The second time

It's like you're being split open, my mum said. Childbirth. Pain no woman knows until they have been through it themselves. I was at that age when you ask about everything – how are babies made, what happens when you die... I didn't like the sound of being split open. Why were people still having babies if it hurt that much? But mum said that as soon as I was handed to her she forgot all about the pain. Her body healed and she had a brand new baby – it had been worth it.

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As I recover from my second episode of anxiety and depression, I am catching glimmers of what is coming next. When I was at my worst, just ten weeks ago, my close friend Emily held my hand and said there would be something good at the end of all this. It is difficult to admit that I was struggling to live back then, even when, on the outside, there was nothing 'wrong' with my life. It's not your fault if you don't understand. I didn't, either, until it happened to me.

It has been up and down, with a debilitating two weeks at the start of it all, back in June. But right now I am excited for the future. Everything feels new, like I have never written a blog post before, never eaten porridge for breakfast, never known the joy of living a simple existence – underneath the dark screen I couldn't see past for so long was this wonderful fresh layer of hope and I can't help but think... maybe it was worth it?

If mothers can give birth and fully recover, with a baby to love and look after, I wonder if I might, too. I'm not thinking about having children anytime soon but I do wonder if I have the ability to bounce back from difficult experiences? Because what I am experiencing now is so much better than I could have ever imagined.

God never gives us more than we can handle, so I've been told. But there were moments, days, weeks when I felt like I couldn't go on, like I would never get better and like I had never felt worse. I knew the pain I felt wasn't from God, but I wondered where he was, why couldn't I reach out to him and feel the peace everyone was talking about? Why was this happening to me, again? But even when every slow second of living felt worse than the thought of death, I kept going.

Setbacks shake us out of our routines and cause a right shit show. Ten weeks ago I was waking up with heart palpitations, my whole body stiff with fear, every limb double its weight. It literally happened overnight, just like the first time. Simple tasks like showering and putting on clothes were mammoth, exhausting, impossible without the help of my mum or dad, talking me through it all as I cried down the phone. I was scared of everything – of leaving the house, walking to work, of the day ahead, of coming home, how I would feel tomorrow, of the past. The rational part of my brain fought to be heard among all the lies the emotional part was telling me, often to the point of sheer panic and despair. It baffles me, then, that I am now in a position in which I can sit here and write about this horrible ordeal, with some kind of new and improved perspective, when I, the same person, was thinking and believing terrible things about myself just weeks ago.

I was naive, I understand now, to think a prescription for antidepressants would rid me of the depression and anxiety I had experienced in 2013. I never thought I would feel like this again. I thought I had it under control. But really, it was sitting there at the back of my mind, waiting for the right opportunity to attack. Over the years I had put it to one side, thought of it as something I had dealt with and didn't want to talk about or associate myself with anymore. It was easier to get on with my day-to-day life than dig up the root of my anxiety and depression with the help of a professional. But then it came back and I had no choice.

I tried to write when I was in the midst of my crisis, but my brain had stopped working properly. It was as if a switch had been flipped. I tried to read the blog post I wrote last time I was in recovery, but I couldn't concentrate on anything for more than ten seconds. There was no room in my mind for anything except dark, deep sadness, a feeling of total isolation and melancholy. The joy had been sapped out of everything. I saw everything differently, everything dark. Dull, depressive despondency made everything I usually loved bad. I didn't eat, I didn't exercise, I didn't even want coffee! The only escape was in my sleep, which was irregular and often disrupted with nightmares, anyway. I didn't know how I could have ever felt any different to this.

Everyone says depression isn't a weakness, it's an illness, but it certainly makes me feel weak. It makes me tired, hypersensitive and completely dependent on other people to help me get through each day. I look at others my age who live in cities far away from their family home, who travel the world solo, who are able to cope with everyday life and feel like a failure in comparison. We are encouraged to be happy by ourselves, to follow our own paths, to do whatever we want to do - so long as we're strong and independent. This message is everywhere - on social media, in blogs, books, magazines, TV, but it is so damaging. We all need a support network, a community around us, we can't do it all by ourselves.

