. I’ve found it hard to explain exactly what I’m feeling, what I’m anxious about, which again makes me feel other people will dismiss it. I’m desperately sure that I’m bound to disappoint people, either for being depressed, or by not being depressed enough, or in the right way.

Don’t ask me…

The next week was a blur and chaotic. For more than 2 days we had British Gas men in the house ripping out the decades-old boiler and installing a new one, and our daughters were both on 1/2 term, meaning I didn’t have anything like as much time to myself all week. And what was hard was anything where I had to make a choice, or a decision, let alone anything more distant than something like What’s for lunch?  More complex projections were nearly impossible: What do you want for Christmas? What time do we need to leave on Monday? Which fabric do you like for the new chair cover?

Ups and Downs

Week 3 was mostly fantastic – a long-awaited trip to Amsterdam was our best family time in more than a year, despite the long and occasionally fraught travelling. We loved the city and had an amazing time, walking miles every day, revelling in art and architecture, bitterballen and stroopwaffels.

Last weekend we visited Rachel’s mum in her care home; the first time I or our daughters had seen her in a few months. She’s very frail and her mobility is really poor. Normally I’ve been able to almost dissociate myself from the emotions of this, helping her calmly in and out of the wheelchair or car, keeping conversations going. But this time I just couldn’t. I had flashbacks to Dad’s last weeks, worries of my own illness, almost overwhelming, and this lasted almost right through Sunday at home.

On Monday I started back at work, doing 1/2 days. Everyone has been terrific, and for a while it was great to be taking a step back towards normal. But every morning I’ve felt a pang of being clearly not normal. I’ve been (rightly) kept away from the day-to-day complexity of my normal clients: if I find it hard to think about lunch, their needs would not sit well with me…

While I exchanged banter with colleagues I worried again they would think me a fraud (he seems fine). At the same time I was anxious about completing even a relatively simple task, to the extent that when I got positive feedback I almost wept with relief. I’ve been anxious about going to make tea in case someone innocently or kindly asks “how are you?”… my worries being around people are still real. I want to explain myself, but (as this rambling proves) nothing’s clear-cut or straightforward.

Yesterday I got home feeling wiped out, exhausted, jittery. I had a nap and woke up with a fear that felt like it might paralyse me: I simply couldn’t haul myself out of bed. Today I’ve not been at work and have had a day more like that first week; yoga, the gym, time to myself. Again the lifting of any serious responsibility or decision-making is a significant thing. Even the smallest issue where someone else might judge me or have their own opinion is a challenge at the moment. I find it hard to think clearly, and just want to retreat into watching a film, where I can lose myself and shut out the world.

A first step?

But that’s no long-term solution, so I’ve booked a first session with a new counselling service next week. I honestly can’t easily rationalise what’s behind my symptoms; there’s so many potential factors, from work to family, my own health, my Dad’s death, Rachel’s mum… so hopefully they might nudge me into some clarity. And maybe my serotonin levels will start to rebalance soon. Fingers crossed.

 

 

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It’s OK not to be OK…

When I first started writing What I Reckon, I didn’t want it to be a grown-up version of a teenage diary. You see, I’ve written one of those before, and it lasted into my 20s. In recent years my time has been more pressured and my posts less frequent but more reflective of challenging circumstances: the bleeding-heart liberal remembering that not everyone is like him, that he, his friends and his parents are decidedly mortal, that shit happens.

And yet I’m writing now because I’m not just angsty, or Moody, or ranty.

I’m depressed.

I have a doctor’s note and a prescription and everything. I was diagnosed yesterday by my GP with the use of a simple self-assessment questionnaire.

Answers on the right-hand side of the grid probably mean you should talk to someone…

7 out of 9 of my responses were in the shaded boxes. 3 were in ‘nearly every day’. In case you’re interested, my scores were 2,2,3,2,2,3,3,1,0.

 

A heart that’s full up like a landfill…

Unlike a pulled muscle, I can’t pinpoint which straw broke the camel’s back. When did I tip from tired into empty, from merely stressed into actually depressed? Perhaps like the frog in a pan of water, it crept up on me. But this has been coming: an ex-boss described 2015 as my annus horribilis but, to be honest, 2016 and 2017 haven’t been a walk in the park. I know my Dad’s passing is a significant part of this, but it’s definitely not the whole story.

 

…but now these days are gone, I’m not so self-assured…

The net result of this has been a huge slump in confidence. I don’t think I’m very good; at my job, at being a Dad, or a Husband or a Son or a Brother.  I’m afraid that I’ll make mistakes, or just not help. I’ve wanted to avoid people, because I don’t want to have to tell the truth when they ask “how’s things?”. I avoided cycling on several occasions precisely because I thought I’d be ‘worse’ than I was in the Spring, and look! I was right!

And I’ve wondered if I’ll ever be good again.

And this feeling comes and goes. Last Thursday it swept over me in a wave just by getting Help! coming over on bloody Spotify shuffle while I was walking to work, and left me struggling all day. It was triggered a couple of weekends ago by seeing my Dad’s greenhouse and veg beds empty and bare, when at this time of year they should be groaning with produce. I get a kick whenever I say “Mum and Dad’s house” like I have done for decades and then realise it’s not, not any more.

 

I’m surprised you’ve been doing so well for so long…

Several people have said this in the last couple of weeks, and I want to believe them. Part of the problem at the moment is that I know what people say makes sense, I think it’s true, but I don’t get the emotional kick that tells me I believe it. It’s as though they’re speaking about someone else. I’m pleased that ‘Chris’ (if that’s who you’re referring to) is good at his job, or is a good son helping his Mum, but that’s not how I feel.

 

It will be all right in the end. If it’s not all right, it’s not the end…

My colleagues have been fantastic, despite my ongoing fear that I might now be tainted goods, fragile, vulnerable. It was my boss who reminded me of our company’s policy with Lifeworks. A short confidential call with them put me in touch with a counsellor who, last Friday evening, suggested I should speak to a GP. So now I’m signed off work for a fortnight, with a week’s holiday to follow.

I’m hoping to make this time as positive and proactive as I can: exercise, fresh air, time doing nothing. I’m taking medication to help rebalance my chemicals and boost serotonin. I’m expecting to be taking these for at least a few months.

#WorldMentalHealthDay

When I started writing this post, I was hesitant: why write this at all? But then I learned that today, 10th October, is World Mental Health Day, and reminded myself that talking is important. So I’m going to hashtag the sh*t out of this.

It is ok not to be ok.

This is far more common than we think. My elder child has had mental health issues, some (but by no means all) linked to having Aspergers-Autism: these have included self-harm. My wife had post-natal depression that rendered her convinced she was a terrible mother and afraid to leave the house.

Please be kind to yourself and each other.

 

 

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