When Hurt Turns to Anger

I’m telling you now, before you read on, I’m in no good mood and I’m not going to be polite, or sensitive or any such thing. You read on, that’s your problem.

Then I stop typing…

When I’m filled with so much anger and hate… what do I let out first? Everything wants out.

Let’s start with school. The fucked up school where I worked. The place where the head had absolutely no fucking idea about home-life balance… she saw her husband every now and again at the weekend for Christ’s sake! Obsessed with her own fucking image… determined to be queen bee amongst her cronies… stuck in the 70s… What a fucked up person she is, running the show… projecting her fucked up ideas onto her workforce. She used to spit blood to me about people who had done nothing more than called it a day and gone home to their family. They still don’t know what she had to say about each of them… and to this day she demands their loyalty despite betraying them many times over.

When it came to depression, she hadn’t a fucking clue. I wished it on her… I sat and cursed her with it so that one day she’d know what a fucking ignorant cow she was. I had an occupational therapist who was great, understanding… supportive. She was telling me I needed to become better at communicating how things were going… so that people could help and so that I didn’t pull any surprises. I’d keep the lid on things, hiding depression like an alcoholic hides drink, and then suddenly it would be ‘where’s Mehdi?’

I took advice well, did what people asked me to do. I told my Head how things were going and she looked me in the eyes and told me slowly ‘I don’t need or want to know how you feel, I just want to know you can do your job’. I’d have been better off that day if she’d put a bullet through my brain.

Never mind my own negative predictions about the future… I was being told by the Head that I was going to be unemployable… nice thing to say to someone struggling with depression.

When I was recovering and returning to work… these were the people I had to be with… people who were insensitive to depression and who didn’t have any patience for it. You had to be tough on the outside… no one cared what was on the inside. I’d sit amongst my colleagues and talk with them only to learn later in meetings with my Head that they were busy judging me and passing their feedback to her… all of a sudden they were the mental health experts being asked for their learned opinions and me… I was supposed to take it.

You know, there were three days when I was returning to work as a behaviour experiment set up by my occupational health therapist. It was for me to learn about how I was responding to the environment. Back then I had very little insight into how depression was affecting my capacity in different environments and situations. I’d show up, say my awkward hellos and find out what I’d been tasked with. At briefing a couple of colleagues sniggered as I was welcomed back… I know who they are and I’ll probably never forgive them. It was tricky, because I wasn’t there doing what I necessarily do day in day out, and someone else was directing me. At the start of the day, there’d be a moment or two of hanging about whilst they sorted themselves out. I remember looking out of the window for a little while, trying not to get in the way given everyone was so busy. It transpired that looking out the window was diagnosed as ‘spaced out’ by my colleagues and it was another nail in my career.

I know… being hooked on approval meant I’d placed my worth in the hands of others. And when they didn’t treat it with care, and trashed it, I got upset. And now instead of blaming myself for empowering them so, I blame them because they took my precious worth and destroyed it.

It was strange to be in an environment where we all supposedly cared so much… for the youngsters at least… and yet behind the scenes there was so little care for the adults… the staff. The caring seemed to stop with the children. We, on the other hand, were expendable.

When I left it was for me. I’d got to know the environment better, my colleagues better and it was fucked up… and it wasn’t the place for somebody who was recovering from depression. How can you hold a gun to someone’s head and tell them… if you get ill again you’re finished. Like I had some way of deciding if I got ill or not! It’s still fucked up… probably will stay that way until people are exchanged and with it culture changes.

I wasn’t going to be dependant on them for anything… not even a reference. So I started my own business. Fuck’em…. Better still, curse them.

I Met Milli

I met a blogger called Milli. I recognise her. She’s a good person who could use some help. Couldn’t we all! Today when I woke up I posted on her wall rather than mine. So what follows below is my post to Milli. If you get a chance to stop by her blog and say hi, I think she’d appreciate it because it’s good to know you are all out there blogging and reading. Thanks for reading.

