Me versus the Depression

For a long time I thought the depression was going to win and here's the thing:  when you are depressed you always think the depression is going to win.  But here's the other thing:  it doesn't if you keep fighting.

When I was first diagnosed I wanted to know when I would get better, how long is the recovery period?  Like when I broke my ankle, I knew I would be in a cast for 3 weeks, then physio for 6 weeks and then I would be almost good as new.  For the most part, this was true, give or take a few weeks.

With depression, there is no defined recovery period.  I have seen people bounce back after a 3 month dose of citrolapram and never look back.  I've seen people who have fought all their lives against this insidious illness.

In the early days, my psychiatrist assured me I would get better.  I asked him how long that would take.  He said something vague like "a while".  When I pressed him for something more concrete, he was unable to provide any time frames.  At the time I thought he must not be very good at his job.  But now I can see that there really isn't any way to predict recovery.

The effectiveness of medication changes over time.  The effectiveness of therapy is wildly variable.  What happens in life is outside a clinical study and therefore cannot be factored into a recovery timetable.  In other words, you just have to ride it out and have faith that eventually you will get better.

But if you think that getting better means going back to the same person you were before you were ill, you are in for a big surprise.  You never come out of depression the same person you were going in.  Many of the behaviours and thoughts you had before were the very things making you ill.  It's like drinking poison, recovering, and expecting to stay better but going back to drinking the poison.

Everyone comes out of depression fundamentally different than when they went in.  Same as when cancer survivors come through but their lives are fundamentally changed thereafter.

Here are some of the things that have helped me recover to the point where I am today:

1. Take the prescribed medication as and when your psychiatrist prescribed it.  Don't mess with that.  If you think you might be ready to make a change, discuss these with your psychiatrist and agree a plan.  Follow that plan to the letter.  Trust me.  I once took myself off my meds because I thought they were making me worse.  That was simply put, one of the worst decisions I have ever made in my life and probably set my recovery back a year, perhaps more.
2. Get a tribe.  You will need to be surrounded with people who get you and get your disease.  You will need people who will allow you the freedom to discover a new you.  You will need people who will love you unconditionally.  You will need people who will come to you even when you tell them to go away.  This tribe will consist of some old friends and some new friends.  Family may not or may not be included.  My children get it better than my husband does.  Maybe that's because children generally get unconditional love better than adults.  I have lost a few people I thought were my friends along the way but I have more than gained in the overall friendship sweepstakes.  Ask that tribe for help when you can.  Give back to that tribe.  They are invaluable and deserve your investment.
3. Find contentment in the present moment.  Don't strive for happiness.  It is fleeting and impossible to sustain.  Instead be at peace with what is happening, good or bad, in the present, right here, right now.  When the shit hits the fan, feel free to duck and cover but be at peace with the exercise.  Know that this too will pass.
4. Invest in yourself.  Increase your self awareness.  Change your habits if you don't like them or just accept them as part of your rich tapestry as a human being.  Be as kind to yourself as you are to others.  Forgive yourself and those around you.  Embrace yourself as a totally unique individual that has limitless potential.  Sounds new agey and hippy groovy, but when you stop having expectations and judgements of yourself and others, you will start to feel contentment in the moment.  Avoid drama.  Not your monkeys, not your circus.
5. Breathe.  When all else fails, breathe.  I know this sounds stupid and I've lost count of the number of times I've rolled my eyes when someone tells me this.  But it works.  When you think you can't face another moment, stop.  Stop thinking.  Stop moving.  Just stop everything.  And breathe.  In slowly.  Out slowly.  And again.  All day if you have to. 

I am certain my journey has not ended.  The shower (& bath) proves to be an ongoing nemesis.  I find contentment when once in I'm there but getting there is a major struggle every day. So I've changed what it means to be ready to face they day.  That may or may not include, as is more often the case, a clean and fresh smelling me.  My tribe loves me regardless.  Social situations are challenging but I am taking them one at a time and engaging more often than not these days.

But the proof is in the results.

1. I am writing again!  This is the biggest achievement so far.  I abandoned my first novel as it had me in knots.  I started a whole new one that had been assembling itself in my brain for a few years and in just 10 days over 110,000 words came out of my head through my fingers and hit the keyboard.  I hit save.  I'm actively sending it out to potential agents every day and have some interest.
2. My life modelling becomes a bigger and bigger part of my life.  I model nearly every week at least once and most weeks more than 3 times.  It helps me to be still, physically literally and mentally in practise.  I use the time for positive affirmations, meditating, and breathing.  It also helps me to accept the beauty (both inside and out) of who and what I am in that moment.  I can't envision how I would have recovered without it.
3. I don't listen to others thoughts on how or what I should or should not be doing unless they are part of my tribe.  Even those in my tribe, know that whilst I may take their advice under consideration, I am free to choose what I feel is best for me.  And they love me still.

Near as I can tell I am winning, 1-0.

 

A Work of Art

Since dipping my toe in the water of life modelling back in October 2012, I think it would be fair to say that I have whole heatedly embraced it as a career.

I am now modelling several times a week most weeks.  A few weeks ago I modelled 7 days in a row and some days had 2 assignments per day.  Those days I am exhausted and by the end of that week my body ached.

You may ask yourself what is so hard about sitting still for 3 hours.  I dare you to try it and not be sore.

