February...erm March newsletter

Erm... remember last month (or in fact, January) when I said I would update my blog more frequently and well, at least once a month?
Well, can we just ignore the silence that was February. To be fair, February was a bit mad. And a month I have been happy to consign to the bin and file under "months we must never, ever talk about again".
Generally January is my black month - where I mope about thinking about my tax bill (yeuch!) and how cold it is and all other such things. But January passed in quite an uneventful haze of writing, not being really all that cold and tax bill being paid just about on time.
February, however, unleashed itself like a hound of hell on me (Does that sound dramatic enough? I want it to sound just about as dramatic as it can?). First of all I HAD to finish the book - which meant writing around the clock on top of general mammy-ness and working full time and all that. (Not meant to be a woe is me post, but I felt a bit woe is me). I also took to baking a lot - trying the Marian Keyes, "it it's broke, feck it in the oven and bake the hoop out of it" approach.
And I made soup - a LOT of soup - all Slimming World friendly and exceptionally time consuming it was too. When I say I made soup, I mean from scratch. In a big heavy bottomed pot with loads of fresh veg and stock and not a single tin opener.
It was lovely soup, I have to say. Really healthy and nutritious but as I stood sweating onions and blending tomatoes and crushing garlic I thought of the perfectly lovely tinned soup in the cupboard which I could open and heat in three minutes and wondered - really, did I have to make my own soup? I firmly believe the baking and the soup making started to serve as a welcome distraction from the book writing, which then made me more anxious....a vicious cycle of buns and Leek and Potato soup and book guilt ensued.

Oh yes, anxiety. It came back - in waves of horrible adrenalin coursing through my body, starting at the top of head and rushing downwards hitting every nerve on the way making me feel nauseous to the point that yes, I started being physically sick. (Which was nothing to do with the soup or the buns, before anyone gets smart). I started doing the crying thing too - as I did the last time "the darkness" took hold which meant when I wasn't snapping at people I was bursting into tears.
And the dark thoughts returned as well. The thing about the dark thoughts, and the crying and the adrenalin is that you don't know how long it will stay for. Will be a day or two of feeling crappy and scared, or more? How dark will the thoughts get? How scary will it be? How will you be able to cope? Do you want to cope any more?
I am aware this is essentially a light hearted author page/ blog and I'm not sure I'm ready to talk about how bad things got, but they have - mostly - passed. I still am taking medication for panic attacks. I have to be religious about taking my anti-depressants. Not taking them does not end well. I have to keep making the soup and eating well and trying to get some fresh air. And I cut out a little picture from my Slimming World magazine which says "You Can Do It" and I put it in my purse and look at it often.
People say maybe I should remind myself there are people worse off than me - and while that is a relatively good technique - too much time thinking about people who are worse off than me leads me to feel really doubly guilty and very anxious about the state of the world and wondering when the bad things which have happened to them will happen to me. So really, for someone as neurotic as I am it might not be a good move afterall.
I'm lucky I know though that I have had friends and family who have helped me through. Who have been there (and sometimes just being there is enough), who have listened and who haven't said "Pull yourself together". That means a lot.

Now, the other thing which February brought was the experience of me having a smear test with a toddler in the room. (This was not a planned occurence, in case you wondered). Simple tip for anyone going for a dreaded smear (which you MUST MUST have because fandangos are precious commodities) is bring an inquisitive toddler with you. You will be so concerned wondering if she will say, do or see something inappropriate that the actual act of getting your hoo-haa out for a relative stranger will be much less daunting. My own version of toddler came out with a cracker. She stayed head end, chatting to me but did ask the doctor what was "up there" as she delved around in my region.
As I had (very badly - slapped wrist to me) put off my smear test for a year I was TERRIFIED waiting for the result (which probably contributed to the 'bad' days) - but thankfully I got an all clear. I have vowed not to put them off ever again - although by the time I'm next due one I won't have a toddler to make it more bearable any more and I don't see anyone offering me a loan of one of theirs... Note to self: Must find a different coping strategy for 2015.


In writing news I FINISHED THE BOOK. I cried (happy tears thankfully) when I finished it, looked at it for a long time and felt as I had been on a mammoth journey. The book, called What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?, is the most out and out love story I've ever written - except that of course it's a couple of love stories, with very many spanners thrown in the works, and broken hearts akimbo and all. It really touched me in a way none of my other books have and made me tap into my own feelings about love and marriage - how tough it can be, how good it can be, how sometimes love isn't enough and (to quote a cheesy song) how sometimes all you need is love. It's set between a magazine office (the same one from Rainy Days and Tuesdays) and a wedding dress shop called The White Room, which I actually really want to own and run.
It is now with my publishers and agent and please God, it will be out before the end of the year.

And finally, my brother made a YouTube ad for me - on the theme If Only You Knew about Claire Allan.



We maybe should have put a disclaimer on the end (You know, the Irish one...not the other one who writes very serious books and appears in The Guardian and the like...).



