Is it a Happy New Year?

Saying goodbye to an old year and welcoming in the new seems like a brave and unusual ritual.

Most of us make resolutions to change ourselves dramatically once that clock strikes. This is the year to get fit, learn a language, drink less, find love.

The hope and expectation feels so brave and so optimistic. We know ourselves and our weaknesses so well, but that flip of the calendar helps us believe we can overcome all of our usual ways, to be the people we really want to be.

I feel like an optimistic soul, and yet I can't bring myself to celebrate the unknown, and worship a year we know nothing about yet. I want to celebrate the old year, and cherish the things that went well, the moments of beauty and delight, and learn from the pain, the anguish and the darkness. The old year has so much more to teach us than the blind faith that this year will be different.

And yet, there's a part of me that's jealous of those seeing in the New Year with a smile. That firm unshakeable belief that this year really could be the year it all goes right. It feels like Del asserting to Rodney that this time next year they'll be millionaires. I think the reality for me is that even huge life changes are incremental. They need to be, otherwise we couldn't cope with being thrown around continuously by life. Anything truly huge is likely to happen gradually.

Last year was a really interesting one for me. It was the year I finally found a home, after 35 years of searching. I fell more in love than ever - with my partner, my kids, my friends and with life. It was also the year I had a nervous breakdown, and narrowly escaped being hospitalised with psychosis, an illness had crept up so quietly that it took us all by surprise.

I don't think any year of my life has ever been black or white, and 2014 certainly wasn't. With a real mix of sadness and joy in my heart I've come to realise I can't stay in my current job and stay healthy, and we're currently figuring out what that means for the future. I've spent years in my job planning towards 2015. Just the words Twenty Fifteen invoke a Pavlovian response of fear at how busy this scheduled year would be. All of my life would be dominated by my work commitments this year, so much so that I nearly said no to being Maid of Honour to my best friend. Writing that now feels astonishing and shocking, that I was ready for my job to come before anything.

And now. Well, 2015 feels like a big unknown abyss. It will need to be first and foremost a year of healing for me, and what that looks like still needs to be determined. But I think it's clear that my priorities were stacked the wrong way around, and work should be far further down the list than it was.

It's a place of fear and excitement. A blank canvas that evokes stomach churning reactions in every direction.

365 days of possibility are ahead of all of us, and we're authors of our own story. Whatever this year looks like is partly down to us, and partly fate and luck.

Experience tells us it'll be both a good and bad year. We'll fail at some things and succeed at others. We'll win and lose, and hopefully we can keep perspective of the good to help us deal with the bad.

As a wise man once said: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. I feel sure that it will be.

Happy New Year.

Trigger happy

This morning I woke up refreshed and smiley. I awoke next to the man I love, ready to go to a well paid job, where I'm appreciated and have authority and respect. I was lying in my lovely bed, and everything was rosey.

I reached for my phone to snooze the alarm, and lazily flicked onto some social media pages to read some silly jokes while I woke up.

The first couple of mentions of a celebrity usually means something great has been on the tv the previous evening. This time, sadly, the news was more sinister. First you realise the world has lost someone truly special. Then you see how we lost them, and the gradual realisation of the tragedy truly hits.

Fuck.

Over the last couple of years I've opened up a lot more on twitter about my depression. It's not in some effort to be a poster girl for mental illness (and what a poster that would be, bloated from booze & medication side effects, lying in bed crying - woooo!), but talking about this stuff more openly really can be life changing. I also have eczema, and if talking helped with treating that then I'd be  ramming that down your throats too.

The mistake people commonly make is that depression is about sadness. That it's about anything. Depression is a debilitating mother fucker of a disease and it can be fatal in far too many cases. It's more the absence of emotion than a downpour.

I've  suffered from it for as long as I can remember.  During 2009/10 I spent almost a year living alone in a flat and  rarely venturing out whilst living on my savings, so I didn't have to hold down a job.  I had a glittering CV, and excellent prospects, but sometimes if you fall and there's no crash mat then you're going to get hurt.

So now I've had five years of psychotherapy, all paid for privately. I've been on ssris for nearly two years.  I've formed really good relationships & would describe myself as really happy. Yet, if I forget to take my meds or I get an unexpected trigger  it can feel like back to square one.

