Anxiety, My Fight - A Guest's Story

For the first time ever on this blog, I have allowed someone to write their own story. A guest post. To show that there are others out there who struggle with mental illness. The response to my post last week was extraordinary, and thank you to all who commented. Your response means the world to me.

I hope you can take this brilliant person's story and accept it with the grace. It sure does deserve it.

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I have used no names for my own reasons. People may recognise the story. They may not. My aim is not to identify anyone through this account. It isn't necessary.

This is dedicated to all those who have suffered with anxiety and depression, all those who suffer in silence, all those who took their choice to end their fight on their terms. I am right with you all.

My story begins in February 2009. I was 21 years old. I received my official diagnosis at this point, but in reality, I had suffered along on my own in silence for far longer.

Still to this point, 5 years later, I hate February. I am so grateful it only lasts for 28 days. I have many reasons to love February. My first niece was born on 26th February, my Mother's birthday is on 6th February, I met my now wife on 4th February. I have many reasons to hate other months too... But I don't. From the 1st to the 28th, and for Christ's sake occasional 29th. Every second of this month kills me. This is completely irrational and detrimental to my mental health, but its the case. Its me. Its part of my fight, a fight that, like so many other people know, will never be won. It just gets easier.

If we go back even further, I can now see signs in myself that my depression and anxiety issues started in my teens. This is common and many teenagers grow out of it. Puberty is a tough time as it is, but I found it harder. I convinced myself that I was ugly and useless and had made myself a victim of certain personalities in the school who wanted to hurt me. This made the next four years fairly fucking awful, but I survived them. I spent a lot of that time off sick or smoking weed and committing pointless, immature crimes like a lot of teenage boys do where I grew up. It was what we had to do, so we did it.

I left school at the time I met my first girlfriend. This was hard. I had never had a mature relationship before. Being 17 I thought this was a serious relationship, not some dumb kid type boyfriend/girlfriend crap. I convinced myself it would last forever. It didn't, and looking back with experience of age, it was clear it never would. I spent the entire six months of that relationship jealous and anxious that she would leave me, and she did because she couldn't handle the jealousy and anxiety. Fair enough.

Problem with that is, it enforces the doubt I had in myself. Everyone I knew said it would be alright, and that we weren't right together. That's obvious now, but at the time, she was the one. I fell into a black hole. Many sufferers will understand this term. I felt like there was nothing to get up for, no point in trying and that I was a waste of life. This is depression. It sounds pathetic to those who do not understand, but do not doubt the power that this feeling musters. It is all enforcing and soul destroying. It takes your energy, your motivation, your ability to feel anything other than sorrow.

Luckily for me, this was my first recognisable battle with depression and for me, time and drugs were a great healer. I mean drugs as in narcotics, not prescribed medication. I made my own prescription and took silly amounts of drugs to fuel my way through the next two years.

I damn near killed myself more than once through drugs. I dosed up like I was bulletproof, and took the come downs as the punishment a waster like me deserved. I hid a lot of this from a lot of people. Mental health sufferers are some of the best actors in the world. You ask if we're ok, and we can fake a yes pretty fucking well I can tell you.

Oppositely, I flaunted my habit to those I knew it would hurt or who I felt didn't deserve. I wanted to alienate people who cared for me to continue to prove to myself that I was a waste of space and no one could care about me. Luckily for me, no matter how hard I tried, my friends would never give up on me. They should have hated for me for the many things I did to them, but they didn't, they refused to and saw something in me that I didn't. During this time, I did a lot of stupid shit, a lot of which I regret enormously. Especially all of the girls I hurt. I hurt a lot. I reflected my pain on to you and took advantage of your sympathies and treated you like dirt. I am not proud. I had started to self-harm at this point but managed to hide that from nearly everyone. I did this only a few times, and the rush was exceptional, but my means of escape had always been drugs and I always push things too far. I knew my limits with drugs but was scared of seriously hurting myself and people finding out what I was if I kept cutting. The cutting stopped and the drugs continued. I had begun to slow down because I had met a girl and applied for a job...