I'm just going to say it plain and simple: it's okay to be lonely. It's okay to need company. It's okay to need community. It's okay to need friends. It's okay to need love. It's okay to need physical touch. It's okay to want someone to look after you when you're feeling unwell. It's okay to want to come home to a family and not a messy house you share with people you don't know. It's okay not to want to live alone or want a high-powered career, or a career at all. It's okay to want to live one day to the next with the simple aim of enjoying it. It's okay to be different to others your age. It's okay to still need your parents at 26 years old. It's okay to be completely and utterly vulnerable even if your mind is telling you it's not.

I used to look back on my past with some kind of sense of superiority, as if I had it all figured out now with my "proper" job, my stable mental health and the fact that I was 100% independent, living away from home and supporting myself without anyone's help. But who was I trying to prove myself to? I am already accepted, already flawed, already never going to earn the only person's approval I need, because I already have it. Once again I was living according to some made up rules I had set myself to try and keep up with everyone around me.

"For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well."
– Psalm 139:13-14

It took another breakdown for me to come back down to earth and refocus. What is important to me? Why do I do what I do? What am I living for? Why don't I talk about my mental health more? Why don't I ask others how they really are? Why am I constantly comparing myself to others? Why am I afraid to be vulnerable?

It might not be the obvious route for most twenty-somethings, but I am now living with my parents again in my hometown and adopting a slower pace of life. I have a new job (which I love) and am beginning to enjoy living again – not for anyone else and not by anyone else's standards. I am learning about what I need to take care of myself and my mental health – meaningful human contact every day, community, purpose, serving. I am trying to keep the vulnerable part of me vulnerable, allowing myself to cry, talk about the worries I have that I never thought I would voice – be really real.

Wouldn't it be great if mental health wasn't such an awkward thing to talk about? For me, it's almost as if pretending it's not a problem is exactly how it manifests. So if you're still reading this (thank you!) and you are going through something similar, have done, or know someone who has, I'd love to talk to you about it. Who do you turn to? What advice would you give? Please leave a comment below or email me at whatnaomiwrote@gmail.com.

Where is Your Identity?

Do you ever bury your words? I began writing this in May but my anxious nature left it in the drafts. I worry about who will read this. What will you think? But, sometimes, a moment of bravery brings you back – both in writing and in life. 

About four years ago, I woke up one day with an enormous weight of sadness hanging over me. I was a final year creative writing student in Cheltenham, and that was my life. I could pinpoint exactly what it was that triggered it, the beginning of it all, but there were so many other things to come. It was a snowball effect. There was no single reason. Not one I can pinpoint. If there was someone or something I could blame it would be easy.

My 21st Birthday was one I would rather have forgotten, had it not been for my family. You don't realise how fortunate you are, how much worse it could be, how much love there is in the world, until it all goes to shit and your family is there to see you through. Had it not been for the smallest gestures, the constant love, the every-day smiles, I might not be here.

Mental illness isn't a choice, but the way you deal with it is. And you always have a choice. I chose to find a way, and now, four years later, I am still struggling, but I can say with great boldness that I am 100% myself.

It is now, when I look back, that I see what God did. He brought me back to Him.

When I went to university I turned my back on God. I couldn't wait to do whatever I wanted after living in a Christian household my whole life, and while it was fun to begin with, the inevitable downfall was not worth it. Not even a tiny bit.

Now I know who I am, I know where I am and, even though I don't know where I am going, I know where my identity lies. My purpose is in something much bigger than me or anyone on this earth. It isn't spread around in a random scattering, on anyone or anything. It doesn't land on whoever captures my attention for longer than a minute, or two. It lies solely in Him.

When I put my identity in other things I allowed a part of myself to be lost. Whatever it was... it couldn't keep me safe. Nothing is forever or as constant as the love of God. He was the only thing that stayed the same in the darkest moments of my life, and for that I thank Him every day.

I have lost love, friendships, time, experiences, a piece of myself... but what I lost was found ten times over when I put my identity back in Him. My life is richer now. I have a purpose. My identity is in Him and I am protected. And, when I feel like I'm beginning to falter – when I feel like I am losing a part of myself again – I re-centre my focus onto Him, and it is well with my soul.

The Rest

It was over two months ago that I flew to LA on my own. I was meeting a group of people – some I knew, some I didn't. I wasn't nervous. I guess I should be thankful that my anxiety is irrational. The scary things don't scare me. It might be easier if they did.