Enjoy.

Treading through treacle

It's been three weeks since I went back on my magic happy pills. I was warned, and knew from experience, that it can take 6 weeks or more for the pills to start working on a therapeutic level but I did feel a little more "up" the week after taking them - probably a kind of weird depressive's elation at admitting there is a problem.
Last week I struggled a bit - thankfully was able to hold it together and smile during my book promoting duties in Dublin and actually enjoyed bits of the process - but when my mood slipped I found myself staring into the great big abyss of nothingness and self loathing that comes with depression and I didn't like myself or the feelings I was having.
My sleeping has also gone to pot again - waking in the wee small hours and staring at the ceiling while anxiety - founded in nothing really - surges through my veins and the andrenalin wakes me up so much that I know there is no chance of getting back to sleep any time soon.

That's all thoroughly depressing, isn't it?

But I know it will pass - sure don't that tattooed on my neck to prove it? I've been here before and I've come through before. There is no reason why I won't come through again. It's just going to take a little while and I'm just going to have to give myself a bit of time - and cut myself a bit of slack - and maybe eat a little chocolate.

Let's go round again

Well that time of year has come again when, despite my best efforts, I have to put my hands up and admit I need a little help. So I'm back on anti-depressants.
It wasn't an easy decision... well, I say that, in the end it was an easy decision. I had started to feel so low, and so anxious and the scary thoughts were starting to nudge their way back in. But I had resisted it for a while, thinking if I can get through this week, I'll be fine. Or just this month, I'll be grand. Or if I can get this book launch out of the way, things are bound to calm down. But the truth was, I was reaching the stage where I was looking "forward" to the book launch with more fear than excitement. The thought of going to Dublin, speaking to people, being out of my comfort zone was just too much.
I wanted to run away.
And then I got sick - all achey and fluey and I'm pretty sure it was a result of the stress I was putting myself under. So I slept, for about 40 straight hours and still felt anxious and horrible and I knew it was time.
Having been on antidepressants for the lion share of the last 9 years, I had thought I had gotten over the feeling of being somewhat broken or wrong by admitting a need for help. But I'll admit in the last six months, when I wasn't on antidepressants, I had felt a sense of relief or pride to be able to say "nope, not taking them at the moment".
I was a pretty fecking miserable cow though, with an exceptionally short temper and an increased propensity for panic attacks.

I feel I've made the right decision now. Only talking it through with my lovely doctor did I realise just how depressed I have become again - how how I'm feeling is not right. I have realised I have pushed so many people away over the last year because depression has made me feel not worthy. (Not to be said in Wayne's World type voice). I fear some friendships are unrepairable and that is something I will have to come to terms with.

I went to bed last night and my mind slipped back to a passage I had written in Rainy Days and Tuesdays, when Grace writes about how she has pushed people away when all she has really wanted to do is pull them close, and hold onto them and tell them how much she loves them. It is ironic, five years after I wrote that book, I'm feeling kind of the same.

But like Grace, I've got help. I'll get better. Please God, I'll start to enjoy life a bit more. And as for today, I'm going to take the girl to Jo Jingles and revel in her loveliness and then I'm going to sing my heart out with Encore Contemporary Choir and when I get home later, I'll pop my little white tablet and hopefully the darkness will lift a little.

A few weeks ago I had my tarot cards and angel cards read by a very lovely woman. She looked at me and said immediately "You don't need to go into the darkness". No, I don't. And I won't.
She added "When the sun shines in your world, wow, it shines bright!".

And she is right. So I'm letting the sun in a little. And I'm going to enjoy life, because there is so much to enjoy.

Feels like home to me

Last week the family and I went away to the Downings in north Donegal for a few days to celebrate the husband's 40th birthday. We hired a delightful house on the Atlantic coast and had three blissful days of fresh air, nice wine (three for a tenner from Asda...), good food and great company in the form of my inlaws and associated children.

I can't express how I felt in the house we stayed in. It was a gorgeous house. The kind of house I want my house to be when it grows up. It was the house of open plan living dreams  but it was the setting which took my breath away.

I've been under a lot of pressure recently, with rewrites, work, family and I suppose a kind of breakdown of sorts, but standing in Donegal, looking out of a living room window at the most spectacular yet peaceful views helped and healed.

I sound like an old hippy - but I felt I was home. Where I was meant to be. I felt this is what life is about - not the stress and the worry and the rush, but in simply looking out to see and feeling connected with everything and everything one around you. I was even moved to tears on more than one occasion as if being there had given me permission to breathe out.

When I win the Lotto (the Euromillions is a big one tonight!) I'm buying this house .... and I'm never leaving it.

I still can't find the dodgy poetry

... but I am managing okay.
Yesterday I even put make up on - and proper make up, not the "only cover the spots" kind. I even used mascara and it looked nice.
Then I went for a drive, and sang Lady Ga Ga with my baby girl and wrote about 1500 words.
Now all I need to do it switch my brain off - the constant "but" and "what ifs".

