Acceptance

When I started up this blog again, earlier this year, it was mainly because I wanted an outlet to write about my experiences of suffering and recovering from a mental illness. Writing has been a great way for me to process my crazy thoughts and sometimes overwhelming feelings and has helped me massively in my recovery.

I am very lucky as I have an amazing support network of friends and family and so I’ve always had someone to talk to when I’ve felt scared or overcome. And yet, a lot of the time, I have felt very alone. Although my loved ones have always been there for me, I think it has been difficult for them to understand what I have been going through. After all, they can’t see inside my head. Anxiety is a difficult condition to explain sometimes, as you can’t always articulate what you’ve anxious about. It is often just a feeling, and not a thought, and people find that difficult to grasp. And so, I turned to a support group online, to speak about my illness to others who were going through the same thing.

Just knowing that I wasn’t the only one, that I wasn’t mad, and that what I was thinking and feeling wasn’t unusual, has helped me to accept my condition and lift my mood at times. I had hoped that this blog could maybe do that for others and I have received so much positive feedback to suggest that it has helped some of you.

This week, I have been discharged from therapy and have worked with my GP to come up with a plan to come off of my medication. It’s the start of a new chapter for me, and so I probably won’t write much about my illness anymore. It may crop up from time to time, because it’s a part of who I am, but I’m past the point now where it is the main focus in my life. And although it is a part of me, I don’t want it to define me.

Yes, I am a sufferer of mental illness. But I am also a wife, a niece, a friend, a crazy cat lady, a Chartered Tax Adviser, a Law graduate, a Conservative, a toiletry hoarder, a cooking enthusiast, a clean freak and now a blogger. So I want to write about other things too, because I’ve got so much to say about the world and so much still to figure out. I hope you will still follow my ramblings and come with me on the next leg of this crazy journey called life.

Thanks to everyone who’s supported me over the past few months. And to those of you out there who are struggling, just remember, you are not alone. xx

Practical tips for recovery

The rubbish thing about a mental illness is that you’re never fully recovered. There will always be bumps in the road. You can have a great six months and then bam, a terrible day comes from nowhere.  A mental illness is not the same as a physical injury. If you sprain your ankle, it's easy to track your progress to recovery. You spend time in crutches, maybe have some physio, and take a load of painkillers. And eventually, your ankle will be well enough to walk or run on. Recovering from a mental illness isn’t quite as easy. You have to come to terms with the fact that you may have to deal with it to some degree for the rest of your life. And that involves learning coping strategies to get you through those bumps.

After a really great few months, I’ve had a tough couple of weeks. I try to push myself to do things that are outside of my comfort zone and to not let my anxiety disorder stop me from living my life to the full, but sometimes, I can push myself too much, resulting in a bit of a slump, and some anxious thoughts and feelings.

I thought it might be useful to share my experience of the everyday coping strategies that I use to get back on track. They might not work for everyone, but hopefully, if you’re struggling, they might provide you with some ideas.

1)      Mindfulness, mindfulness, mindfulness. I cannot advocate this enough. When your thoughts are getting on top of you, focus on your breath and your senses, and I guarantee you will begin to feel calmer. It takes practice and time, but it’s well worth getting to grips with.

2)      Sleep. Not to escape from whatever’s bothering you, but to recharge your batteries. I am a firm believe that if you are tired, your body is trying to tell you something. Get an early night, sleep in or take an afternoon off and catch up on kip. (I know it’s easy for me to say that, having no children or commitments, but if you can, then do.)

3)      Exercise. The one my doctor always tells me to do that makes me want to strangle her. But it does work. If the gym’s not for you, don’t worry (it’s not always for me either.) But even just walking around the block for 20 minutes always calms me down and changes my focus, and it usually gets rid of those nasty physical symptoms too.

4)      Distract yourself. This one doesn’t always work but sometimes just focusing on something different distracts me enough to get rid of the anxious thoughts. Plan a trip away, look through some cookbooks, declutter your wardrobe, write a blog! It’s quite difficult for the mind to focus on too many things so if you’re concentrating on something else, chances are, you won’t be worrying.