I welcomed the heat to my skin like an old friend. I had left a long summer behind, over 5,000 miles away, and was happy to see this one. This place I had known from a distance my whole life. 

Happiness hit me, like it does, but with the fog that the drugs promise. I'm figuring it out, I tell myself daily. There aren't enough resources for mental health, you know. Just drugs. The sun's rays fought through, resting on my eyes, lighting me up. What a place to absorb, a scene picked right out of The OC. I forced myself to believe it. A sky with its fresh coat of paint and that pool, a haven, whirring beneath us. How far I had come.

Rest takes many forms. For years I would tell people 'I'm an introvert.' I needed time on my own to recharge. Maybe I grew up, or changed, or trained myself to enjoy talking to people, because now I don't know what I am. Now I like time alone with others. Lying, sitting, standing, in comfortable silence with almost strangers. I am fine on my own, but then it scares me more than anything else. At what point do you tip over? By day five I was ready for the 11-hour, solo flight home.

Home to my new home. Home to my not home. I cried for a week, like I was 18 again, except I had no one to latch onto. I had responsibilities. My mum, instead, took the phone calls, and my God took the night calls. 

When does it start to feel okay again? When does something painful turn into something positive? Four months of misery in my mind, a weight on my head, somehow lifting without me even noticing. My rest – I saw friends more, made new ones, said yes, spoke up, answered, asked – adjusting to a fresh new way of life, richer than I could have ever imagined.  

Now perspective is sinking in. Hindsight – they say it's a wonderful thing. 

I realised I didn't need a home away from home. I didn't need a replacement mum and dad. I didn't need what they were dangling in front of me, but not quite offering. I didn't need church 24/7. I needed to be on my own, to be afraid, to push the boundaries of my faith and what it truly means to be a Christian – to step outside of my comfort zone. Why would I let anyone, or anything, else do that for me?

You have to thank God for the way He is so right about everything. Something shifted. I began to thank Him for it all. For all the stress, the tears, the time. Where would I have gone had I stayed where I was? Nowhere. He gave me the push I needed to go. And I came up for air.

Defeating Depression

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If you have ever experienced depression - however serious and to whatever extent - you will know what a cripplingly painful and indescribably lonely illness it is. There is a difference between feeling down in the dumps and having depression. If it lasts a long time, and you feel like you can't cope, then none of these expressions should be tolerated:

"Just snap out of it."
"Everyone gets sad." 
"Cheer up." 
"It's not the end of the world." 
"Other people have it much worse than you." 

All of these display ignorance, and it needs to stop. A lot of people mistake mental illnesses to mean that the person in question is a "psycho" or "crazy" and, due to the negative connotations of these words, they steer well clear of people who have been diagnosed with depression because of the stigma attached - purely because of our ignorance and fear of the complex and varied illness that has been avoided for too long.

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In our society we are not very well educated on the subject matter, despite it affecting 1 in 4 of us. Rates of depression are increasing in the UK, and although there are a number of reasons to suggest why, it is important that those who are lucky enough never to experience it first hand understand and educate themselves if they ever have to support someone who does go through a mental illness.

"I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I'd cry for a week. I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full."

- Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar.

Depression and anxiety are words that have become desensitised in recent years. People say they are depressed if they aren't having a good day, if it's raining, they've spent their pay cheque already, and sometimes it's difficult for us to differentiate between what is real depression and what is just having a bad day.

It is also important to remember that there are physical aspects to suffering with depression, too: 

• Headaches
• Exhaustion and fatigue
• Digestive problems including queasiness, nausea, diarrhea and chronic constipation
• Sleep disturbances
• Change in appetite or weight* 

Having been a part of an online community since the age of twelve, I have noticed an increasing trend in how 'cool' it is to have a mental illness. Perhaps, if there were more emphasis on the physical aspects of depression in the media, then it would reflect a more accurate picture of what it is like to have a mental illness.

Unlike in Twilight: New Moon, we don't all have an immortal vampire for a boyfriend who is the cause and cure for our issues. I can't deny that I absolutely love the soundtrack in this film, though.

