This isn’t going to be a particularly cheerful blog post, I will be talking about mental illness. If you’re feeling vulnerable, please read with caution.
I am depressed. By that, I don’t mean being a little bit sad, I mean full blown life altering depression, resulting in me being in hospital. People are using the term “breakdown” and to be fair, that’s quite an accurate description. I don’t feel ashamed about the fact that I am depressed.
Depression is ugly At times, it has felt like there’s been no way out. There aren’t any clear cut answers and it’s been more than a little bit chaotic. It is so much more than just being sad. It’s a feeling of endless hopelessness, combined with a fear that in unexplainable. It’s nothingness. It’s not knowing how to and not wanting to carry on.
Having said all of that, I consider myself as pretty lucky. When things started going wrong, my GP very quickly referred me back to mental health services, someone from the team rang me that same afternoon and the following Monday I had an assessment with the mental health team. I wasn’t expecting much, my previous experiences with the mental health team haven’t been positive, I’ve always been “functioning” meaning that despite any mental health battles, I’ve held down a job and coped (for the most part) without any intervention being needed.
This time, things were different. I was so depressed during the assessment, I could hardly speak. I couldn’t cry because I was too depressed to cry. Within ten minutes, a decision had been made that I needed to be referred to the day patient service at the local psychiatric hospital. I was shocked, scared but ultimately, numb, to this news because I honestly felt in a place whereby I was beyond help. I wanted to die. It’s a hard thing to admit, but I’m not going to shy away from it. By the end of the week, I had been assessed by the day service and then started the following week.
I’m now nearing the end of my two weeks as a day patient and will be transferring to a step-down service, run by the mental health team and Mind. Honestly? I am terrified. The walls of the hospital have been my safety and security. I’ve been under constant supervision and I’m scared about how I’m going to cope without that. But I’ll never know unless I try. I have got to try, for myself but also for the people who have had my back over the past few weeks and supported me when I have felt unsupportable. I’ll still have support from staff, albeit less intensively – I’m not expected to go out into the world alone just yet, thankfully. I could fall, I could fly, but I will not fail, whatever happens.
There has been progress. Despite being physically unwell over the past few days (yay gastroparesis), mentally I’ve been okay. Last weekend I was counting the hours until I was back in hospital, I resorted to behaviours that I haven’t engaged in for years, and I mean years and the thought of getting to Monday morning and being back in hospital felt impossible. This weekend hasn’t been completely struggle-free but I’ve managed. I’ve used the advice and things that I had learnt in psycho-education sessions to keep myself safe.
Why am I writing all of this? Because I’m angry. I’m so bloody angry. I’ve struggled with mental illness for years and years, so maybe this was inevitable. But maybe not. The biggest trigger to this breakdown, or whatever you want to call it, has been my physical health. In the past 18 months, my life has changed drastically. I’ve gone from holding down a full-time job, saving to buy my own home and being a fairly independent adult to being on longterm sick leave, frequenting hospital more than I frequent pubs, with no real hope of moving out, being heavily reliant on my mum. Don’t get me wrong, I was still ill when I was working, but the diagnosis of gastroparesis and then Addison’s Disease has turned my life upside down. And I have had no support in dealing with that. There is a huge correlation between mental and physical health: you have a cold for a few days and mentally you feel like shit. Now imagine feeling shit, but more, every single day. With no escape.
Chronic illness, or any form, is life changing. But you don’t get the support in dealing with that. You’re expected to cope. Expected to just get on with it. That is not okay. I know of too many people from the chronic illness community who are now in hospital because of their physical health. I’m angry because I’ve been failed and I’m angry because so many other people are also being failed.
So yes, I’m feeling mentally stronger having been a day patient, but none of the underlying issues have been addressed. The trauma of my life changing so much in such a short space of time has not been addressed. No one has acknowledged the trauma of having to fight with medical professionals just to be believed. The medical traumas that I am unable to even begin to speak about are still being brushed aside.
We have got to connect the dots between mental and physical health. One cannot exist without the other. I don’t know how to make the changes that need to happen. But I do know that this has got to be talked about more, to prevent more people from being failed.