It’s the second week of my phased return to
work. Last Mondays ‘having a whole
bottle of water poured on me as I got off the bus’ incident is still actually
quite raw for me. Yes, I’m well aware
that it could’ve been anyone but feeling so fragile, low and depressed, it just
seemed that things like this are destined to happen to me.
Anyway, enough dwelling on that: pull
yourself together woman! Actually, for
the first time in my life, after suffering several bouts of depression since my
early twenties, during this episode (which has been by far the absolute worst)
not one single person has said that to me.
A result? Well, sort of. I don’t know if its because society’s
attitude to mental health is changing for the better (albeit very very slowly
indeed) or possibly that the few folk who had said this to me in the past have
since had depressive episodes and have gleaned some empathy for my plight.
Last week was a challenge for me, mentally
and physically. Having to get up out of
bed, knot still in the stomach although not a knot of dread now, more a knot of
anxiousness, uncertainty. Luckily the
individual who had caused the atmosphere in work wasn’t in on Monday, so I felt
I could breathe. The clinicians and
nurses all seemed genuinely pleased to see me back, asking how I was and if I
ever needed to chat yadda yadda. But,
you see, I have this thing inside me that means I can’t really accept
compliments…ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you. I’m more adept at handling insults because
being a fat, ginger, glasses wearing, braces wearing, guitar playing, quiet
bookish kid garnered me so many insults, many of which have carried through
to my adult life – the water incident last week, the way my mind works, even
though I was upset by what had happened, I felt that somehow I almost deserved it. You see, during counselling for another bout
of depression, I discovered that I can accept insults and the most vile name
calling from people (strangers included) because basically, as I have such low
self worth, that’s what I think of myself and so if they call me something
horrific, it somehow means I’m right.
Does that even make sense? And
yes, I know how fucked up it sounds.
This is why I am so thankful for the
psychological input I’m receiving through work.
I’ve really clicked with him and after two sessions, we’ve worked
through quite a bit. When I’m depressed,
the self esteem side or ‘my dark side’ is a lot stronger. She
comes out and sabotages any good feelings that I have. On a trip to Skye with friends back in April,
she appeared to me when we went on a walk along some hills and crags. She
was trying to persuade me to jump…I was almost persuaded… it was horrible.
So, anyway, I’m progressing. The mixture of psychological input, the right
dosage of medication and the support of so many wonderful human beings, family
and friends, here, overseas or online is doing me good. I’ve been so completely overwhelmed by the
amount of support I’ve received from people…so many lovely comments and
invitations to stay with people, so much support. All this is very slowly making me think, I
can’t be that bad, can I?
