Monday, 19 September 2016

Your Mind by Margot

I have spent a large portion of my life being anxious.

When I was a child, I would get worried sick when my father was late coming home from work or my mother didn’t pick up her phone when I called her more than once.
As I grew older, my worries became more centred around who I was and what I could achieve: Was I good enough? Could I achieve all the things that I wanted to? No matter how many times I would ace an exam, I just couldn’t seem to shake these feelings (amongst others…).

Throughout my undergraduate and master’s degrees, I remained convinced that I was the worst person in my class and that someone would finally realise that having me in the course was a mistake, an oversight: How had they confused my application with the other one from that other student? How was I even in this university? I would get so worried about exams and my performance that I would lose all perspective and forget all the wonderful things that were going on around me.

A few years ago, I started having anxiety attacks: the thought of travelling by underground (which I had to do every day) or plane would fill me with terror. For a year, my bag was packed with natural herbs to help me relax and my Spotify was filled with playlists that would help to focus on my breathing. More than once, when hyperventilating on a train stuck between two stations, I was forced to blurt out to the person sitting next to me: “I am so sorry, would you mind having a conversation with me? I am having an anxiety attack and need to be distracted.”

I have been fortunate enough to grow up in a very open family where I was encouraged to speak very frankly about my fears and anxiety. My mother is a psychotherapist and the result was that I got the support that I needed, both within my family and outside it. My anxiety was not clinical (i.e., I did not need drugs) and I have been able to live a normal life with it — a lot of people do. However, having someone to talk to about how uncomfortable it felt, and as a result of that, learning exercises and tricks to deal with my anxiety, which has hugely improved my quality of life.

I would be lying if I said that I am now completely careless and worry-free, but I can definitely say that I am now able to recognise and (sometimes) refrain from going down a spiral of negative thinking. Most importantly, underground and plane travel are now a completely fine experience during which I no longer have to focus on my breathing and spot the one person in the carriage who is most likely to help me if I drop on the floor and stop breathing (which, by the way, has never happened…).

However, getting support was not always easy. As I started working intense hours, it became harder and harder to stick to my psychotherapy sessions.

For starters, they were expensive. Given that I was choosing to do this and that it wasn’t prescribed by a GP, I had to pay out of pocket, which is a hard thing to do when you are a young professional trying to cover rent and stay afloat in London. Secondly, I often found it difficult to find time between my long hours at work and my daily commute. Lastly, I felt embarrassed; beyond my close circle of friends, I didn’t want to tell people that I was anxious. What would they think?

As I navigated my way through these issues and anxiety in general, I learned that I was not alone. So many people around me opened up about their anxiety attacks once I opened up about mine, and I learned that the feeling of “being in the wrong place” was a common one (impostor syndrome anyone?).

However, I was an exception in terms of the help that I had received. While I managed to overcome the hurdles to get help, many people were not able to get around the time, money and stigma elements that separate us from our mental well-being.

The belief that there should be a way to jump these hoops is what motivated me to start YourMind, a place where people with non-clinical anxiety and depression can get cheap help, both in the form of therapy sessions and in the form of exercises and tools.

If you are interested in hearing more about this, please feel free to drop me an email at or leave a message in the comment section below.

Thursday, 2 June 2016

Post Partum Psychosis by Fiona Putnam

Last April I climbed up onto the roof of my house and threw myself off into a greenhouse fracturing my spine in five places and breaking my ribs. Four days earlier I had my baby daughter, Oona, two months prematurely. I now know that I was suffering from a rare mental illness called post-partum psychosis. It hits one in a thousand women and makes you lose all judgement. I'm one of the lucky ones. Other women have lost their lives or killed their children during an episode. I had no history of mental health problems. It hit me like a ton of bricks. Or a greenhouse. 

I was able to discharge myself from hospital before my episode despite showing signs of psychosis. I'd stalked the corridors in the post natal ward shouting "I'm psychotic." An overworked and tired looking doctor saw me and told me I needed sleep. The nurses lost my notes on the day I left hospital. By the Saturday when the incident happened I hadn't slept in four days. I slipped through the net. I'm not planning on sueing the hospital, I don't hold a grudge against the staff, but I do have personal experience of the mental health system and I've seen first hand how appallingly over stretched the staff are. 

There are things about the incident that I can now laugh at: the fact that the old peoples' home whose greenhouse I destroyed were having a fete that day, that I was bare chested, that I brandished a garden fork and leapt over a barb wired fence like a banshee. But at the time, and for many months after, I was living in a nightmare. 