Hey Milli, so good to read another post from you. Thank you. I gather that you are just heading off to sleep as I write, whilst I'm just waking up. You are Rock n Roll Milli! When I woke up it was to write in my blog, but seeing that you had posted made me happy and I’d rather be writing on your blog today than my own. So today I dedicate my blog to you.

I wake up earlier each morning. What wakes me is thinking... the thoughts just crash around in there with no regard for the fact I may be asleep. Each morning I come down and write. Recently I switched anti-depressants and mornings became hard again... but I've been on enough of them to know that it takes a bit of time for my body and the medication to get into a groove. Now I'm waking earlier again.

Ok... you are probably wondering why this guy is waffling on about when he wakes up each morning... I would be. Here is where I'm going with this Milli. I used to sit in front of my GP when he'd ask me how things were and say 'man, they are bad... real bad'. He'd say... 'any good days?' and I'd have to think real hard. Depression reaches inside us and wrenches out all the terrible, mean things that we think about ourselves (core beliefs). It is what makes it so personally devastating and makes even living with ourselves a personal hell. Then it becomes hard to be objective... what we see is coloured by the depression we are experiencing.

Until I started writing, I couldn't tell you what was happening to my waking time from one day to the next. I know I would generalise and probably say that every day is pretty bad. But since writing I have hard evidence in front of me and committed to memory so I can see every little step over time. The steps backwards, and the multitude of steps forwards. My negative thinking is challenged by this evidence and smart people can tell when the evidence speaks louder than opinion. Without writing, or noting some other way what was happening from day to day, my warped thinking would have its wicked way and torture me into a corner.

Because I write, I notice the positive more than I would have if I didn’t. Even in the past when the days were dark… I knew I had briefly seen light, and could remember what it felt like and it gave me hope and a fight in my belly to get back to it. It was a long time before I learnt what hope could do for me… and now my sentiments on hope sit there on the header of my blog for me and others to see. Where there is life, there is hope. The tiniest little chink of hope in the darkest of places is enough for it to grow and claw away at the darkness.

Sometimes people can give hope to others through moving speeches or stories of their own survival. I remember my GP sitting in front of me confidently saying… ‘it will get better, you’ll beat this’. It used to p**s me off. But he knew that because he could see hope in me when it was small, and he’d seen enough people sit in front of him with depression to know that more win than lose. He was just rolling with the evidence.

At times of depression I need still to get tough on my thinking and expose my warped conclusions by contrasting them with the evidence. But now I know I do this because it gives me perspective and that gives me hope. And where there is life there is hope.

I tell you and I tell myself. Have courage Milli. There is plenty more to say, but this is all that needs to be said right now. That and to remind you that you are a precious miracle of nature, that you are loved by many and you are here writing like me and many others… not planning to end your journey. Milli, you are just getting started.

(Hug) Med

Eating Without Chewing

The Regatta at Saint-Adresse, Monet

Writing certainly helps me get some perspective on the direction things are going in. And as for the paintings, they make me smile everytime I open up this blog. They've been appearing since I wrote 'Alchemy'.

I saw a very good friend for breakfast this morning. We are as close as brothers without the infighting you get in families, so I guess that makes us even closer. He made me laugh so much I could barely breathe. Every time we walk into that café I feel like we light the place up. That’s a pretty positive generalisation from me, given that for a long while I haven’t been feeling like myself. We can talk about anything, or comfortably nothing, and it’s all ok.

In previous episodes of depression I isolated myself from everyone and it took so long to come back. I could talk all day about what I’ve been doing this time round to get better, but I won’t. I’ll just say that whilst withdrawing is inevitable with depression… I fought and my friends fought with a ferocious persistence to stop it from happening altogether. I can’t remember the last time I actually answered a phone or responded to a knock at the door. Alicia does a lot to protect me and keep us functioning despite my disconnection. But friends do come round, we eat together… we laugh… we laugh a lot… and in between they read the blog so there are no secrets. Sometimes the see my glazed eyes and look back at me with kindness. Sometimes, when I haven’t made it downstairs they even come up to sit alongside me. My friends… I have never known such friendship.