Some weeks I have no gigs scheduled, like last week.  That give me some time to rest and recuperate.

I have some regular groups that I model for and some people have been drawing me for years now.  Others are thrilled to the first time to discover that I am a curvy model who is proud of her bulges and scars and stretch marks.

The artists are very complimentary of my ability to sit perfectly still for long periods of time.  One once accused me of not breathing or blinking.  Rest assured.  I am breathing.  And I think I blink.  They also often ask me what I think about when I sit there.  To be honest, I'm not sure.

Most times I think of nothing.  Nothing at all.  What a glorious feeling it is not to be worrying about something or someone, or making a grocery list, or remembering a phone call I need to make or an email I need to write, or tidying the house, or unloading the dishwasher, or nagging the children to do their musical instrument practise or my husband to clean out the garage (ahem!).

Modelling is the time where I allow myself to simply be.  To be still and quiet while having your body turned into glorious pieces of artwork that is as unique and beautiful as each artist is an inspiring opportunity.  They all see me differently.  They all have different abilities and tools.  They all produce art in their own individual styles.

I'm proud of my work as a life model.  You should try it!  If you want an opportunity, just leave me a comment.

A Week in Cornwall

A week in Cornwall can work miracles, at least that is how it appears to me.

As many of you will know, I have been suffering from the debilitating effects of depression and anxiety for several years now.  I have been hospitalised on 3 different occasions.  I take no less than 13 pills every single day to keep the chemicals in my brain finely balanced.

The good news is, they appear to be working finally.

I remember when this all started asking my psychiatrist how long it would be until I was better.  He said "A long time."  I thought he meant 6 months, maybe a year on the outside.  I had no idea that it would take several years and several tweaks of the medication, several more years of psychotherapy, and even more time just trying to overcome the demons that ranted inside my head.

For now, the demons are quiet.  They aren't completely silent.  I can tell when I've missed taking my medication.  So can my friends and family.  I leave the house regularly now without the pit of dread tightening in my stomach.  I still find social situations uncomfortable which is annoying because that isn't how I see myself or how I used to be.  

But the demons have reduced their screeching to a mere whisper.  And some days, I don't hear them at all.

In mid-February, a very generous friend offered us the use of their seaside cottage down in St Ives in that gorgeous southwest corner of England known as Cornwall.  The cottage is absolutely delightful and exceeded every one of our expectations.  We took my daughter's best friend and her mother with us.  It was an eventful few days to say the least.

On the first day we were there, our one-year-old black Labrador puppy, Guinness, decided to take a flying leap (literally) off a sea wall.  I have that moment of her suspended in midair between her jumping and her falling etched into my mind's eye.  She looks like a cartoon.  She fell 30 feet to the rocks and grass below.  I ran to see her landing on her rear haunches, yelp, and try to stand.  She struggled and whimpered.

My husband managed to get down to her.  He tried to get her to walk but it was clear she was hurting and had a minor cut on her knee.  She was shaking and her heart was racing.  She was going into shock.  My husband carried her down the hill and went to get the car.  We raced to the vet.

Fortunately, after several hours at the vets on a fluid drip, antibiotics, opiates, and tranquilisers, she made a full recovery and was just sore for a couple days.  Talk about stressful!

The next night we were informed that a combination of spring tides (when the tides are at their highest) and rough seas caused by the gale winds and torrential overnight rains would mean that the sea was likely to breach the seawall at the harbour in St Ives.  Our cottage was perfectly placed just a few doors up from the seawall at the harbour which was a great location until that warning was issued.  

Every few hours we made our way the few steps down the street to evaluate the threat.  It was exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure as the waves crashed over the wall and into the buildings on the seafront.   In the end, this also passed without any real danger posed to man or beast.

We spent the days walking on the beaches (there are no fewer than 5 beaches around St Ives) and walking around the town exploring galleries and art museums and used book stores and odd little shops.  We ate out.  We cooked in.  I even got breakfast in bed one morning delivered by my daughter and her friend.  What a treat!

I was surrounded by positivity and tranquillity on the trip. When I returned home I felt as if a fog had lifted.  I started writing.  At first it was just in my head.  A story had taken hold of me and was busy organising itself.  Then 2 weeks ago it felt like the harbour wall had collapsed and the sea of words was rushing to get out.

I sat at my computer every day, some days for more than 14 hours.  I managed to write over 110,000 in 10 days.  It was emotional.  One day I started crying about 5 pm and kept crying through the night until about noon the next day.  The tears lasted on and off until I was finally able to finish that chapter.

The book, All My Loves, is about a woman dying of a brain tumour.  She is in the hospital and in the final stages of dying.  She is revisited by the memories of the men she loved and those who loved her.  Some are good memories.  Some are excruciatingly painful memories.  Same are hilarious.  Woven into the story is also the love of her parents as they divorce and remarry, and the love of her grandmother towards her alcoholic husband who died with their youngest son in a drunken car crash.  It is about how love changes us, not always for the better.  It's a little bit saucy.  What book about love could possibly avoid sex?  It's sad but it is also hopeful, I think.

I am now in the editing phase.  I have edited the first three chapters with the help of a very dear friend of mine who is labouring away on the next 8 chapters.  The editing was more difficult than the writing.  Who would have guessed?