After spending a week and a half on a trauma ward I was sent home (I wasn't ready) and looked after under the care of the home team (woefully inconsistent) and my amazing friends and family. I couldn't even say the word psychosis. I certainly wasn't facing up to what had happened. A week later I was back in hospital, having had another episode, albeit less dramatic than the first. I was sent to a women only psychiatric unit and I was scared. I had more episodes. I wet the bed. I thought the staff were making a documentary about my life, I thought my sub conscious was telling me what to do. All of my own deep seated predudices about mental health patients came out. I remember, during one of my episodes, shouting at the other patients that they were all mad (I was probably the most acute case on the ward and in fact the other women were there for different reasons: domestic violence, anxiety, OCD.) 

The staff tried their best but never had any time to really talk to me about my fears. I only had one session with a mental health nurse. However, by the time I left the ward, I'd realised that I too had mental health problems, I'd ventured out to the day room, I'd sung with the other women on the ward, danced with the patients and, by the end of my time there, I felt a real sense of cameraderee and, dare I say it, sisterhood. I was also grateful that throughout my time there I'd been allowed to continue visiting my daughter in the premature ward. 

After my week and a half on the psychiatric unit, I was admitted to a Mother and Baby unit-I was lucky. If I'd been living in Belfast where my mum lives or Stroud where my dad is, there would be no provision for me. If you suffer from post partum psychosis in Northern Ireland or Gloucester, you are on your own. I was recovering well and making the most of the occupational therapy (art, gardening, cooking) as well as the talking therapy that was provided and invaluable. All the time I was visiting my darling daughter on the premature ward. 

Oona joined me two weeks later and, in what seemed like a sick joke, the depression that often follows post partum psychosis, kicked in the following day and knocked me sideways. It was harder to deal with than the psychosis, because it was me, but an empty shell of who I am. I couldn't hold my daughter, I couldn't smile, I couldn't sleep. I was anxious all the time. It took weeks for the meds to kick in and they were the longest weeks of my life. In the end a little book on Mindfulness that my husband gave me rescued me. One anxious morning I decided to fold some clothes mindfully and the process brought me down from my anxiety and allowed a relationship with Oona to start to flourish again. 

I had two months in the Mother and Baby unit before being allowed home with Oona. On getting home, it felt like my recovery had only just begun-I felt very isolated having not met any mums during NCT, and I felt like my story was so different and would put off other mums. Children's centres were a lifeline for me and I was lucky that my husband was around to share the load (I'm devastated for other mums that so many children's centres are now being closed thanks to our current thoughtless government) Slowly I began to make a few friends, some of whom I've told my story to and whom I'm extremely grateful to. The more I talked, the more people came out of the woodwork with their own stories of battles with mental health problems. I was lucky to be referred to a mindfulness course and a group for other women who were struggling with motherhood. We regularly meet up and have become firm friends. 

Nearly a year later, I only just feel like I've recovered from the trauma of what happened. My relationship with Oona was affected by the depression and it's taken me a long time to accept that I don't feel the love flowing all of the time but that's ok. On a good day, I feel like what happened to me was a gift. It's made me appreciate the moment much more, it's made me love and appreciate my family more deeply, empathise with others who have had mental health problems, and the meditation I now do has brought a peacefulness to my life that I didn't have before. Ultimately, it's taught me that the most important thing in life is love. 


Tuesday, 31 May 2016

The Only Reason I'm Alive by Mica

I have had mental health issues throughout my life. I was diagnosed with OCD as a child, an eating disorder during my teens and battled anxiety. I began taking antidepressants at fifteen years old and have now been on them for 12 years. I never felt as though I was affected that much by my problems, I simply lived around them.

When I became a parent I took to it like a duck to water, despite having a horrendous pregnancy and labour. I felt as though I was going somewhere, then everything changed.

Upon moving areas and doctors surgeries I was falsely diagnosed as having a heart condition known as long QT interval. My new GP believed that my antidepressants were causing the problem and took me off them cold turkey... after 10 years of being on them non stop at that time. The withdrawals started after 3 days and within a week I had to be put back on them. The only way I can describe it is that when you see people having heroin withdrawals on films... it looks quite mild compared to antidepressant withdrawals.

After a few weeks of messing about with the dosage my GP  then changed my antidepressants over to a different kind. The first few months were hell. My mum had to retire early as she had to care for both me and my son, who was two at the time. A huge rift was caused in my relationship with my mother as she loved her career with the NHS and lost the majority of her pension after retiring early. She now lives on less that I received in benefits.

