Mini T's Mini Meltdown (This is NOT a delicious recipe)

I went to a horror movie convention the other weekend in Birmingham.  It was brilliant, met up with friends and made some new ones, including Michael Myers himself, the actor Tony Moran.  It’s true, we’re FB pals, HE friend requested me. I taught him the word minge.  Fairly proud of that. 

 

Anyway, I got some photos with some Nightmare on Elm Street stars, Rod Lane from NOES 1 (Jsu Garcia) and Roland Kincaid from NOES 3 (Ken Sagoes) (paid for) and some pals took some snaps of us too.  And then I saw the photos, and I could have wept.  I look utterly horrendous in every single one.  I’m the size of a juvenile elephant, my face looks utterly ridiculous, I have about five chins and that weird top lip disappearing smile that always makes my teeth look more prominent than they are.  This is why I haven’t posted any of the pics up.  Even the ones I’ve paid for.  Even the one of me with Jsu Garcia AND Ken Sagoes (a photo op I’ll never get again) because of how I look.

 

Regular readers of this blog will know that I have major hang ups about my appearance, most noticeably my weight and then my actual physical appearance.  I thought I’d come to terms with the fact that I could look pretty at times, and hell, I even wore a bikini and posted it on the internet…I think that was more the prosecco though than me.  These photos from the horror con kicked off something in my brain which, coupled with a few other things, caused me to have a bit of a meltdown over the last weekend.

 

Anxiety had kicked me around on Friday and Saturday, culminating in me dropping out of a well overdue night out with my gal pals.  I couldn’t have coped with all the photos, the trying to make myself look presentable enough to be seen out with these women, my best friends, who are all goddesses in their own way.  In my brain, sometimes, I feel I don’t fit in with them.  And it’s something I can’t quite put my finger on.  It’s nothing they’ve ever said or done, it’s purely me and my own stupid brain.  So I ducked out of our night out because I knew I wouldn’t be able to cope with me ruining every photograph.  And I stayed in, with the cats for company.  Weirdly, as the time passed, and I knew I didn’t have to go out, my anxiety eased off a little.  Just a little though, it’s still here, kicking the crap out of me.

 

Writing about how I’m feeling is one of my main coping mechanisms.  It’s cathartic.  And I might overshare at times, but I’d rather do that than have all my feelings and emotions bottled up, ready to unexpectedly spill.  Folk call me brave for writing, I’m not.  I’m just sharing experiences I’ve had, that others might have had, so that maybe one other person can read it and know that other people get anxiety and depression. 

 

I’ve always been an advocate for speaking about my mental health; and I will continue to be.  I’m aware that others feel they can’t speak about it which is sad.  This is a conversation that we need to have, we need it to grow above just a hubbub; it needs to be a loud and angry conversation.  Mental health services are getting slashed by the government (and previous governments).  Mental health charities and other charity helplines are getting inundated with referrals, letters, emails, telephone calls from people suffering because there’s no mental health service near them, or that it’s been so slashed to the bone, they can’t get an appointment.

 

It’s not shameful to have a mental health issue.  We need to feel comfortable to speak about it.

 

 

 

How are you?

It’s Time To Talk Day.

You might not know what that is.  It’s a campaign set up by Time To Change in 2014 for people to converse about mental health.  It falls on the first Thursday of February.

Readers of this blog (and possibly of David’s blog FoldsFive) may be aware that I have suffered on and off with my mental health for years, suffering severe depression leading to suicidal tendencies, extreme self-loathing, issues with my general appearance (and no, not that I’m just obese, general actual hatred of myself, my face etc.), feelings of low self-worth, feeling like a failure because I can’t conceive… I could go on. 

My point is this: today, I’m in a brilliant place, mentally.  I may occasionally get the odd wobble at times (but who doesn’t?), the odd dark day but I still manage to get up and out, put a brave face on it.  I’m still on medication, and to be honest, I can’t really see a point when I won’t be.  But I firmly believe that the reason I am now living, rather than just existing is because I shared my problems: I talked, I blogged, I had a CPN, I had a psychologist, I spoke with friends and family. 