I started another relationship and got myself cleaned up a bit through the help of my friends. I found a job in a bank, and for a while, things looked good. I was enjoying myself most of the time but occasionally I felt moments of the darkness creeping up on me. I would have days where I just wanted to be alone. I worked in Bedford until 2009, when I got a promotion to Milton Keynes.

In that concrete city, my world fell apart.

I started the job with two weeks away in Gloucester which were fun. I loved it, I was alone in a hotel room for two whole weeks. I had to spend 7 hours a day with people and the rest of the time I was left to my own devices. I craved that being alone. I felt I needed it, to be a recluse in my own little room, away from the world and hidden from all the pain I cause others.

Eventually my two weeks were up and I returned to the real world. I started my job and almost immediately felt something was wrong. I felt so scared of something but didn't know what. I felt terror like I had never experienced before. I spent my lunch breaks in my car crying, wishing to die or have a car plough into mine with me in it. Anything to happen just so that I didn't have to go back into work. I had started some exams that were necessary for my promotion and aced them, but on the last one, I ran from the examination hall crying, got in my car, forgot work and just drove home. This was the first time anyone saw what I was like. My parents were worried and rang work. I said I was just worried about the exam and now I knew I had passed, I would be ok. Its amazing how easy it is to make people believe total crap when you really need them to.

I carried on going to work, crying at lunch and not reaching the targets I was meant to for work. I would get home and cry, weight fell off me. I wouldn't eat or go out. I couldn't sleep and when I did it was full of nightmares.

My first panic attack was terrifying. I was imagining an interview I had the next day. I went through the whole thing in  my head and simply stopped breathing. I couldn't breathe. I have asthma, and no attack I have ever had been like this. It felt like my stomach had been ripped out and writing this now I can feel the sensations starting.

...

I have just come back from a break. Even putting this in words is hard. People won't understand but this is more than an illness to me. It is a part of me. A part I hate.

I went to work after this panic attack and that was the last full shift I ever did. Or at least the last I remember.

I went to the GP's the next day and fell on the floor of the office crying, begging to not go back there. I was signed off and given my first prescription. Fluoxetine 25mg. This tablet made me gain weight, lose my ability to gain an erection or when I did it prevented my climaxing. All of these things DO NOT HELP DEPRESSION!! Eventually, the side effects wore off and I improved. I improved even more so when I found a new job working with adults with learning disabilities.

At this point, I felt the entire episode was a one off and down to the job, the location and the people I worked with and what was expected of me. I felt happy in my new role, to the point where I was eventually taken off my meds. For the next six months, things were going well. I had ups and downs like we all do, but for the whole felt pretty good in myself.

In February the following year I began feeling low again. I had doubts in my relationship and went about dealing with them terribly. I treated people like dirt and worked myself into the ground. I was pulling 100 hour weeks to avoid having to see people. I started using drugs again as a coping mechanism. My then current manager took me aside and spoke with me. She said she had noticed me feeling down and showing worrying signs. She made me see my GP. He made me attend counselling.

I attended CBT, (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy). A type of self-help scheme. Understand the way you think and make yourself think differently. Oh, if only it were that easy. During the therapy I was with similar people fighting the same fight as me. This made me feel good and outside of the sessions, the world felt better. However, six sessions doesn't solve a lifetime of issues, no matter how small. I was discharged and within weeks had fallen back into the same pattern. The single most upsetting thing then happened to me in relation to my diagnosis. Throughout the entire thing, you are told to not be ashamed. The stigma shouldn't exist. People won't judge you... Bollocks. I had received a leaflet which became like a bible to me. Dealing with Anxiety. It had never given any advice that had helped me but having that little folded piece of paper stating exactly what was wrong with me somehow made me feel better. It kept me away from the empty and terrorizing feeling of despair which had swallowed me time and time again. It had prevented the feeling of oncoming doom with no idea why you feel that way. Knowing I was sick and not just broken had helped me. It was a real, tangible thing. I wasn't crazy. My ex asked me to hide it because her family were coming over. At this point I fractured. I felt my love for her ebb away. I felt shame I have never felt comparable to. It damn near fucking killed me. But I hid it. Another issue many with anxiety have is not just a crushing lack of confidence but an inept ability to avoid conflict and do whatever it takes to make others happy even at the detriment to their own health. So hide it I did.