A year later I had another ECG and was diagnosed with long QT interval again. My new antidepressants were reduced to half of the lowest therapeutic dose and I experienced unpleasant withdrawals but nowhere near as bad as it was going cold turkey. I saw a Cardiologist a few months later who informed me that both ECG'S were read wrong by two doctors at my GP surgery. There was nothing wrong with my heart and if they bothered to fax my results to the Cardiologist he would have told them on the same day that there was nothing to worry about.

A month later I became unwell. I had flu, tonsillitis and a chest infection all at once. I was given antibiotics I'd never taken before and almost overnight I changed.

I became paranoid, delusional and suddenly had OCD, although it was different compared to when I was a child.

After a few months I became suicidal and was referred to the home crisis team. My antidepressant dosage was increased which got rid of the paranoia but the OCD remained as strong as ever. They increased it again... still no change.

Eventually my mum couldn't cope and threw me out whilst keeping my son with her. I spent a few days as a voluntary inpatient but was discharged after seeing a psychiatrist. I was homeless for 3 months with very little support from various organisations. There was simply no resources.

At my worst I parked up and wrote a letter to whoever would find me. When it got to the point where I wrote about my son I cracked and drove myself to the mental health ward. I took the letter and told them I needed help. The nurse looked at my letter for one second and then said "Don't go making threats, if you were going to kill yourself you would have done it already." She sent me away with some sheets on depression and I then returned to my secluded spot in the car and slit my wrist.

The only reason that I'm still alive is that the cheap razor blade snapped and got lodged in my wrist. The pain was so intense that it brought me to my senses. I had a panic attack, screamed, swore and cried  then took the blade out of my wrist. I bled all over my jeans but I knew I hadn't hit an artery so I tied up my wrist with some old wet wipes, sat there for a while before changing my jeans and buying some bandages.

I was referred to a DBT group ran by my local mental health team 6 months later but I have trouble attending.  I've lost all faith in the mental health service and believe that the  only person I can rely on is myself. 

In my experience over years of problems there is barely any help available on the NHS. In my borough there is just one Psychologist available with a 2 year waiting list for CBT. During that time most patients will have either deteriorated and taken matters in to their own hands.

I have learned that mental health is like a black hole that is easy to get sucked into but very hard to get out of, especially on your own. The only way I manage to cope on a daily basis is by trying to see the bigger picture, rather than focusing on the here and now. 

I think of my son, he is my main focus for getting better. I don't know if I will ever be "normal" but I know that I have to try, for him. Not many people will feel as though they have a reason to get better, as sometimes it is so hard to see beyond it. But we have to try. Never stop trying.


Saturday, 7 May 2016

ME TOO by Aimi Cree

It was always my greatest hope that my first real written account of my mental health journey, would be one full of hope and encouragement for those newly or currently suffering. Like many of us who have struggled with mental health issues, if I could choose to gain only one thing from my experience, it would be to help just one person and offer them a refuge. A sanctuary. A tribe. A big, bold rallying cry of "Me tooooooooo!!!" until they no longer felt alone or ashamed. To reassure them that no, they are not crazy and yes, the sun will shine again and that there's nothing that they could do or tell me that would make me judge them in any way. My illnesses have made me think, say and do some pretty extreme things over the years so I will not think you're weird, just that you're hurting and afraid. And are tired. Oh so tired. 

Whilst I'm pretty open about my mental health issues, I don't think I've ever written my diagnoses down in one go, so *deep breath* here goes: since suffering a breakdown in 2008, I have been diagnosed with bipolar affective disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and generalised anxiety disorder. I have endured panic attacks, intrusive thoughts, flashbacks and self-harm. I also experience social anxiety and have traits of borderline personality disorder as a result of living for years with unresolved trauma. So as you can imagine, sometimes it gets messy. I've been hospitalised and made attempts on my life. I've also experienced euphoria and the overwhelming agitation that resides at the other end of the spectrum. 

But what that doesn't tell you is that I'm also a well-meaning vegetarian with a penchant for Alan Partridge, Tolkien and old skool jungle. It may be my mental health "CV" that shouts the loudest, but I am also a devoted mother, partner, sister and friend. I trained and worked as an actress and am now the slightly frazzled person you'll see tearing up the road on the school run (time-keeping has never been my forte!) before agonising over which ready meal/duvet set/pair of pants to buy (decision-making also not a strength!) and then rushing home to belt out Les Mis, at full volume. At times I am over-whelmed by my diagnoses but with patience, professional help and A LOT of support from friends and family, I am able to find my way back to me and feel happy, once again, to be alive. 