I am now looking for a literary agent.  I have someone who has expressed a possible interest which is very exciting but I'm not counting my chickens until a contract is on the table.

The road to publication is long and winding.  But the words are still flowing out of me.  So, I am back to blogging.  I also have an illustrated children's book that I completed a few years back with a very dear friend who did wonderful illustrations for me.  I've got to get that all gathered up and repeat the agent process for it.  I have several more ideas for novels inside my head.  I need to let those organise themselves but one is already starting to take form.  I might be back burning the midnight oil when that comes out of me.  Finally, I've got the novel I started before my depression took over my life.  I want to go back to it and see if I can do anything with it.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy my musings.

The A-Z of I Dislike.......

The A-Z of I Dislike

(Hate is too strong of a word)

I dislike………assholes, anxiety, Alzheimers, acne

I dislike………brussel sprouts, boasting, bullies, bills, basketball

I dislike………cancer, chauvinism

I dislike………dishonesty, depression

I dislike………emptiness, estrangement, extremists

I dislike………flies, falling, failing, fanatics, falsehood, farewells, frauds, football

I dislike………gerbils, greed, grief, genocide, gossip, guns

I dislike………haters, homophobia, homelessness, hamsters, hangovers, hypocrisy

I dislike………inequality, ignorance, intolerance, imbeciles, idiots

I dislike………jellyfish, jargon, jaundice, jealousy, jingoism, judgement

I dislike………knots, kidnappers

I dislike………lies, loss, loneliness

I dislike………misery, materialism, miscarriages, menopause, mortgage

I dislike………nausea, nightmares, necromancy

I dislike………ostentation, obstinacy, odium

I dislike………peas, pain, pretension, prejudice. Paranoia, parting, puberty, poverty

I dislike………quarrels, quitters

I dislike………racism, rapacity, rain, riots, rudeness

I dislike………snakes, spiders, strife, starvation, suffering, sorrow, sadness

I dislike………tardiness, tempers, tantrums, torture

I dislike………umbrage, unemployment

I dislike………vulgarity, vampires, villains, vivisection

I dislike………war, wastefulness, weapons

I dislike………xenophobia

I dislike………yobs

I dislike………zoos, zeros

The A-Z of I Love......

The A-Z of I Love.....

I love……….art, authors, Almond Roca, air, adrenalin, adventures, allotments

I love……….books, beaches, breathing, balloons, butterflies, blizzards, breakfast in bed, baseball, buxom bosoms

I love……….coffee, cats, camping, chimpanzees, chile rellenos, my children, Creed, curiosity, cake, cellos, cowboys, candles

I love……….dolphins, doctors, diamonds, daisies, Degas, diversity

I love……….elephants, electricity, eggs, entymology, excitement, equality, elastic

I love……….friends, fudge, Facebook, feathers, firefighters, fjords, fountain pens, feminism, feasts

I love……….giraffes, gardens, gowns, gallantry, our galaxy, gargoyles, gin, grace, giving

I love……….my husband, history, hot tubs, herbs, handwriting, honour, hammocks

I love……….Cherry Garcia ice cream, intelligence

I love……….jasmine, jugglers, jazz, jewellery, journals, justice, jumpers

I love……….knitting, kissing, kedgeree, kites, kudos, The Kite Runner, Kylie

I love……….lemons, laughter, Labradors, life modelling, lobster, letters, lilacs, levi 501s

I love……….the moon, Mexico, Matisse, Maroon 5, massages, mani/pedis, memories

I love……….neighbours, nachos, my nose, newborn babies, New York Times (Sunday edition)

I love……….oceans, orangutans, opera, owls, opportunity, One Direction

I love……….poker, the planets, Pinterest, pomegranates, platinum, pumpkin pie, Pimms, peace

I love……….quilting, quiet, quays

I love……….reading, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, rainbows, raffles, rapture, rodeos, The Ramones, reunions

I love……….snow, sunshine, scientists, my sister, slippers, silence, singing, stationary, serenity, satisfaction, Scotland, soldiers, stars, sex

I love……….telephones, toffee, trees, tea, tambourines, theatre, thimbles, thoroughbreds, thunder, Twitter, Taylor Swift, travel

I love……….unicorns, the universe, udders, ukeleles

I love……….volunteers, vacations, valentines, vaccinations, valet parking

I love……….whipped cream, writing, wind, waves, white burgundy wine, wonder, wisteria

I love……….x-rays, xylophones

I love……….yachts, yellow

I love……….zebras, zygotes

The A-Z of I Am.......