5)      Try some CBT techniques. This one’s quite new to me. I’m half way through a course of CBT and still figuring out what works for me. When you find yourself catastrophising, just say STOP! Say it out loud. Put the thought in to a bubble, balloon, whatever visualisation works for you and let it go. Refuse to entertain those thoughts. Focus on something else straight away. With persistence, you can learn to stop those thoughts from owning you.

6)      Talk. To your husband, to your friend, to a support group online. Or just write all your thoughts down. But don’t keep them inside. Sharing my fears makes them seem much less scary. And actually saying things out loud helps me rationalise them.

7)      Reward yourself. Appreciate how far you’ve come. When I’m feeling shit about myself or having an anxious day, I try to remember how bad I was in February of this year. In six short months, I have went from locking myself in the bathroom and pulling my own skin off, to getting up for work every day and actually doing a good job. I look at those scars and I’m not ashamed of them. I just feel glad that I’m not that person anymore.

8)      The compulsive in me had to have 8 (I like round numbers) but I can’t think of anything so let’s just say cake. You can totally fix anything with cake. 

Love

Today I listened to a TedEx talk by a woman called Rachel Kelly who came to speak at KPMG about her experience of mental illness. The talk in itself was very inspiring and provided lots of useful tips for sufferers of anxiety and depression. However, what really captured me was a poem that she read out, which I hadn't heard before by a 17th century poet called George Herbert.

I am not a religious person and on the face of it, the poem appears to portray a dialogue with God. But, as with most poetry, I think it can be interpreted in many different ways. Sufferers of mental illness often battle with a daily internal dialogue and as Rachel pointed out, this poem showcases our two conflicting voices - the voice of love, forgiveness and compassion, and the voice of the worthless depressed part of you that never feels good enough. I hope you can relate to it too.

Love 

by George Herbert

Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,

Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack

From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning

If I lack’d anything.

“A guest,” I answer’d, “worthy to be here”;

Love said, “You shall be he.”

“I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear,

I cannot look on thee.”

Love took my hand and smiling did reply,

“Who made the eyes but I?”

“Truth, Lord, but I have marr’d them; let my shame

Go where it doth deserve.”

“And know you not,” says Love, “who bore the blame?”

“My dear, then I will serve.”

“You must sit down,” says Love, “and taste my meat.”

So I did sit and eat.

An open letter to my Gran

Dear Gran

I’m sorry I couldn’t visit you this week. There’s a bug in your nursing home so they have closed it to visitors to stop the spread of infection. I hope you aren’t too lonely. The last time this happened, we couldn’t visit for weeks, and I was worried you wouldn’t remember me by the time I finally got to see you.

It’s not as easy to spend time with you now. I can’t just come to the house as and when I please, letting myself in with my key. Because you don’t live there anymore. I try to avoid your house when possible. It makes me sad knowing that someone else will be living there soon, sleeping in your bedroom and enjoying your garden. It’s maybe a good thing that you don’t remember it, as I’m sure it would make you upset too.

I have so many memories of that house, from playing in the garden with the dog when I was little, to living out my teenage years, when I moved in with you. We fought all the time – our most memorable fight being when you wouldn’t let me leave the house wearing a pair of tights which had one black leg and one white! And yet you were always there for me. On the morning I opened my exam results, on the day I graduated. You were the one who dragged me to the doctor when I was depressed. You were the first person I called after getting married (and I always felt a little bit guilty that you weren’t on that beach with me.) I would give anything now to hear you moan at me for not tidying my room.

You always spoke your mind and I loved that about you. You were so full of life, and even now when I hear you make a snide remark about another resident, or staff member at the home, it makes me smile, because it gives me hope that there is still a little bit of you left in there.

