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.