I am………..Amazing, Authentic, Awesome, Articulate, Anxious

I am………..Beautiful, Brilliant, Bewitching, Bodacious, Bookish

I am………..Cute, Clever, Considerate, Careful, Curvaceous, Creative, Curious

I am………..Dedicated, Diligent, Delicate

I am………..Elegant, Extravagant, Economical, Enthusiastic, Energetic, Eloquent

I am………..Fun, Funny, Fair, Friendly, Fabulous, Forgiving

I am………..Graceful, Grateful, Gracious, Glorious, Gentle, Genuine, Generous

I am………..Honest, Honourable, Handy, Happy, Helpful, Hilarious, Hopeful

I am………..Incredible, Imaginative, Idiomatic, Impressive, Inquisitive

I am………..Joyful, Joyous, Jaunty, Judicious

I am………..Kind, Knowledgeable

I am………..Loyal, Loving, Limber, Liberal, Lively, Luscious

I am………..Magnificent, Merciful, Mischievous

I am………..Nice, Neat, Nurturing, Nervous

I am………..Organised, Original

I am………..Polite, Prudent, Peaceful, Passionate, Pensive, Patient, Paranoid

I am………..Quick, Questioning

I am………..Resourceful, Reasonable, Remarkable, Resolute, Responsible

I am………..Successful, Supple, Super, Sensitive, Sentimental, Suspicious

I am………..Thrilling, Talented, Terrific, Thoughtful, Trusting

I am………..Unconventional, Unique, Understanding, Unpretentious, Useful

I am………..Visionary, Vibrant, Victorious, Vivacious

I am………..Wise, Warm, Welcoming, Wonderful, Worthy

I am………..not Xenophobic

I am………..Youthful

I am………..Zany, Zealous

Please Write

I didn’t send Christmas cards this year.  There.  I’ve said it.

Normally, I send well over 300 cards to just about every corner of the globe.  It costs us a small fortune in postage and is a huge effort.  Every year I struggle to get Marc and the children to sign them and very rarely do I manage to get them all done in time to get them to their final destination before the big day.

I don’t mind the cost.  Or the effort.  I don’t even mind that I receive less than 50% of that number back.  I am happy just knowing that I reached out and said hello.

But this year I wanted to do something more than just say hello.  This year I wanted to reward and recognise the effort that those of you made when they sent us a card/letter.

Since I usually manage little more than a scribbled, illegible note and our signatures, I have vowed to send a handwritten, personal, old fashioned letter to everyone who sent a holiday greeting card to our family.

My Grandmother was a great letter writer.  In fact, the entire family regarded her letters as an informal family newsletter.  She kept everyone up to date on what was happening with everyone else.  When my Grandmother died, I found great comfort in discovering the stacks of letters that had been written to her in response to letters she had written.  But most comforting (and painful in equal measure) were the stack of letters that I found I had written to her over the years.  Most of them span the timeframe from when I left university and moved abroad. 

The changes I underwent as I faced the challenges ahead of me make for some hilarious and some excruciating reading.  But then I brought those letters home and matched them up to the letters she wrote back to me.  Every single week.

They are an invaluable collection of advice and guidance given and taken.  They are filled with comfort and encouragement.  They are full of the tidbits of our lives as they were and reflect our growth.  They are the perfect picture of her and me.  They are my most valuable possession.

In that spirit, I embark on sending a proper letter complete with illegible handwriting and mundane details of the weather.  But also, I hope, a little bit of me and my family; a little bit of what happened and what lies ahead.  You will receive one of these letters if we received a card from you.  And if you failed to send a card, don’t worry.  I promise to reply back with a handwritten letter to every hand written letter we receive.

Facebook, tweets, emails and ecards don’t count.  Whilst I am a big fan of electronic communication tools, in fact I would be lost without them, I still believe in the pen and paper.  There will come a time when I will leave this world, much later than today one hopes.  When that time comes, it will prove next to impossible to recover the emails and ecards sent to me.  I doubt that anyone will even bother.  These digital records of our relationships will be lost along with our heartbeat.

But a soul lives on in the letters we write and send on paper.  They are tangible.  They are real.  You can take them with you on the long journey of life.  And I hope you do.

On my darkest days, and I have more than I would like to count, I reach into the box that contains my Grandmother’s letters, the cards from my mom and dad, my sister, my friends.  It is the ones that tell me what they have been doing and what they want for me that lift me up and help me to take the steps I need to continue to move forward.  Without these letters/cards I dread to think what would happen to me.

Please write.

Rough Music by Patrick Gale

My reading is far outpacing my writing and posting of reviews on this blog.  I refuse to apologise.  But I absolve to correct this imbalance of priorities and set myself the task of catching up.  No promises though!

Patrick Gale is quite simply one of my favourite authors.  I love everything he writes so it will come as no surprise when I tell you that I loved this novel.  I loved the way I got sucked into the idyllic setting and the idea of a perfect, happy childhood.  I was sucked into believing everything the characters believed.

Mr Gale writes clear exquisite detail without losing his readers in long wandering, aimless paragraphs of prose when your eyes glaze over.  Instead he skips the through his plots and before you know it you are fully engaged in the outcome.

Will invites his parents to join him on a beach holiday not realising that he is about to step into a hornet's nest of powerful memories.  His mother suffers dementia.  Will is having an affair with his brother-in-law which he has tried and failed to end.  This could so easily have become all a bit of a soap opera as we travel back and forth in time to Julian's (Will's childhood name) messy childhood and Will's messier adulthood.

But it doesn't become melodramatic in the least.  Instead the story reminds us that we all have a bit of a mess inside of us and lived messy lives at various times.

Julian (aka Will), as a character, is not all that easy to like.  I never quite trust people who tell me they had a perfect childhood and have a perfect life.  I suspected all along that the reality would be revealed in time.

I was mildly annoyed with the stereotypical representation of Americans but I let that wash over me.

I highly recommend reading this book and gave it a 4 out of 5 stars on Goodreads.

A Million Shades

The day begins one eye at a time.  