Today's news  more than hit me hard, it felt like it threw me off a cliff.

Robin Williams had done far more than me to work on his illness. As well as access to medication & psychotherapy he was a member of 12 step groups and celebrated sobriety (I, in comparison lazily use alcohol as an upper and downer). He had worked hard, found lasting love & had a lovely family. It was like a huge wake up call that appeared to be telling me that no matter how hard I work to beat it I might still be fucked.

So what took me from being a sad member of the public to feeling like I was drowning in my depression again? I think the answer is pure agonising fear.
All the work Robin did to fight his demons, just like I have, and yet he still took his life.
Just like my dear friend John Miller did, six years ago, after promising me he'd never succumb to that temptation. That despite everything and no matter how long he fought it won in the end. It could be twenty or thirty years, but that vicious black dog could be ready to sink it's jaws into me one final time. It's fucking petrifying.

Coeur de Lyon

So I've spent the best part of the last 72 hours with my Dad. It's been the longest amount of time we've probably spent together for 15 years, and I've found it quite tricky.

My Dad is 75 now. You don't need to be Carol Vorderman to realise my chain smoking father is likely to be on borrowed time. I've written about my family before, let's just say that childhood wasn't easy in my house and my Dad played a huge part in that.

The older I've got the more I've realised that my Dad's behaviour was mainly just learned behaviours from his own childhood, and that if you had a rubbish role model chances are you're not going to inherently know what being a good father means. This has caused me a lot of pain in the past, but I'm less likely to pay attention to it anymore.

My Dad is a man set in his ways. He knows what he likes, and has his set routines. It shocks him that I don't know what I want for breakfast tomorrow, and that I may not even want breakfast - life seems to be very black & white for him. Routine is psychologically comforting, so maybe it's my foolishness rather than his, but it seems brain numbing to me to pour a bowl of weetabix down your neck at 7am each day just because a habit persists.

A few weeks ago it became clear that I would need to come to Lyon for a long weekend for a work project. I haven't stop pinching myself since! I knew my boyfriend would be busy this weekend, and my Dad loves France, so I invited him to come with me.

We've been here a day and a half so far. There've been real highs and real lows. It's clear that living alone for so long has taken a real toll on his communication skills. He rarely talks to people, and when we converse he struggles to understand what I'm saying. He doesn't really listen to what I say, and had often pointed out something to me, that I'd shown to him a few minutes before. He asks me questions, and if I  know the answer calls me a'smart-arse'. If I'm honest it's draining and quite triggering of my mental health issues.

And yet the highs have been so lovely too. Earlier we rode on a big wheel looking out over the city, and climbed up a hill with breathtaking views over the river. It was only when we got tired that things turned a little darker.

Have I expected too much from his company? I'm certainly blaming myself for things bring difficult. But the good moments are worth the difficulties, and the likelihood is my rose tinted glasses will only remember the good times in a few months.

It's hard to know whether my Dad was always this slow or whether age has really taken him by surprise, but it's clear there won't be many opportunities like this ahead. So, as challenging as it is I'm going to try and park my ego, supercharge my patience, and try and relax into the rest of the weekend.

An open letter to the Cheer Up Squad

I’ve let it slip a few times lately that I’ve been feeling a bit low. That doesn’t even begin to cover it really, but it’s best for me not to bring people into the doom too much.


Friends have been really caring, and a few have asked what they can do to help cheer me up. The intentions are so kind, but it’s so hard to respond. If a slice of cake and a good laugh was the solution, then I wouldn’t be here in the first place.


You see ‘here’ is a place I don’t like being. It’s only when the telltale signs start to appear that I realise I’ve got there in the first place. ‘Here’ is everywhere. It’s all the usual places, but they’re accompanied by a horrific fog that chokes me, makes endless tears leak out of my eyes and my bed feel like the only place I want to be.

Here is a place where I can only see the negative sides of myself, and life, and can’t face even walking to the bathroom to clean my teeth. I’ve spent hours crying because I can’t summon up the energy to leave the house, but I don’t want to stay inside any longer either.

This place warps my confidence, and makes me believe that the people I care about and trust are people to be suspicious of. Every last motive is questioned, and suddenly I ‘realise’ that these are just more people to exploit, use and laugh at me, just like those that have come before.