The relationship lasted another year with me back on medication and ending with me being thrown out of my parents house. It had been a shit year. It ended February 2011. I went home with my Dad taking me back in and all had been forgotten. I had met my now wife. Things were looking better. I felt stronger.

I went to a gym and shed five and a half stone. I got fit. I moved in with my now wife. I took work by the scruff of the neck and spent a year working hard to earn a promotion and am now sitting pretty and in a good place.

I put myself through counselling and had ten sessions of talking one-on-one and just getting everything off my chest and it felt amazing.

I still have ups and downs. I still have dark days but these are much fewer and are becoming more often just dark moments. I am on the highest prescribed dose of my current medication and I use this as a stick to lean on and I am anxious about it being stopped or even reduced. My GP wants to reduce it but I have told her no. Citalopram is my coping mechanism now.

Even when I blew my back to pieces, I felt ok about it most of the time. I lost my ability to work out like I had and it affected my ability to do a job I loved, but rather than break down as I would have previously, I battled through. I am still battling.

I am happy but I am anxious. I will always be more anxious than other people. Tiny things can make me anxious. I often feel like I let people down. I often feel a failure. I often feel I am not good enough for people, especially my wife.

I spent the first year of our relationship convinced she should and would leave me. She didn't; she stuck with me and understood my affliction. She is my rock.

People who say suicide is the easy way out are wrong. Here is why.

Suicide. The hardest thing a person can do. Anyone in my shoes has contemplated it. Fuck it, I have nearly done it. You think about all the people you let down, you hurt, you make their lives worse. The pain you feel imagining all of that is more hurtful than any other pain I have experienced. Making a decision you believe improves the lives of everyone else you know is the single bravest thing anyone can do, even if it is misjudged.

Beating anxiety and depression. I feel lucky in a way that I tend to suffer with anxiety and not depression or both together. I am prone to depression but usually I feel anxious and combat that with an activity, be it a run or cleaning. I have spent so long cleaning before, it has now resulted in me having a confirmed diagnosis of OCD, (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). But my OCD helps me beat my anxiety. It also stimulates it when something is wrong, i.e. out of place, but am unable to fix it that very second. However, I have other ways to help myself. Firstly;

Tell someone how you feel. Anyone. A friend, family, pet, whoever. Just talk. It helps a lot.

Seek out help. See a GP or seek counselling or call MIND, (0300 123 3393). Do not go it alone. You will make yourself worse by fighting alone. You start self-fulfilling prophecies that make issues greater still.

DO NOT TAKE DRUGS OR ALCOHOL. This will make things a shit load worse. I tried. It briefly helps, but multiplies greatly. You will alienate everyone and lose the support you have.

Take medication if you are offered. It isn't a bad thing. I thought that. I hated being on it. I'm glad I did it and will never judge anyone who takes medication again. Some people require it. Its not their fault, they just need it.

Surround yourself with people who understand the issue and love you anyway. Avoid toxic people who don't understand or don't give a shit.

It's not a fight you can win, but you can beat it down and manage it with the right tools.

This is only a brief account of my tale despite the length. I have a million individual stories which make up this story as a whole. Each individual day, incident, interaction is a story. I remember a lot of them, but have forgotten a whole lot more. I know why my anxiety is there. Counselling helped me discover this. That is mine to know. It won't be the same as yours, it never is. But our paths may not be that different, so before crashing off yours, remember I made it a lot further down mine so far and I'm gonna keep on going. You can to.

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