First I check the time.  Have I slept too much?  Too little?  Too late?  Do I care?

Then I check the weather.  Do I need to turn on my lumi light?  Will it make a damn bit of differene?  Will this rain ever stop?  Do I really need to turn on the heating in June?  The sun is shining so I am going to need to come up with a bloody good excuse to not go for a walk.

Finally, I ask myself the dreaded question:  HOW DO I FEEL TODAY?

Am I "fine"?  Unlikely.  In fact, I'm not entirely certain I remember what fine feels like.

Am I "shitty"?  Quite possibly but perhaps a wholly inappropriate response to a socially conventional question unless my desired outcome is to alienate those who care for and love me.

The trouble begins in the million shades of grey between "fine" and "shitty".

I close my eyes again wishing that everything was different.  Wishing that my battle with the darkness had never begun.  Wishing the war was won and that I had conquered that foreign land forever more.  A conventional happy ending.

Alas, I return to the fight everyday, sometimes donning my mask of armour to face the ignorance and cruelty of others and sometimes just my own anxieties.

Other times I can't bear putting on the armour and I remain metaphorically naked for the day unable to leave the security of my home or my head spending my times wandering around the rooms and wondering where the time  when I'm absent.

My armour is honestly a lousy garment for protection.  It doesn't stop my own thoughts from hurting me.  I recall the days when I felt invincible, strong, and happy; when I felt the future held such promise.  I didn't dread the sun rising.

Now I refuse to think about the future because it frightens the shit out of me.  I can't plan a party.  Or a holiday.  I can't plan what's for dinner.

For me, the future is dark.  The future is frightening and I start cowering in the corners of the day when I first open my eyes.  Every day.

Does writing about my depression help me?

No.  Or at least, it doesn't feel like it does.

So, why do I do it?

Partly because I always write, if not on paper, then in my head.

Mostly, I do it for my friends and my family.  I do it to help them understand the torment inside my head.  Somehow it comes out better in words I write than when I speak.  Speaking is difficult.  I get lost in my thoughts and my words become all jumbled.  And sometimes when I get frustrated trying to express myself I start to stutter.  Then I get anxious and here we go on a downward spiral.

When I write it is all just a bit easier to make sense of it.  No one is looking at me.  No one is nodding their head.  No one is finishing my sentences for me.  No one is interrupting.

I also do it for others who know someone afflicted with this horrible illness.  Maybe if they read what I've written, it will give a tiny little insight into our spectrum of darkness.

Finally, I suppose I write it in the hope that it reaches out and touches someone who is struggling today and helps them take one step towards the light. 

Not Good Enough

The greatest gift my depressive illness has given me is that I don't really care what other people think of me so much any more.

I used to want to fit in so much.  I wanted to be liked by everybody, to be friends with everyone, be invited to all the dinner parties, coffee mornings, and after-work drinks.  The fact is I wasn't.  And I didn't fit in.

Maybe it was because I didn't have enough money to go on the spur of the moment girlie weekend trips to the spas or far flung trendy beaches.  Maybe it was because my body was too big and just doesn't look great in the trendy designer fashion (as if I could even afford that).  Maybe my sense of humour is a bit quirky.  Probably it's because when I get a few too many drinks in me I can be a bit loud. Even sober I can be a bit loud.

Don't get me wrong:  I have many, many friends who love me more than their luggage just the way I am.  But my mind always focuses on those few unfortunates that just didn't quite get me.  Then the paranoia sets in. The ones who don't quite get me are trying to convince those that did to not get me anymore when I reality if they ever did discuss me, my friends would have told them to fuck off.

In my mind I feel I am just simply not good enough.  I grew up thinking I wasn't good enough.  I've had a series of setbacks that told me I wasn't good enough.  It doesn't matter how many times I've been told that I am amazing, outstanding, interesting, extraordinary individual with a limitless capacity for compassion and generosity.  All of those fade into the background over the shouting of "not good enough".

In my depression, I cling to that like a self fulfilling prophecy.  I have every reasonable excuse to never ever be good enough again.

But if I focus on just this very moment, right now, and not a moment longer, I am good enough to write this and hope someone finds that they were good enough to read it and it helped.

Better than the Day Before

Yesterday I was better than the day before or the day before that but today I feel worse than I was yesterday.  And that's the only way to really measure any progress.  Or lack thereof.  One day at a time.

Yesterday morning I actually cared about whether the sun was shining.  I noticed the pretty flowers around the clinic grounds.  I moved to a new room which is very quiet with a wonderful view and lots of space.  I started to make eye contact with the other patients and learn their names.  Haven't really had the courage to say anything to them but I am starting to feeling a little less invisible.

I have slept well the last couple nights, in comparison to the first couple nights.  I can tell that I toss and turn because the sheet will be all bunched up and nearly off the bed.  The duvet was on the floor when I woke up this morning.  

But the last couple nights I didn't wake up even when the nurse delivered my early morning coffee.  I can't recall any of my dreams and I certainly don't remember screaming out at the various baddies that used to try to choke and smother me at night.

Last night I took a new drug to help with my fear and anxiety which lies at the root of my depression.  Ever since July 2011, I have been afraid of everything:  driving the car, leaving the house, attending social gatherings, cooking a meal, finding a new job, speaking to strangers, answering the phone, going to the supermarket, opening the post.  Everything.  Some rational.  Some completely irrational.  The point is one cannot avoid falling into depression when one is constantly in a heightened sense of fright of life itself.