To anyone who is suffering and needs to hear this right now, I am so sorry this is happening to you. It is horrendous and unfair. You are not weak, or deeply flawed, you are UNWELL. It is beyond your control, you did not choose it or encourage it but rather you have been worn down by the weeks, months maybe years of trying to fight off a cruel and relentless illness. But I promise you that there will come a day when you will slowly start to feel that vice like grip around your chest begin to fade. That twenty tonne weight you are dragging around with you will gradually begin to dissolve and your mind will stop punishing you, 24/7. One day, you will be able to sleep soundly again. I promise. 

Take each day, minute by minute, hour by hour and if something feels too much, do not beat yourself up. Lower the expectations you place on yourself and be as kind to you as you would be to a friend. Try to count your victories, no matter how small. There are days when just brushing your teeth is a massive achievement. And as much as you can, reach out to others, particularly those with shared experience. That was one of the greatest helps for me. Lean on those who offer to carry you, you would do the same for them, if you could. 

It will not be without setbacks. I'm writing this feeling pretty floored by a recent nasty bipolar episode, having had almost a year of relative "stability" for me. So I'm angry at my brain and feeling exhausted from the gauntlet my mood has just run. But I know I need to try to remember how far I'd come in the months before this wobble and, too, need to hear my own message of hope: 

"You've been here before and recovered with time. You can do it again." 

It's always so easy to say that to other people but the hard part is believing it yourself. I'm trying to learn the art of self-compassion (any tips would be gratefully received!) and release myself of the guilt I feel about the 'burden' I place on everyone else. My amazing mum recently said to me, "If you think this is hard living with you, I couldn't go on, living without you. I do it because I love you." I know I feel unworthy of this love and ultimately need to work on loving myself. And on that note, if it's an option, get yourself into therapy. It can be tough-going but will arm you with coping skills you may one day need. 

So it's time for me to put my money where my mouth is and reach out to this wonderful community, that is growing day by day. If we can reach out to each other, we can use our collective voice to shatter the stigma and obliterate the shame. 

With love and understanding ... 

"Me too. Me too". 

Saturday, 27 February 2016

Why am I here then? By Garry.

Hi all,

I'm Garry, I'm 46 and I have had depression for over 30 years! I have been on medication for 10 years yet I'm never fully happy or appreciative of much. I have lived with my partner for 18 years and we have two young kids. We both work and I don't take so much time off now so that's a success isn't it? I wake up each morning so there's another success. I see my beautiful family every day so there's another.

What have I got to be depressed or anxious about then?

I don't know even though I've had psychiatrists, psychologists, self help, GP's and CBT. I can't address the problem if I don't know the reason can I? Why I'm even writing this I don't know!

There is a stigma attached to mental health and I believe it. I don't know why but I don't ever make it public because I believe people don't care or believe. I don't want this published but yet I'm still writing it. That's my life right there, so full of I don't knows and why's and why not! I am writing about something which is destroying me but I can't fix it. I should be happy right? Maybe I am part of the stigma problem. Maybe I should just open up and scream it from the roof tops. I won't though because I'll just sit here and go through this and try and play my part in society.

 This email will be full of contradictions but you need to understand that my life is full of contradictions. How do you all open up in public? How are you able to do that? The stigma surrounding these issues is real isn't it? People don't want to know about this surely.

Why am I here then? I don't know. Just like I don't know why I feel like I do, I also don't know why I'm here.

 It's painful to believe the stigma but I do.

Can I save this as a draft or can I send it? You see, I don't even know if I'll send this so if I do then surely that's a step closer right? If you're reading this then either in a moment of elation or deflation I have sent this. I'll regret it if I do but that's my life. Just because I believe in the stigma please don't let yourself. I also believe in all of you and what you are trying to achieve. That's for now though as I may not believe that tomorrow. #itaffectsme

Tuesday, 23 February 2016

Not Everything is Covered in Darkness by Alessandra Botham

My mind doesn't allow me to process things rationally.
If my mind were a child's toy teaching them how to sort shapes through the correct and fitting hole, my mind would force the circle blocks through a triangular hole. Misconstruing every thought, every moment, every sense.