It was never meant to be this way. You were always so fit. So strong. You beat cancer twice. You were supposed to live a long and healthy life. And yet a part of you is gone now, and will never return. I can’t speak to you on the phone anymore and tell you about my day. I have lost a lifelong friend. And a piece of me feels dead inside, because the best parts of me were influenced by you. You have helped me to become the strong willed, independent person I am today. I am so glad that you complained about my messiness and forced me to study. I’m doing well now Gran, and the house is (nearly) always clean!

There are so many things I wish I could tell you. I knew you weren’t immortal, but I thought I’d have more time than this. I wish I could tell you what an inspiration you’ve been. I wish I could say thank you, for looking after me for all those years. And above all, I wish I could tell you how much you are loved. Because you are Gran. So deeply loved. I hope a part of you knows this. I hope long after the recognition has gone from your face, that love will still live on in your heart.

So I’ll see you next week Gran. And we’ll go for a walk, and I’ll try and get you to drink tea, and you’ll pace around and I’ll tell you about my week. And you’ll smile and talk nonsense and I’ll leave feeling sad that we can’t talk like we used to. But I’ll keep coming Gran. Because the love I have for you is unconditional. And even if you don’t recognise me, I can’t bear the thought of not seeing you.

Love you always

Laura xxx

There's no place like home

This weekend marks one whole year of living in our ‘new’ house. I’ll admit, I wasn’t always sure about moving to Uddingston. I’d spent the first eighteen years of my life living in a large town, desperate to move to the city. When I did finally relocate to Glasgow, I never thought I’d leave. I loved the buzz and convenience of living amid the hustle and bustle, but I knew it would never make a feasible family home. Moving back to a town meant finally accepting the end of my youth as I knew it. I’d come full circle, and it was a bit scary.

I needn’t have worried. A year down the line, I’m absolutely in love with the place. I haven’t always had the most stable home life, so it was important to me that when we finally did settle down, it would be in a place where we could establish roots. It was to be a forever home. And so on 19 September 2014, the day after the Scottish independence referendum (having had next to no sleep and only an Egg McMuffin for sustenance), Neil put down our deposit for what would be known over the next eleven months as ‘plot 12.’

We had to trample through bushes to catch the first glimpse of our half-built house, and only then did it start to feel real. 

However, it would be another four months before we were finally handed the keys, having never stepped inside. I fell in love instantly, and that feeling has only grown over the past year as we’ve added the finishing touches to turn an empty shell of a house into a much-loved home.

We have a new weekend ritual now. Every Saturday morning, we clean. And despite moaning about it, those few hours hoovering up cat hair and scrubbing the toilets make me feel very content. Because I know that I am very lucky indeed. Not to have such a beautiful house - it wasn’t luck that paid for that - but to have a home where I can be happy being me. That is a gift that not everyone can know.

To some, home may mean the place they grew up, or the place where their ‘things’ are. But to me, home is not a place, but a feeling. It’s relief when I step through the doorway after a long day at the office, and it’s safety when I lock the door behind me. It’s comfort when I dive into bed at night (or more often discomfort when the cat jumps in beside me.) It’s belonging when the neighbours say hello, or warmth when I snuggle up in my favourite chair to read. It is my sanctuary. My soft place to land.  And above all, a place where I can take off my bra. It’s just… home. And as Dorothy so eloquently put it, there’s no place like it. 

The cult of celebrity - the 2016 edition!

In 2013, I wrote a blog about celebrities (which you can read here if you’re in the mood for a rant.) Of course, times have changed and we now have shows like Love Island and Ex on the beach (not to mention TOWIE and KUWTK and the like, which did exist back then but maybe didn’t have such a cult following as they do now.) These types of shows mean virtually anyone can be famous for doing pretty much nothing, so long as you are willing to have your arse hanging out or have sex on the telly.

Instagram has a lot to answer for – you can now follow the highlights of your favourite celebs’ lives at the touch of a button. But this is not just limited to the rich and famous. Anyone can be an Instagram star, so long as the right filters are applied, hashtags are used and followers flock. Case in point, my cat, Jess. Jess has her own Instagram account (itsahardmoglife.) I would love to say the creation of said account was some sort of social experiment but I would be lying. She’s just a really adorable ball of fluff and I knew that my own Instagram account would end up being filled with pictures of her posing or hiding in drawers etc., so I created an account for her, and try to keep my own posts cat free (although the odd snap does sneak in occasionally.)