It can difficult opening up, I know that; but try and take that first step, you don’t have to speak to someone you know, you could use Mind, Childline, Samaritans or Silverline.  You don’t have to go through it alone.  There will always be someone to listen.  Someone will always have time for you to talk.

Please, just talk.

I love you all.

Hello blogger, my old friend

Hi.  Me again.  I know I only ever write when I’m upset or something catastrophic has happened to me and for that I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get this out.

I hit 36 in May of this year.  I’m getting on (in dog years, I’d be dead).  As every media outlet seems to delight in telling me, I’m not getting any younger, so I should probably start a family or something.  Well dear readers, I’ve tried (not like the Immaculate Conception, obvs) actually, I should probably say WE’VE tried, and nothing is happening.  And it’s probably all my fault.

I’m morbidly obese, according to the BMI scale.  And I’m shocking trying to do anything about it.  Sure, we both try to eat healthier, but as with everything, that falls off during the month until we’re just eating junk and crap and getting takeaways instead of cooking.  And each time, I beat myself up, each time, I fall back there.  And I’m not an emotional eater; if anything I’m an emotional starver.

To add to things, I can’t exercise at the moment due to a stupid trip down the stairs that’s fucked my hip up (I can’t tell you how excited I am to have a man jam a steroid injection into my hip joint – but I don’t know when that’s going to happen – could be a fortnight, could be November).  So my movements are very restricted, walking can be agony at times, so treadmill running (which I actually enjoy) is way out of the question.

So being a fatty isn’t conducive to conception, it certainly also means that IVF isn’t an option either.  I’m so desperate to lose weight AND have a child that it’s all I can think about.  If I wasn’t such a great big fucking fat mess, then we’d be swimming in kids now, probably.  I’ve even enquired about a gastric bypass so that I can’t eat the world.  My circle of close friends, bar one, have at least one child.  I’ve jokingly said to my friend who has four that should she pop out another, could she just let me have it instead?  It’s easy to try to laugh it off; it isn’t so easy to hide the pain and the tears regarding a situation that is ultimately probably my own making.

I know I probably shouldn’t be whinging on about how I’m fat, I’m well aware it’s my own fault, it’s just losing weight isn’t easy, especially when you suffer with depression, low self-esteem and that nagging feeling that you’re an embarrassment to your friends and loved ones due to your size.  I grew up with the mind-set that fat cannot be attractive, although there are hundreds of THOUSANDS of exceptions to this rule.  I found myself perusing ‘pro ana’ sites as I browsed for which VLCD was best.  And that frightens me, but then again,  I’ve felt like a failure for not being able to develop an eating disorder for fucks sake – how screwed in the head am I?  Like that is how any normal person thinks.  I’ve downloaded a ‘virtual gastric band’ hypnosis app, knowing that it’ll just be mumbo jumbo bollocks and won’t help me a jot (still going to try though, I have to). 

I suppose this is heading, ultimately, to the fact that I am just terrified that I am never going to have a child of my own, I’m never going to give birth, hold nine months’ worth of work, blood, cells, love; nine months’ worth of David and me mixed together into a teeny tiny mewling pink ball of new human.  I know there’s adoption which is something that we’ve discussed in the past, but to me, right at this moment in time, I want to feel how being pregnant feels, the tiredness, the puke, the ankle swelling, the constant need for weeing, the contractions, all of it.

If I start dieting now, I don’t know how long it will take for me to get to a weight where I can actually realistically conceive, assisted or not.  I’m scared I’ll be too old; I’ll be 40 or over.  But Christ knows, I have to do it, I have to try.

 

Try harder, you stupid critter.

Drama Llama Ding Dong

Friday’s little drama of me having run out of antidepressants and then bleating on about it on Facebook made me think I was pretty much just a show off.  We all know if someone posts a ‘woe is me’ Facebook post, it more often than not elicits responses from your lovely chums that are jokingly referred to as ‘u ok hun?’ replies.  The genuine feelings of care, compassion and worry are there but on the other hand, the original poster could be fishing for these responses and so will post further drama about their lives.  This was genuinely not what I had in mind, and in fact, it was sheer desperation and frustration that I posted my status.  What overwhelmed me was not only the amount of people who responded with love and care (you’re all marvellous), but the amount of my lovely FB chums that have or have had experiences of antidepressants/mental health issues.