I talked through my depression with someone close to me a few months ago. He understands, he’s been there himself. He very simply said to me that ‘cheering up’ isn’t what it’s all about; experiencing depression isn’t about being sad. He was right. To me it feels more like being tied to a bed and not being able to make any noise or move. And then being told repeatedly that everyone you trust has betrayed you. And then every negative thought you’ve ever had about yourself being screamed in your face repeatedly. Pleasant, I’m sure you can agree.

A few times on the street I’ve been told ‘Cheer up love, it may never happen’. Well maybe it has, maybe it ALREADY HAS, and it’s a lot worse than you can ever imagine. Maybe I’m seething with bitterness at all the things I’ve endured in my 34 years, and you telling me to cheer up when my mask slips for just a few minutes is actually the last thing I want to hear.

Broken brains tend to be a combination of nature and nuture. In my case my family is riddled with the Black Dog, so there was only a very slim chance I wouldn’t inherit the duff genes. Add to that an emotionally and mentally abusive father, with a bit of physical abuse thrown in just to mix it up, and then being raped by an ex partner in my early twenties, and I guess it’s a classic recipe for mental illness.

I’m having a particularly bleak patch at the moment, and I guess a combination of stress at work, trying to move house, an ill partner and not having taken a week off work for six months have taken their toll. Despite plenty of R&R over the bank holiday weekend I just want to curl up and weep.


I’m learning to be kind to myself and do the things that help me feel stronger, and say no to the things that make me more vulnerable, at least for the time being. Those of you that have never met me, or don’t know me well may be surprised at this darker side, but it’s so important for me to be the wisecracking sociable person I love to be most of the time.


I’ve not written this to gain sympathy, I just want to help break the stigma and grow understanding of what suffering with depression really feels like. So please be normal with me next time you see me, this is my battle. I'm just grateful that more of you might understand what it really feels like.

Jewish Heritage in the Twenty First Century

One of my favourite ways to spend time is to view a city through a flaneur's eyes. On the day in question I'd planned to visit the Jewish sights of Budapest, some lighter than others.

It had occurred to me a couple of days previously that the same cobbles I was walking along may be the very same ones Nazi troops marched across, and I'd found that a difficult thought to hold. 

I've known from a young age that my only a few generations ago my family was Jewish. In fact my ignorant father used to make antisemitic comments about my Mum's side of the family. Charming. 

I slipped into the Orthodox Synagogue through a cobbled side street and a delightful old lady gave me a guided tour of the stunning building. She explained all the symbolism, told me all about the Torah, and then calmly told me that during World War 2 the Nazis used the Synagogue as horses' stables. She grinned as she told me the Jews had hidden the main treasures behind a metal wall, and the Nazis hadn't bothered to look behind. A triumph indeed, but such desecration to let animals shit in the house of God. Such hatred.

The Jewish people have been persecuted many times throughout history, being viewed as less than human so very often. How evil we are as a race never fails to surprise me. I've had a fascination with Judaism for as long as I can remember, and recall asking my RE teacher at the tender age of 12 how I could convert.  Mr Gent kindly explained it wasn't that simple, and so when Charlotte in Sex and the City did just that for love I was green with envy, that she became the Jewish woman I had wanted to be. 

I've recently discovered Kindle for the iPhone. It 's a great way of keeping me entertained throughout the long stretches of sleepless night, without completely waking my eyes by putting the light on. Before I left for Budapest I downloaded a number of books by people I know, one of which being my great-aunt's memoirs. My Mum had warned me she had used this platform to romanticise her marriage to a Mills and Boon standard, but despite this caveat I found myself being drawn in to these tales of her life, particularly the war time years. She talked about how her father, the gentleman who converted from Judaism to Christianity for love, had seen what was going on in Germany, and paid for a family of Jews to leave the country while they still could. Amazing in itself, but he never acknowledged it, simply stating 'one does what they can'. How proud I am to call this man a forefather, and how much I owe to those from generations before mine so I can idly post online about my Jewish heritage, without having to fear for my life.

Back to the present time, and my day took several twists and turns, and late afternoon I ended up in a museum of Jewish Heritage. It didn't exactly sound thrilling, but interesting nonetheless. I'd paid for a tour, and the elderly gentleman leading us around smelled of lunchtime wine, and a prerehearsed script. 