A film that inspired me to write this post was Girl, Interrupted. Although it portrays mental illness in a rather extreme light, the protagonist, Susanna is actually, seemingly relatively normal. A frightening concept for the viewer, especially when we learn that she swallowed a bottle of aspirin to "try and make the shit stop." The film explores how everyone is human, and we are all capable and vulnerable of experiencing mental illness. I have come to realise that we all weigh somewhere on the spectrum, and it is constantly changing. We may be in one place for a long time and then suddenly move up or down, depending on where we are in our lives and what we are going through.

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"Crazy isn't being broken or swallowing a dark secret. It's you or me amplified. If you ever told a lie and enjoyed it. If you ever wished you could be a child forever."

- Girl, Interrupted.

We shouldn't be afraid of other people, when we could, so easily, be going through what they are, too. We are all of the same species. We are all unique, but at the same time, we are all vulnerable to the same afflictions. It could so easily be you, your friend, your sister, your mum, or dad, who suffers with depression.

Before I experienced it myself, my idea of the terror, fear, loneliness and darkness that is depression was so far off the mark that I felt I had to write this post to stress how serious it is to those who are as naive as I was. I would not wish the racing thoughts, guilt, panic attacks and constant worrying on anyone, but I want to urge people to learn more about it. It gets worse before it gets better, but when you finally see the light at the end of the tunnel it is the most glorious greeting of happiness that you just want to shout to the whole world about it.

If you are suffering from a mental illness, you shouldn't feel embarrassed or afraid to talk about it. It shouldn't be something people are put off by. It shouldn't set you apart from other "normal" people. It shouldn't put you in the box of "psycho" or "freak." Those boxes do not exist. While mental illnesses have names, they do not define you as a person. You will always be you, not whatever you have been diagnosed with. But this way of thinking needs to be affirmed by everyone.

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Depression is not a bad mood that you can just snap out of. It does not always have an obvious cause, or root. It does not mean you are going to be depressed forever, or that you are going "crazy." Sometimes, it happens due to stressful events, breakdown in relationships or major changes in one's life, and sometimes it happens for seemingly no reason at all.

What it does mean is that you are human, and that you are alive. You are never alone, no matter how isolated you feel, trapped by the evil thoughts in your head.

Here are a few things I have found that help allay some of the distress in depression and anxiety:

• It always helps to talk. 
• Run a bath, relax, focus on your breathing.
• Meditate.
• Pray.
• Write it down.
• Exercise - go for a walk. Get out of the house. A change of scenery will help, too.
• Diet - oily fish, brazil nuts, dark chocolate and plenty of fruit and vegetables always help boost my mood.
• Spend time with friends and family. No matter how much you want to stay inside, on your own, it is so important to carry on with the things you enjoy.  

And, if you need medication to help you get back on track with your life, mentally, then there is nothing wrong with that either. Depression has very real, physical side effects which need to be addressed. Taking medication for your mental illness is as normal and important as it is when taking medication for an upset stomach, throat infection - or any other physical problems.

Just remember, however lonely you feel, you are never alone.

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*Source: 9 Physical Symptoms of Depression

The Road Goes Ever On

Day 15: The road goes ever on

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Waking up is the worst part. Untangling the mass of dreams to distinguish between fantasy and reality on a wet, white morning can be the confusing start of a cosy day spent inside with the fire or a long, thought filled day at work hammering fingers on keyboards, blocking out drivel about meeting targets in time for next week's targets and the week after that's targets.

Some split their days into units like that guy in About a Boy. It's satisfying to plan things out, make lists, tick each item off, or draw a line through each one. Some psychologist might know more about that.

Nobody talks about what's wrong. Yet this is what almost everyone has to say on the matter:

"Talk to someone." 

Where to start? There's breakfast, work, targets, meetings, appointments, small talk, texting, tweeting, Facebook status updates, comments, likes, drinks, dinner, tv programmes, sleep. Is there any time for talking?

The road goes ever on, the impossible distance that is time and life. Wandering from one day to the next. Wondering if there is anyone else who spends as much time thinking, and why is it so quiet and lonely when there are a thousand voices talking to you? 

Books are read, films are watched, meeting friends, taking pills, contemplating God, going on. Appetites come back, laughter isn't feigned, new thoughts replace the old. Then, one day, waking up is not the worst part. It is just a part. Another unit of the day. And the road that goes ever on is an adventure to be embraced.