It now no longer seems taboo to discuss if you’re feeling a bit shitty but you can’t explain why, or that you want to die so as not to be a burden to others (both experiences I’ve had in the past).  Depression and anxiety seems to be much more accepted nowadays.  There’s a storyline in Coronation Street at the moment where Steve McDonald has been suffering with depression and not told anyone about it.  Discussing it with a close friend who also suffers on and off with depression, he said that the way it is being handled is pretty much spot on.  I’ve seen a lot of tweets supporting the storyline and how depression is being portrayed, some from folk who suffer it but some from charities such as MIND. 

A lot of people simply can’t cope at the prospect of having to get up and go out to work, or just leave the house in general.  When I suffered my last severe bout of depression, it was traumatic moving from the sofa – nothing could hurt me there… I could sit under a duvet, with a cat (usually Lilith) on my lap, sobbing, drinking tea and watching trash TV.  That was my safe place, and it still is to some extent.

To think that so many of my friends have been through something very similar is really quite upsetting, when I think about it… I mean, it’s great that you’re all powering through with or without medication but for you to have been so low down that you didn’t know where to turn to next genuinely pains me. 

I accept my depression is part of who I am; there’s no use trying to think otherwise.  I can’t bottle it up anymore, that way madness, pain and possibly suicide lies.

Basically, thank you everyone.  Thank you for accepting me as I am, with my black moods and my good days.  Thank you all for the support you offered me from Friday last week and over the weekend, the phone calls, the texts, the FB messages.  It’s nice to know I mean a lot to so many; and you all mean a lot to me.

Long blog post is long and possibly ultimately pointless

As of late I have not been taking my medication, what with one thing and another – mainly though, I’ve run out and hadn’t been to get any more.  Seems I really do still need it.  I’m lacking in motivation for anything, I’ve become incredibly resentful of everything and everyone, I feel like I’m going to cry at the drop of a hat (although to be honest, that could be more to do with my hormones than anything).

My lack of medication is totally my fault, the only time I can get to the GP to request it is before work and lack of motivation and sheer idleness prevents me from doing so.  I’m usually late for work as it is so taking a few more minutes to go and request my medicine is a BIG DEAL at the moment.  Well it is for me, anyway. 

At some points I feel like I’m living in a bubble and just observing all that goes on around me, including my own life… it’s like I’m watching from outside myself; watching myself weigh in at Slimming World, watching myself out at the pub with friends… I’m going back to feeling like I’m existing and not living and this is not healthy.  But it isn’t happening all the time, just occasionally, and I am aware of it as I know what signs to look for and THANKFULLY, I haven’t been suicidal.

Over the past few months, there have been a few quite significant events that have happened within my family and social life and I’m not coping at all well with them.  I’ve pushed them all to the back of my mind, tried to hide them; but they keep coming back with a hammer blow to the face and a cheerily fiendish ‘HIYA!’  There are some things I tried to confront but found far too difficult; so I’ve withdrawn.  It’s not an ideal thing to do really but I have to do it; I have to put myself first and not be placed into situations where I am going to feel uncomfortable, hurt or upset.  But there again, when I have tried facing up to these things and confronted the issues, I just get shouted down or ignored anyway, so the side of me that accepts I can’t make a difference, that just takes it makes herself known and I just take these things head on.  Why argue back?  It’ll always be a case of who can shout loudest and to be perfectly honest, I’m tired.  I’m too jaded to try and fight for myself, to try to get my point across.  I’m losing my fire and my fight.
 