Around midday I started to feel strange and took myself upstairs. I can remember reading a letter from the bank shortly before going up… usual stuff about the account being empty and a direct debit bouncing. I must have fallen asleep and when I woke up I could hear Alicia talking to me and then rocking my shoulder too. I’d fallen back into the same catatonic state I wrote about in ‘Has Anyone Seen Mehdi?’ Between us, we have come to realise that is something to do with the way my medication acts on me when I haven’t eaten. I don’t tend to be very good at looking after myself during a depressive episode and I hadn’t thought to eat anything all day. She lovingly fed me freshly made scrambled eggs and toast… and slowly my body returned to me. At first it seemed barely possible to open my mouth and thankfully scrambled egg doesn’t require chewing! Laughing over breakfast, catatonic by teatime; it isn’t a great advert for being medicated is it, but it’s working for me.

The rest of the day was pretty good. I went out and did a couple of quotes which involved seeing other people. Alicia and I started to plan the work diary for the next few weeks. I’ve been completely away from work and responsibilities and everything this week – just concentrating on getting better as I said in ‘Wolves at the Door’, and it has done me a lot of good. Getting my thinking straight, breaking a few bad habits and getting out into the hills has all given me a buoyancy that even teatime crashes can’t destroy.

It's Not Me, It's You

12 Sunflowers In A Vase
Van Gogh

When my eyes opened this morning at 6am it was because the ideas that had been in there from previous days were crashing about, awake long before me. They were excited and confused and eager, like children. And so I went downstairs with them in my head and promised to write a few of them down.

I read a few different blogs and the beautiful and extraordinary power of the internet means that I am not confined by geography. And so I see, neither is depression. I subscribe to a website where members post about their problems and the community respond. I find especially on difficult days it can be easier to help others than to help myself… so I get involved from behind the security of my laptop screen. Yesterday there were some rather cruel replies from one member across a number of posts. An ugly side to the internet, afforded by the anonymity it provides. Cleverly written replies that appeared sympathetic at first and drew readers in… making them feel foolish I imagine.

Having reported the posts to the website they replied saying that whilst some of the advice could be considered ‘harsh’, it was also ‘practical’. Here is a tame extract to contrast with the words harsh and practical.

“Go to Africa and work for AIDS victims. Help the homeless. Do something that will deflect your attention AWAY from your own problems. I am not saying you don't have problems, it's obvious you do, but they will not improve by constant navel gazing” (from discussion board member in reply to a post about depression).

Well, that is what harsh but practical advice looks like.

When the reader picks their jaw up from the floor they might be left wondering if he has a point. He wouldn’t be the first to say ‘keep the hands busy and the mind will take care of itself’. Activity therapy is nothing new, and surely my own reasons for participating on the website are concurrent with his advice. And the expression ‘navel gazing’ certainly brings to mind the introverted nature of depressive thoughts, the self analysis and identity searching.

Getting on with things, as the post suggests, is more difficult than it sounds when your centres of motivation, energy and self confidence are under attack. In fact such a suggestion can feel a little inflammatory. It must be so hard for people to understand depression from the outside. It isn’t as simple as extrapolating their own experiences of a low mood or a bad day. It must be hard then for such people to understand the challenges and know how to be supportive and helpful.

‘Navel gazing’… it is interesting though. When depression breaks me apart, the journey back does seem to involve something of an identity crisis. I am of a mould… a flawed mould that makes me turn on myself. I wind up here in this broken place because, regardless of my momentum, I am tethered to this spot by childhood. I do want to be rid of core beliefs that betray me, and replace them with something of my own making. To do that, I do find myself searching for the new whilst barricading against the old. I’m searching about to understand and create a healthy me as much as I am trying to cut ties with my old habits.

My ‘going to Africa’ or ‘working with the homeless’ as the advice suggested was to work in education and give myself very completely to my work and the lives of the children I worked with, at the expense of my friends, family and health. Depression took me down just the same because I was broken inside. I’d get better, go back, and then break again. So maybe we become introspective not just because depression makes us that way, but also because attending to ourselves holds the key to long term mental health.