Jess has more than double the amount of followers I have, and yet, her pictures are generally a variation of a theme – her looking cute and fluffy. She is followed by other cats all over the world and cat lovers from all far flung corners of the globe. Her pictures receive tens of likes within seconds. And yet, on an average day, Jess does nothing but sleep, eat, play (if she can be arsed) and look cute. Her life is the definition of the everyday.  

When you think about it, Jess really isn’t that different to some of the celebrities that exist today. The stars of TOWIE were on the whole, normal people living mundane lives, working as hairdressers or receptionists until they were thrust in to the limelight. And perhaps this is why we love them (Lauren Goodger has 671,000 followers!) Because as much as I envy the life of Victoria Beckham, I know that kind of fame and fortune is unattainable for people like me. But women like Lauren, well, normal folk can relate to her, in a way that they could never relate to any of the Spice Girls.

We are living in a country (and world) which is more divided and unsettled than perhaps ever before, and so we turn to social media to escape the dismay and sadness that exists in our minds and hearts. I can understand why people avoid the news. Who wants to be faced with another day of new atrocities, of unimaginable horrors? So we scroll through Instagram, looking for a happier interpretation of today. And on those particularly bad days, where we hope for a better future, we might skip Posh’s perfectly framed images and settle on photos of the Jess’s of this world. Because we can’t all have millions in the bank, but we can all hope to own a fluffy cat. 

Mindful or mind full?

I’ve touched on mindfulness in one of my earlier blogs, but felt that it deserved an entry all of its own. Mindfulness has become, I suppose you could say, somewhat ‘fashionable’ over the past year or so. With mindfulness meditation classes popping up all over the place and mindfulness colouring books being sold in every bookshop, it’s pretty hard to escape it. And yet, so many people have the wrong sort of pre conceived ideas about what mindfulness actually means.

There’s no concrete definition of mindfulness, but it generally relates to living in the moment or focusing on the present day (as opposed to living in the past, a common complaint among depression sufferers, or worrying about the future, an equally shared side effect of most types of anxiety.) This can be developed through meditation by focusing on the breath, but it doesn’t have to go any further than concentrating on the pressure points on your feet as you walk, or simply paying more attention to your surroundings. It all comes down to personal preference and you only have to click in to one of Google’s 40 million search results on the subject to explore what might work for you.

To me, mindfulness means listening to my own thoughts. I am prone to having conversations in my head before meetings, interviews etc., playing out all possible scenarios in my mind. I didn’t realise exactly how often I did this until I started really paying attention to the thoughts that popped in to my head. And what I found were two things: 1) My thoughts were so terribly negative, and 2) the thoughts were also completely transient – as quickly as they appeared, they were gone again. Mindfulness made me realise that I had a choice – I could let those thoughts take over, sending me in to a spiral of unhappiness and unease, or I could try to let them go (visualisation helps – I like popping ‘thought balloons.’)

Anxiety suffers are extremely prone to negative thinking. We have hundreds of thousands of thoughts every day and yet no one really knows why the negative ones stick with us. We’re always imagining the worst case scenario, and the way we feel on any given day will impact how we interpret different situations. The logic of mindfulness is that if we learn to recognise the negative thoughts, we can, in time, start to distinguish these from facts and work at letting the negative thoughts go. Less negative thinking equals less anxiety. Simples right?

Well, not quite. Mindfulness is hard work. You can’t really do it wrong but that doesn’t mean you start seeing the benefits straight away. It takes some practice and it’s often very difficult to find time away from our busy lives to just take a minute to notice what we’re thinking! I find that small steps to a mindful life are the easiest ones to make. Just start noticing more. Look up. Look around. When you step away from the negative hovel that is your brain, and really see the world around you, you somehow start to find a new appreciation for the beauty in the world, amidst all the darkness and horror.