I’m aware this is a rambling shambolic mess of a blog post, and I’m not quite sure what point I wanted to make.  But does there ever have to be a point of a blog post?  Maybe the point of this post is to say ‘Hi, I’m Tara and I still suffer from depression’; or maybe it’s to say ‘Hi, I’m Tara and I lack the motivation to do anything worthwhile’; it could be ‘Hi, I’m Tara and it’s my fucking own stupid fault that my depression is kicking me around’, but I think it’s more likely ‘Hi, I’m Tara.  I’m still here, my depression has shown itself again and I’m trying to control it, but please remember, I’m still here, I still have feelings; some of your actions and words can be hurtful. Please don’t dismiss me.  I’m still here.’

Today I am sad

Copyright Chris (Simpsons artist xox)

Today I am sad.  Not in a ‘ahh saddo’ sort of a way, but a genuine feeling of cheerlessness.  Suicide has claimed another life, but this time it’s a big Hollywood star.  Robin Williams, known for Mork and Mindy, Good Morning Vietnam, One Hour Photo, Mrs Doubtfire, Good Will Hunting (I could go on) is dead of apparent suicide.  And it’s really very sad.

Williams had well known battles with drink and drugs, and had checked into rehab again as recently as July this year for ‘fine tuning’ of his sobriety.  His publicist stated he had been battling ‘severe depression’.  And now, the usual comments regarding celebrities who suffer depression start:

What did he have to be depressed about?  

I’d switch places with him, a little bit of depression but all that money!

Why didn’t he seek help, I mean he could afford the best psychiatric care.

How selfish.  What a selfish person, leaving his wife and kids like that.

I could go on.  These are statements that are trotted out whenever someone in the public eye takes their own life, and quite frankly they piss me right off.  Depression can strike anyone, whether you’re a big Hollywood star or a little ginger nobody from Coventry.  

My experiences of depression I have had people say:

 

‘What are you depressed about?  Look at all the killing and famine and war in the world, and then tell me you’re still depressed about your life’.

‘Snap out of it’ (a stone cold classic).

‘You’re just doing it for attention’.

‘I might tell my GP I’m depressed, I could do with some time off work’.

I could go on, but I won’t because it makes me angry and upset.

Followers of this blog will know that I have also contemplated suicide in the past.  ‘But that’s so selfish!’ I hear you shout.  It might seem it to you, the person not suffering with depression, but to me at that time, I was absolutely convinced it would be the best thing for everyone if I wasn’t here anymore.  David would move on, he and my family would mourn and not forget me but then I wouldn’t be there sapping any positivity from them, being a burden on them, the constant crying for no reason, not wanting to leave the house, not getting out of bed… have you ever lived with a chronically depressed/suicidal person?  It’s hard fucking work.  So I thought they’d be better off without me.  

And as for cowardly; not at all.  One of the hardest things to do, I would imagine, would be to actually take your own life.  Standing on the edge of a hill on the Isle of Skye, the thought of throwing myself off kept running through my mind – and I didn’t do it because I was frightened to; it was scary, so people who succeed are pretty brave in my opinion.

Now we will have to wade through the hundreds of press reports stating the method in which Robin decided to take his own life; the Samaritans Press Office have a statement for the press to read regarding how to report on suicide (e.g. don’t state the method) which is almost always routinely ignored.

Can we not just leave him be?  He had his reasons for killing himself and whilst it is actually a tragedy, if it opens dialogue about depression, addiction and suicide, then maybe that might be a blessing.

As for me, I’m still receiving treatment for depression but have recently cut down the dosage of my antidepressants from 40mg to 30mg.  Might not seem a great deal but it was something I had wanted to do, but was scared to.  I’m coping, though.  I’m still here, and for that I am thankful.

I hope you've found your peace now, Robin.

Hooray for SCIENCE!

Yesterday I suspended the experiment that I had unwittingly begun the previous week…I remembered to take my antidepressants.

I had genuinely forgotten to take them when I had gone to Amsterdam (as there had only been two left in the box and I hadn’t taken those with me, I’d also forgotten to get my repeat prescription before I went away).  I’ll be FINE, I thought…how wrong I was.