The rooms of the museum were hot, the subject matter pretty dry, even to the most interested of us, and a few of the group became tired and irritable to be shown yet more paraphernalia. As lovely as the man was, even I was getting restless, and when he told us about his latest grandchild we feigned interested smiles.

The last room of the museum was dedicated to the holocaust. The guide had showed us around half the exhibition when he casually showed us a picture of people being herded into a concentration camp. And then even more casually mentioned this was the camp where his father died. 

It wasn't mentioned lightly to belittle the fact, or to underplay the emotion behind this information, or to underwhelm. This brave man conducts this tour day in day out and has found a way to integrate his personal experience without overwhelming the visitor.

He later went on to explain the story of Raoul Wallenberg, a Swedish man who rescued tens of thousands of Hungarian Jews from Nazi occupied Budapest by giving them Swedish passports. He then casually explained that this was how he, his mother, and his maternal grandparents had escaped the slaughter.

The group of us seemed to all exclaim a sigh of disbelief simultaneously, each finding it hard to believe this jolly man had experienced the greatest horror of the 20th century first hand. He had each of us sitting in the palm of his hand during those final minutes. 

After the tour I stopped and thanked him for his time, and for sharing his story. He showed such interest in my life, and when he learned I was from Birmingham he told me about his visits during Thatcher's Britain, as the miners were being shafted and the economy turned to shit. "A difficult time" he told me, "but that was when my daughter was born, and she bought such happiness to our lives that the rest didn't matter".

Such humbleness, and such a profound sense that love and family are all that really matter in life. I said some earnest thank yous, and stumbled out of the museum in a daze. I finally let the tears fall, the tears for that amazing man, his extraordinary life, and for those that hadn't been so lucky.

I went and sat in the garden at the Synagogue, a mass grave, where the thousands of murdered Jews, who died inside the ghetto, were buried upon liberation. 

There's a Jewish prayer called Kaddish, recited when Jews die, and then on the anniversary of their death. Sadly there aren't enough relatives remaining to say Kaddish for those who have gone before, so I said it there, to help at least one poor soul rest. It felt like the least I could do. Then I turned on my phone, and texted my Mum to tell her how much I love her.

It's not every day you meet a holocaust survivor, but as trite as it sounds I feel like I left a piece of my heart with him forever. Tomorrow I plan to get a tattoo of the star of David, to show my pride of my heritage, and how lucky I am that so many gave the ultimate sacrifice so I am able to open talk about this heritage. 

Shalom.

Neil

Childhood friendship is the tightest of all bonds, and something we're trying to recreate our entire adult lives. It's an incredible time, before you learn that 'grown up' skill of keeping a distance between you and the next person. You've never been hurt and emotional vulnerability is something you've yet to learn, a glorious time. I feel an aching pity for only children, growing up with three brothers of course you compete for attention and affection, but my little brother became my playmate, my best friend and my soul mate.

We got into terrible fights, naturally, but the hours spent exploring nearby fields, flying kites and making him dress up in Mum's clothes far outweighed the bloodshed and tears. We were unaware of it at the time, but when times got really tough at home the fact we were in it together brought us much closer. 

Many years later I was 17, and in London for a gig I was thrilled about. I randomly phoned home afterwards to jabber away to Mum about it, yet my Dad answered the phone and immediately gave me a clue something was wrong. He didn't tell me much, but calmly told me Mum wasn't in, as Neil was in hospital. I was instructed that there was nothing I could do, and should stay in London and enjoy myself. 

There was very little choice, the last train home was long gone, so my friend and I spent the night in a shitty Earl's Court B&B. She attempted to sleep while I paced the room and cried. The next day I tried my best to have some fun, but failed miserably and got the next train back. It just felt all wrong. 

When I got back I discovered the extent of Neil's illness. He had suffered a brain haemorrhage and had been in brain surgery for the entire night. There had only a 50% chance he'd survive the operation, and survival meant he would most likely be in a vegetative state at best. 

The clearest detail I remember is when I arrived at the hospital panicked and teary. I was shown the bed where my little brother lay unconscious. At that point I lost it, and my eldest brother held on to my hand as if trying to press love and hope directly into my palm. It really is the littlest of things sometimes.