Rationality escapes me and catastrophising takes over.
There's been moments where I've pushed myself over the edge; one self abusive thought that harms my mind and my body.

A lust for my own blood shed is what I long for.
A want to be swallowed up whole by the earth, the ground, the soil that is beneath my feet. That soil underneath me is as low as I can get.

Nothing is straightforward. Happiness isn't just happiness. And sadness isn't just sadness.
Many a thing contributes to my mindset and thought process.

Anxiety, self esteem, a not quite normal relationship with food. All of these things add up and band together to bring me down. They hit me harder than a tonne of bricks. Some days they anchor me down so I physically feel their weight, not being able to find motivation or able to find myself.

But still, always still, I go on. I play my part. I play it so well that Oscar nominees writhe in jealousy at my skill. Flawless and tactile I go on through life; my outer shell is hard. It's painted with confidence, finished with positivity.

It is fake. As fake as those Oscar nominees who would die for such a skill of facade.

Not everything is covered in darkness.
I have sought help. And plan to get better.
I plan to see the light at the end of the tunnel. And when it's within my reach, to grasp it, grasp it hard and to not let go.
I understand there will be steps forward and steps back. But I'll take it as it comes. We all need to take it as it comes.

But one thing I'm certain of is a little bit of help can go a long way.
Find yourself some help today.


The Truth Behind a Smile

I can’t remember when it was that I began to feel ‘unhappy’. I guess that’s because I never questioned it. There wasn’t a day as a child where I woke up and thought, ‘today I feel depressed’. Rather, every day I felt empty, hollow, numb whilst simultaneously feeling constantly panicky and worried about everything. It was hell. But hey, that’s just life, right? Get on with it. So I did. 

I suffered in silence, scared to question my terrifying world and dreading a lifetime of feeling this way. I went to school each day and smiled my way through. I was always the joker of the class, the bubbly one, the smiley one. What did I have to be unhappy about? I went to a lovely school, had gorgeous friends and a beautiful family and home. I was lucky. 

So I kept quiet. But the more I silenced and forced a smile on my terrified lips, the more difficult things got. I developed obsessive thoughts around food and hygiene and began hurting myself multiple times a day just to get through. Sometimes the pain was to numb the panic, sometimes it was to make me feel less empty: to feel something. Often I did it because I hated myself. I was only a little girl, but I hated the way I looked and I hated myself for feeling the way I did. I’d tell myself, ‘why can’t you just get on with things the way your friends do?’ I started crying myself to sleep, hoping that this would be the last time I would close my eyes, hoping that there wouldn’t be a tomorrow morning. 

That’s when I started to think things might not be quite right. The more I saw the girls around me, the more they looked so care free, so un-troubled; their arms unscarred and their laughs somehow more resonant and real than mine could ever sound. I began to not quite believe that they too had to bleed to get through, that they too had a dark cloud encompassing their every move and that they too were waking up to thoughts of death each painful day. So I reached out for help. 

I told my amazing best friend who confirmed these worries. It wasn’t ‘normal’.
After talking to her, I knew I needed help, it was my GCSE year. I had to get better. But I was ashamed and frightened. I felt that telling more of my friends and family would only disappoint them. I was so worried how they would react. Thankfully, the school had a confidential counsellor and I began seeing her on a weekly basis. It gave me a chance to let out all the worries consuming me, but it wasn’t enough and as I began being more open with the counsellor, she was worried for my safety and the time came to tell my family. 

Despite my fears, opening up to my family was a huge feeling of relief. They were not disappointed, only concerned and got me the help I needed straightaway. After sessions with a GP, psychologist and psychiatrist I was diagnosed with depression, anxiety, BDD and contamination OCD. Rather than feeling overwhelmed by this diagnosis, it was a relief. It indicated to me that life wasn’t ‘just like this’, I wasn’t going to feel like this every day and I could get better! I was put on medication and began weekly sessions with an amazing psychologist who I will be eternally grateful to.

My road to recovery was a long one and certainly not easy, with big ups and downs along the way but I am proud to say that with the love and support I now know what happiness feels like and look forward to my future. Reaching out for help was the best decision I ever made and to everyone that helped and supported me along the way (even if that was just a hug one day or a squeeze of the hand) I owe my life and happiness to you, so thank you so much. It is possible to get better and believe me it’s worth it. Now that I am better, I want to make sure that fewer children experience such pain and when they do, they are not afraid to speak out and get the help they need and deserve, so #itaffectsme <3
Let’s get mental health education on the curriculum.