Turns out, I do actually still really quite need my antidepressants.  I found this out yesterday whilst queuing in Boots at Central Six, in tears because a woman in the queue behind me had a child and I do not.  I also found it out whilst on a huge self hatred trip whilst David was clothes shopping.  But mostly I discovered that I still need my antidepressants when lying in the bath on my front, staring at my wrists for about twenty or so minutes, the thoughts going around my head to the tune of ‘well, if you cut, let yourself bleed out into the bath, then you’ll fall unconscious and then drown’. 

After such a fantastic week or so including:

* Going to Amsterdam with Terry and James

* David and my wedding anniversary

* Hallowe’en (best of ALL the days) where we went to watch Nosferatu on the big screen with live creepy organ music accompaniment

* A visit from our friends Liam and Vicky for the weekend which included drinking and rocking out in full Hallowe’en fancy dress.

I was terrified that I could slump down quite so far, so badly or so quickly.  And I didn’t know why I was thinking this, could’ve been post Fab Times™ slump, a combination of tiredness and lack of antidepressants or what… I really don’t know.  But I was so scared I could think those thoughts again.  I suppose it’s a step down from actually holding a knife to my wrist like I did that first day, but the fact I analysed it for about twenty or so minutes is worrying too.

Had a session with my psychologist today and explained it all to him.  He came back with ‘So why didn’t you do it, then?’  A fair question to which I thought long and hard about the answer before admitting that I know David, my family and friends would miss me.  But even admitting that seems egotistical to me.

The results of my unintentional experiment are thus:  I’m still having major problems and need the medication still - who knows how long for, but for now they're as vital to my well being as tea, hugs, cats and love.

PS.  I’m well aware that my blog posts are not cheery reading and for that I apologise, but writing really helps me out.

PPS:  Will try to blog something cheerier soon.  Promise.  Thank you all so much for reading.

Another big ole post about depression.

Seems that all this blog is good for is me discussing my depression.  I’m sorry chaps, here’s another blog post on the very same thing.  I promise to try to blog happier stuff in the future but after yesterday’s psychology session, I had to write something.

I went along to my appointment wondering what I could talk about because I was feeling relatively good, my office nemesis has begun actually acknowledging my existence and has begun talking to me again (I’ve not forgotten what happened though and I keep myself closely guarded now, not just from her but all my work colleagues), nothing massively terrible had befallen me since our last appointment. 

RAAAAARGH!  Write something cheerier next time!!

So, over the course of an hour and a half, I felt such pain and despair, a gnawing blackness of hopelessness.  I sobbed, I bawled…I thought that dark place inside me was shrinking but in these sessions it seems to gape, dragging my good feelings and emotions deep inside.  We discussed my poor body image and low self opinion (Henry Rollins was not mentioned once), and ultimately what it boiled down to was I am fat so I am a failure which ultimately led to no-one would miss me if I wasn’t here.  I haven’t felt such raw and powerful emotion since I was first diagnosed back in February.  It ached deep down to vocalise my thoughts…and the thing is, if I wasn’t fat, I could find a million and one other things to blame my failings on.  It’s just fat comes to mind because society and the media dictate that to be fat is offensive and hideous. 

We are conditioned to believe that if you are fat, you cannot be beautiful, you are looked down on, you are worthless (the horror film The ABCs of Death shows this in the segment X is for XXL – it’s maybe a little extreme).  People judge you if you are fat, it could be glandular, it could be cakes and pies and Guinness, it could also be that you are concentrating so hard on trying to get your head back in the right place that actually you haven’t been watching what you eat, and let’s not forget that some antidepressants can make you a big ole tubster.

I was in pain yesterday, horrific terrible inner pain.  A pain not felt for months…the session preyed on my mind for the rest of the day and evening.  It left me feeling out of sorts; David had to constantly ask me if I was okay.  It was just such a powerful thing to experience and to think that I had been feeling that virtually every single day, well even before I was diagnosed and signed off work, it truly is amazing that I didn’t kill myself.  No one should ever have to feel like that, go through the pain and anguish that your mind can cruelly put you through.

I am hoping that this is a turning point for me.  I wish to not go back there ever again.  It’s painful and it’s raw and it took me aback yesterday that I could still feel that.  I thought I was getting better…seems it’s a long road. 

I know there's hope at the end of here...