It took weeks, but Neil slowly recovered. My Mum and I visited him in hospital every day, and I showed my sisterly dedication by taking the piss, and eating all of his custard creams. The specialist told us that he was one of only six people in medical history to ever suffer a brain haemorrhage without a preceding head trauma. Not quite the 15 minutes of fame Andy Warhol may have had in mind, but we're all exceptional at some point in our lives.

I don't know if I'm one to believe in miracles really, but the odds of him fully recovering were slimmer than Kate Moss, and yet he did it. Within a year he was back to normal, albeit with a huge scar across the top of his head to show for it. No noticeable effects on his personality or memory, or so we thought. I wonder about that now.

 There was a scandal at primary school when I was 11. Whispers told me that Neil had been caught stealing sweets from Galloway's News. Galloway's was the local hub of activity - everyone competed for the paper rounds there and spent their pocket money in there too. For my little 9 year old brother to be caught stealing from there was a real shock. But that was just the start, and his stealing got more bizarre the older he got. My parents despaired at having a second naughty son, it's only when I look back now that it's clear that he was desperately seeking attention in any way he could get it. Indeed I have been told that the brain tumour was a physical manifestation of all his psychological pain, but I find that a bitter pill to swallow.

My 'little' brother is now 32. He's one of the most intelligent, creative, yet self-destructive people I know. His entire adult life has been a vortex of chaos. He repeats a cyclical pattern of just managing to hold down a semblance of a life for a while, then all of a sudden he'll start to pick it apart, and it all starts to unravel. He's started again from nothing about 6 times now, each time a family member picking him up and bailing him out, yet again.

A psychotherapist told me a number of years ago that he unconsciously wants to be babied, and gets himself into these situations so he'll be scooped up, mollycoddled, and taken care of. And time and time again we have, because we can't stand to see him suffer. And yet every time he's utterly ungrateful, and indignant with his belief that the problems are caused by everyone else. 

On Monday night he was broken, and crying on my shoulder. Telling me his houseboat has been repossessed, he's being evicted from the house he's staying in, and he doesn't have a penny to his name. I know he doesn't get himself into these scrapes on purpose, but he's just not learning the lessons life is trying to teach him. I've talked to him for so many hours about what keeps going wrong, but he just fails to see that he's not taking care of himself and doesn't even know where to start. I've been told that the best thing to do is to let him get himself out of the mess this time, that might break the cycle. 

So tomorrow, when he becomes officially homeless he's being referred to a homeless shelter.

It's clear Neil has severe psychological trauma from the dreadful things that have happened to him, too many to recount here. I've tried to get him to access mental health services on so many occasions, and have had to learn the hard way how true 'you can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink' really is. My heart is screaming to scoop him up and make it all better one last time, this will be the time when he sorts himself out, but I know the stomach churning reality. It won't be.

So it's with a heavy heart and an aching soul that we're going to have to stand back and let him enter the system. I can't bear to think what may happen to my baby brother. He's just a product of his past, and I'm screaming on the inside, hoping this might be the jolt he desperately needs. I hope it is. 

How ok is ok?

Yesterday I had a bad day at work. My boss, who struggles to gain perspective at times, chose a particularly crappy feeling Monday morning to moan at an already overworked me about some more things she'd like doing, without bothering to thank me for the ridiculous percentage of my life I've already sacrificed to my job over the last few weeks. 

So far so good. That's a fairly standard Monday for a lot of us. Rightly or wrongly that's just the way life is. What I wasn't prepared for was the way my brain handled it. 

I have a pretty grown up job. I'm responsible for a lot of grown up things, and whilst it's taken me a decent while to realise this, I 'm fairly good at what I do. There's a lot of pressure on me, but I think of myself as fairly robust, and at the end of the day I try not to take things personally.

But this morning was different. The pressure I took on from this conversation with my boss was enormous. I felt like I was buckling under the weight of my responsibilities, with no way out. I have a pattern that when life starts to feel too difficult I start to fantasise about ending it, it gives me comfort to know there's a way out of it all if I just can't stand it anymore. And once again my brain took that familiar route through the synapses, dancing all the way from 'this is crap', to imagining the glorious red flowing from my veins and not having to suffer the pain of life anymore. 