Even here in the clinic I am afraid.  I am afraid I am more crazy than everyone else.  I am afraid that I will never recover.  I am afraid everyone is staring at me.  I am afraid I do the meditation wrong.  I am afraid that I don't say enough or that I say too much.  I am afraid that I think all wrong and that I will never have the right thoughts.  Or that I don't smile.  Or that I do.

To keep my adrenalin under control I take a drug 3 times a day which does a pretty good job keeping my anxiety from grabbing hold of me.  When my fear and anxiety begins to win against that particular medication, I take a little bit of a half a tranquiliser and I can usually muddle my way through.  Rarely, however, does one enjoy muddling through.

 

I spoke to my psychiatrist about this fear and constant anxiety.  He recommended a drug called Olanzapine. He said it was good for treating fear and anxiety and he would start with a very small dosage twice a day.  I thought, "Cool. why haven't they given this to me before?"

Within 20 minutes of taking this drug, I thought I was losing my mind.  My limbs, legs and particularly my right arm, began to move uncontrollably, like restless limb syndrome.  My balance was off.  I felt like I was on a rolling ship at sea in a huge storm.  I bumped into walls trying to get downstairs to get some help.  I was dizzy and kept thinking I was going to black out.  I was agitated and highly paranoid.  I was more afraid than I've ever been.

The nurses were cold comfort telling me that since I had already taken the pill, there was little more they could do.  I just had to ride out the storm.  They offered to have someone sit with me.  Well, what kind of help is that?

In the end, I fell into bed and fell into a very restless sleep very early in the evening.  I woke up confused several times during the night.  I reported this to my nurses this morning who assured me that when they looked in on me I appeared to be sleeping soundly.  Well, that's ok then, isn't it?  I was so out of it last night that I didn't even get my sleeping meds which I am sure made my situation even worse.

Today I await the visit from my psychiatrist for Plan B, or rather, Plan G.  None of these plans seems to be working.  I am angry.  I am frightened.  I feel so alone.

I have more voice mails, texts, phone calls, Facebook messages, tweets and visits from my army of friends than I can respond to.  It is genuinely a pity that depression strikes even those who are loved so very much.  If love could cure depression I wouldn't be paralysed with this fear, this anxiety and this sheer and absolute darkness.  Please don't be upset if I haven't replied.  Please don't think I don't love you.  Please know your message meant a lot to me and sometimes I just can't cope with the world right now.

I want it to get better but on days like today it doesn't seem like it ever will.

Invisibility

Thursday was the school's performance of Oliver.  This was the same day I was admitted to the clinic.  I had spent most, if not all, of the day in tears.  Not for any good reason only that mostly I just wanted to die and couldn't.

My son had a role in the chorus so it wasn't like I was going to be missing his lead performance.  But for him, being in the chorus was a big deal.  It was one of those moment that I looked into the future and could see him telling his therapist in 20 years time how his mother was so ill with depression all the time that she couldn't even come see his breakthrough stage performance.

Suitably tranquilised and against doctor's orders, I made my way to the theatre.  My daughter had planned her own special little party.  Laden with a vast quantity of sweets with her best friend in the seat next to her, we all sat down and watched the tremendous performance unfold before us.

The interval was excruciating.  When one is depressed, one wants nothing more than to be invisible.  I didn't have the energy, the courage, or the desire to talk to any one, even the people who love me more than their luggage.  Luckily, those people understood that.  I was given some soul engaging hugs and hand squeezes.  I was given encouraging winks and nods.  My efforts to keep my head down and my gaze averted did draw numerous stares but those seemed to unsettle my husband more than me.  You can't see what you can't see.

Back in the clinic, my night's sleep was interrupted continuously with nightmares of people crushing me, sitting on me, pushing me, suffocating me.  I yelled out numerous time.  By 5 am I had given up on the idea of restful sleep and started the morning off with a good long cry.

I've managed a shower today.  I managed to go to the art class.  I have eaten all three meals today.

My back pain is being alleviated by anti inflammatory and pain meds.  My whole body itches and I keep scratching until I bleed.  This is probably anxiety related.  The anti depressants haven't kicked in yet but they will soon.  I hope.

What I can tell you is that the outpouring of support and love is overwhelming.  Don't take this the wrong way and sufferers of mental illness will understand, it doesn't really help but it is nice to have.  I really appreciate the flowers, the chocolate, the biscuits, the STRAWBERRY shower gel, and the words of encouragement and motivation.  I am most grateful for the unconditional love.  Thank you.  You know who you are.  xxxx

Hello, Darkness, my old friend.

The Seat Beside Me

Depression is always sitting in the seat just beside me.  I’m told it won’t always but here I am, nearly 2 years after my first depressive episode and the darkness is always chasing me, gaining on me, trying to push me off my seat.   I ran out of breath running from it and a few weeks ago it started to win.

Some days I can’t run quickly enough to get away from it.  It tends to be the days I don’t get out of the starting gate straight away.  Those are the days when I find that I've not showered or accomplished anything beyond getting out of my bed and yet it is time to do the school run to pick up my daughter at the end of the day.