I don't know why yesterday I was more self aware than normal. I think new surroundings at work have made me up my game somewhat, and being surrounded by new people who would be baffled at me suddenly dying made me realise just how ridiculous my train of thought was. It also made me realise just how often my mind had wandered that path recently.

Depression is no stranger to me. Even those that know me well see a fairly sunny me most of the time. I hate to wallow in self pity, but there's usually at least one day every week, even in the good weeks, where I can't face getting out of bed as I feel so desolate. No one knows that. 

I was first diagnosed with the black dog as a teenager, I'd had a pretty tough time as a kid, a lot of people did. Looking back my Dad was emotionally, and sometimes physically, abusive and my Mum was too busy trying to hold the whole house of cards together to give any of us any emotional support. Families have complex dynamics, and they rarely teach you everything you need to know growing up, and the thing I wasn't taught is how to rely on others emotionally. I still really struggle with it now, I'd much rather hold everything in and be on my own when I'm low than be publicly a mess, even though I crave to share it with others.

Ironically those early experiences have also served me well. I developed a really high tolerance for stress, which has enabled me to be really successful in my career, and I 'm fiercely independent. I've travelled around the world on my own, and when I decided I fancied living in New York for a bit I just packed a case, moved there, and built a life there from scratch. But I also recognised some time ago that the negative sides of my experience aren 't doing me any favours and I needed some help.

Almost exactly three years ago I'd been back in the UK for almost twelve months. During that 12 months I'd gone from being a bohemian Manhattan based writer to living in England full time, in a city I hadn't lived in for ten years. I'd also spent 8 months managing a highly stressful project for a conservative engineering firm and had been through a highly destructive romantic relationship. At that point I was understandably broken. Everything in my life had changed dramatically & I just didn't know which way was up anymore. I'd needed to come back to the UK to give my life some stability, but the whole experience was brutal. The stone I gained in a matter of weeks still clings to my bones now & reminds me of the misery every time I look in the mirror. From November 2009 to May 2010 I barely went out of the house for 6 months, just to buy the essentials, occasional exercise, and attend the psychotherapy appointments that were my lifeline. I knew I was barely existing, and drinking far too much, but it was taking every ounce of energy I had to not give in to the constant thoughts of suicide. Holding down a job or making new friends were far beyond the realms of possibility.

When I look back now it's hard to believe how far I've come, but there are still plenty of times when I feel like there's only a thin veneer protecting my life now from going back to the 'life' I was living then. The people around me have been the biggest support I had to transition from then to now. A big help has also been the Jungian Psychotherapy I've been having.

I'd been interested in having psychotherapy for a long time. I'd had three lots of counselling over the years which had never really helped but I was still keen to give it a try. I guess living in the US where therapy is seen as normal rather than something for the neurotic had given me a healthy focus on addressing my demons. I'm still in therapy now, it's been a long, drawn out process, and at times I'm utterly suck of raking over my childhood, but overall it's been vital for me to have a safe space to talk about my issues.

As stressful as my job can be, it's been brilliant to have an absorbing focus five days a week that will tire me out enough so I'll sleep. I have so many hobbies I love but struggle to concentrate on (I haven't managed to read a book in over a year) so being accountable for delivering some stretching things during work gives me something to focus my brain on. And it's rewarding to make a difference.

Listening to others talk about their experiences has also been brilliant. I can highly recommend the Mental Illness Happy Hour podcasts (available on iTunes) for hilarious and frank discussions about being nuts. Hearing other people's experiences has also made me realise that I'm really not as sorted as I thought I was. I guess 'only' being suicidal 4 or 5 times a week is still not ok, I'd come such a long way that I'd lost sight of what being healthy might look like. I've now started to seriously contemplate antidepressants, I'd seen them as a cop out for a long time as they don't fix the underlying source of the unhappiness, but I've now started to acknowledge that I 've waited a long time to feel 'normal', and I don't shy away from self medicating with booze & party prescriptions, so why not see what the doctor can do & experience some kind of respite. 

When I turned to Twitter in a moment of desperation last night so many lovely people came forward to share their experiences of taking medication, and have helped me to face that it could actually be the next step to feeling a bit saner, and dare I say it, happier. Thank you.