Of course, some days are better than those days when I couldn't manage to even get out of bed.  But these days aren't nearly on par with those days when I used to go mach 10 with my hair on fire.  Neither extreme is particularly healthy.

It was 30 years of those mach 10 days that knocked me down into my hole.  That’s not entirely accurate.  It was 10 years of doing mach 10 and being metaphorically smacked down daily for doing mach 10 that caused me to trip.  And fall.

I’d gotten myself back upright and standing.  But beyond standing, I rarely manage more than a couple steps forward before the doubt and fear sets in and I sit back down before I fall down again.

I’ve got myself surrounded by people, supremely qualified mental health professionals, a loving family, and an army of generous and kind friends, who help keep me out of the darkness.  They listen.  They hug.  They encourage.  They medicate.

But much of my day depends on me.  And therein lies the trouble.  I am fearful of the depression.  I can’t remember a day when I didn't think about it.  It is always sitting in the seat just beside me.  I can feel it's cold hand and searing heart.  Everywhere I go even when I stay put. 

I miss the old me.  The miss the sharpness of my mind, the ability to gather tremendous data and make sense of it all so I could define a clear course of action.  Now I listen to instructions and get lost in the words.  I make mistakes.  I stammer.   My brain stutters.  I live in a constant fog.

I can’t plan meals.  I can’t help my children with their homework.  I can’t explain to my husband why I get things wrong all the time.  I can’t describe to anyone why I can’t get a job.  My friends want to help but I don't know how to ask for what.

A few weeks ago, as an act of desperation, I took myself off of all my medication.  I knew we couldn't afford the annual prescription fee and I thought that my cocktail of daily pills was responsible for making my head feel confused.  I wanted to help my family out of the financial hole we are in.  I thought if I could get back to the old me I could help.

It shouldn't come as a surprise to those who suffer from this debilitating illness that this didn’t work.

Instead I am in the pit of darkness from which there feels there is no escape.  I have precisely 4 days of private medical care left before the policy expires and we can’t afford to buy more.  I will then be in the hands of the NHS and we know how that it likely to end.

My husband is now left angry and disappointed and betrayed.  My children are left frightened and anxious.  My friends are befuddled and helpless.  And I sit in the darkness wishing it would all end whilst depression has decided to sit in my lap.  Again.

A Call to Life Model in Edinburgh

Edinburgh residents (and beyond) are being given the opportunity (and encouragement) to try life modelling! Multi-life modelling organisation, Spirited Bodies, will hold an extravaganza at The Arts Complex on Saturday 21^st September 2013 from 11am to 5pm. Spirited Bodies are looking for about 40 models who will each pose for a couple of hours, most of them for the 1^st time.

Life models are one of the best means by which artists learn how to draw; the human body providing the ultimate complexity as well as being alive and energetic. Experienced artists keep in practise by drawing life models regularly. Usually a life model poses alone, sometimes with another model; however at this Spirited Bodies event models will pose in a group of up to 20. Some poses are timed with longer poses offering plenty of stretch breaks; others are freestyle, with models choosing for themselves when to change pose.  

Spirited Bodies have done 12 events so far, all of which have taken place in London. This is their first venture beyond! They are extremely excited to be invited to Edinburgh by Ragged University. As well as the main event, a run up of preparation events during a visit in late July and just before the September date are being scheduled. A presentation of what Spirited Bodies does will take place on Tuesday July 23^rd at 7pm (venue tbc), and a life modelling and drawing workshop will take place at The Arts Complex on Thursday 25^th July (Room 518), 7 – 9pm. All events are free and women-only meet ups (just to ask questions and discuss the life modelling) as well as practical workshops will be available (please ask).

Artwork and photographs from a similar event last year at Battersea Arts Centre can be seen here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/londondrawing/sets/72157629301000801/

It should be noted that photographs of models are never taken at workshops, and at events it is only with models’ consent.

People come to model with Spirited Bodies to experience being nude with others in a relaxed but ritualised environment, for the creation of art. They want to embrace their own nudity, face body issues and feel the warmth of human bonding in a way our society rarely offers; to be seen as a work of art and have the opportunity to express oneself in moments of silence and stillness.

From overcoming eating disorders, celebrating the joy of losing weight, adapting to a post-teenage body, rehabilitating after illness, addressing ageist stereotypes, rediscovering one's beauty post-divorce and making new friends to being a part in the process of creating art - Spirited Bodies offers something for everyone.

Models aged 18 upwards are accepted, from all backgrounds and ethnicities, and differently-abled people are welcome. No previous experience or skills are necessary. Life drawing shows well how beauty is in the diversity of the human form. Spirited Bodies is a powerful antidote to the familiar bombardment of media doctored images, by bringing real people to the fore. Led by 4 professional life models Spirited Bodies offers preparation workshops where participants are guided through a series of short poses (up to 15 minutes), and pose with one or two other models. Posing technique is discussed in a more informal setting than the actual event, and posing clothed is fine too. Artists are also invited to attend workshops and events to draw, and everyone is encouraged to draw at a workshop when not posing. It does not matter if you ‘cannot draw’, it just helps to understand what the model is for, and appreciate that trying to capture the human form on paper is not easy. Drawing materials are provided.

More information is available at www.spiritedbodies.com.  DSpirited Bodies Facebook page as well as Spirited Bodies on Meetup  - http://www.meetup.com/Spirited-Bodies/  - (useful for signing up to workshops). Contact info.spiritedbodies@gmail for inquiries.

o check out the

A crowd-funding project for this series of Edinburgh events will be created in due course.

Links to press about Spirited Bodies:

http://www.kfh.co.uk/completely-london/magazine/happy/grin-and-bare-it.htm

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/you/article-2243430/Undress-code-My-naked-ambition-Lydia-Slater.html

http://www.wandsworthguardian.co.uk/news/9915171.Artists_looking_for_spirited_bodies_to_get_naked/

Cupboard Chicken Caccitore

When I was a child my mother used to make this amazing chicken caccitore.  Now maybe I am wearing those rose tinted glasses of childhood memories and to be fair I can't really remember what it tasted like.  But I do remember that we got to eat with out fingers.  Meal time in our home was a fairly formal affair.  All had to sit at the table and our cutlery.  And napkins.  Burping and farting was frowning upon.

Chicken Caccitore was a different affair altogether.  Mom would heat up flannel wash clothes and put them next to our plates.  This was a meal to be slurped as you ripped the chicken off the bones with your hands and the juices ran down your arms.  We loved it.

I have asked my mother repeatedly for this recipe.  Now I don't know if she wants to keep it a secret or if she has genuinely lost it but it has not been forthcoming.  So today I decided to make my own.  I did some google searches and was disappointed with what seemed to me wasn't going to produce anything like my memories.  And would require a trip to the supermarket, which is my very least favourite thing to do in the whole entire world.

So I headed to my cupboards.

Slow Cooker Cupboard Kitchen Caccitore

5 chicken thighs (bone in is more fun at scarfing time)
5 onions (more or less), sliced
1 tin of whole tomatoes
1 Tablespoon sundried tomato paste (or not)
20 cherry tomatoes
1/2 cup water
2 cups of red wine (I used Rioja because that's what I wanted to drink later)
Healthy dash of black pepper
Healthy dash of garlic salt (would have preferred fresh garlic but we were fresh out)
1 bit of salt (you decide how much)
1 tin of greens beans (to help us to our 5 a day)
1 jar of red roasted peppers (because that jar has been in my cupboard for a very long time and needed to be used)

Fry thighs and onions til browned

Throw everything into slow cooker on low for 7 hours or high for 4.

You can thicken up the sauce with a bit of cornstarch if you want to just before serving.

Serve over rice, mashed potatoes, or noodles.  Or even just with crusty bread and lashings of butter.

Do NOT forget the warmed flannel face clothes and NO cutlery!!!!!

A Poet Amongst Us

River God and The Seventh Scroll by Wilbur Smith

 Not entirely sure what I am thinking.  Maybe I am not.

I read River God over a year ago but thought so little of it that I didn't even put a review of it on the blog.  Basically the premise of that novel was that one Egyptian eunuch slave, Taita, was responsible for inventing absolutely everything.

As if that wasn't enough to put me off, I then went and bought (at a second hand sale) the second in this Egyptian series.  Smith does the most unusual trick (sarcasm alert) of weaving a modern story in with an ancient story to help find an ancient buried/hidden treasure.  He further alienates me by putting his own previous novel and himself in the story.

Honestly,  I'm not sure why I picked up the second book when I thought the first one was so dire.  To make matters worse I think I've even picked up the third.  I might have bought them all at the same time.  At least that is the excuse I am going to use.  

You can read these books if you would like to fill your brain with loads of misinformation about the Egyptians.  Otherwise, I suggest you give them all a miss.  

Wonder if I will be able to resist the urge to read it?  God, I hope so.

Before I Met You by Lisa Jewell

Once again I am faced with a novel with two different story lines interwoven in alternating chapters where the characters have some sort of relationship in common but time goes back and forth.  It seems to be that this is the latest fashion for historical novels.  I'm not sure I am a fan.  I thought it was quite clever the first couple of these I read but now the novelty has worn off.

But it's not just the originality that has gone.  It is the inevitable fact that one story is more captivating than the other so you find yourself rushing through the chapters of one just to get to the chapters of the other.  So it is with Lisa Jewell's Before I Met You.

One plot line is based around 1920s SoHo London where the first world war has ended and Arlette's life as a member of a bohemian set of musicians and artists is just beginning.  Arlette falls in love with the most unlikely of men in the most unlikely of circumstances with the most tragic of endings.  This story line is filled with delicious details of a time and place that was new and fresh and young and free.  Women were granted freedoms previously unattainable.  The very fabric of British society was breaking down and irreversibly changing.  It was a fascinating time and I wanted to read this plot line endlessly.  The descriptions of the clothing was enough to fill my head with dreams of vintage clothing, complete with gloves, hats, and handbags

Regrettably, my joy was interrupted with the modern day plot line which has Arlette's grand daughter searching inexplicably to find a mysterious benefactor cited in her grandmother's will.  I guessed who the benefactor was about 50 pages into the novel which meant that half the book was a complete waste of time for me.  I didn't find any of the modern characters compelling and in fact found myself downright outraged by the rock star falls for nanny (but there's a better man) storyline.  Surely, Arlette's story proved that this atrocious relationship was ridiculous.

I really wish Jewell would have simply told the story of Arlette and left it at that.

I gave this book 4 out of 5 stars.