Like so many people I suppose I need to learn to be happy in the here and now instead of focusing either on the past or on the possibilities of the future - which are all still just possibilities. My life must move beyond the "I will be happy when I lose weight/ get a UK deal/ move house etc etc" monologue.
I need to be happy now.

Anyone care to share what makes you happy? Maybe I could give it a go. I'm up for almost anything as long as it does not involve fish of any description.

So, I know I've been really quiet

But my head has been up my rear - i'm starting to come out of it now, I think. This particular depressive episode took me by surprise. Everything was going tickety boo - book was selling well, kids were fine etc and then bam I woke up under a black cloud which hasn't wanted to shift in, ooooh, about a month now.
But today feels a little different. I've been doing all my usual self help thingies - reading my note from the universe, checking my angel cards, writing a little (not always easy with vertigo, which the doc thinks is stress related) and sleeping around the clock.
Last week I was plagued with nightmares every night - thankfully they seem to have stopped but I'm freewheeling it this week on no medication waiting for the prozac to exit my system before I can start my new tablets.
I'm doing a lot of thinking.
One of the major reasons for me feeling as low as I do is the feeling that I'm not good enough. It's not surprising that a great deal of my books deal with the feeling of being not good enough - I think a lot of people feel that way.
As an exercise to myself the other night I listed my achievements in my head... I know pride is a sin, but if you don't mind I'm going to share a few now.
Later today, I'm going to post some very bad poetry I wrote once about life and the achievements which count which are not academic, or professional or whatever but I need sometimes to remind myself - and perhaps the world - that I'm not "just" anything. I've done a lot for someone of 34. Perhaps the person I need to remind about that most of all is me.
Maybe you could all do the same? You might surprise yourself?

• I drive a car. It took me seven years and four tests, but I did not give up.
• I was the only person in my journalism course to pass the Masters element first time round. I went to graduation on my own (well, with family, of course) and loved it.
• I freelanced for a year writing for local, regional, national and international newspapers.
• I covered everything - courts, councils, breaking stories, front page leads, human interest features.
• I secured a staff job when I was 23 and started with the Derry Journal where I'm still there, still working and, where eight years ago, I became the paper's first female columnist.
• I covered the Saville Inquiry into Bloody Sunday, was first at the scene (reporter wise) of several attempted murders, covered crown court trials, cut my teeth in the magistrate's court, wrote extensively on domestic violence, city centre violence and other issues which plague our city.
• I pitched and ran three consecutive Children of the Year Awards for the Derry Journal - rewarding the best in the young people of the city.
• I have written three bestselling books.
• I wrote my first book in six months, got an agent straight away (first agent I queried) and got a book deal by the end of that year. This is not to make those who didn't get lucky straight away feel bad about themselves,I'm just fed up of always apologising for my success as if I don't deserve it. I do. So there.
• I have been a spokesperson for Aware Defeat Depression.
• I've been on TV - I've even done a life on air broadcast for Sky News as their roving reporter at the scene of a gas explosion. I've appeared on discussion programmes about PND. I've done radio. All of this inspite of chronic self esteem issues!
• I have been a writing mentor.
• I am a good, talented and conscientious person.

Letting go

I went for the angel reading yesterday - I'm still mulling it over. Some of it was completely off the wall - some seemed to relate to the relations who had accompanied me and were sauntering about upstairs in the shop.
A lot was spot on, I suppose. Yes, my confidence has taken a battering over the years and I'm certainly not the assertive young woman I once was when I thought the world was at my feet (Yes, I know it still is, but life has a habit of getting in the way...) She pinpointed events (oh how I remember how absolutely dying in love I was with a tall dark haired man only for him to take a fancy to one of my friends.... And how on another occasion I sat one day and just stared into space for hours unable to move, crippled with depression, but how an angel was by my side the whole time...)
She pinpointed that I was crippled with anxiety and that particularly lately things had been tough.
She told me it would be okay.
But she also told me I needed to put more of me into my writing. I'm trying to mull that over. I think I do put a lot of me in my books, and in my columns. Some times I feel as if I lay myself out on line too much and that is why, at times, I feel completely raw as if I have no secrets.
But then again there is so much of me that is just me - that I put on a show, plaster on a smile and become "author Claire" as opposed to boring mammy/ wife Claire who just gets on with things and has some Very Dark Thoughts from time to time.
I 'm just not sure which one of those ladies is real me though. Is it the bubbly, confident one who can make people smile or is it the boring, moping, dour one who makes people switch off. I'm a little bit afraid of both.
But I do remember that day, aged about 19 when I got all glammed up for a night out with friends (including the big crush). He looked at me, genuinely really shocked at how well I scrubbed up and he flirted mercilessly all night. He even stayed over (he slept in the living room, you dirt birds). He made a move and I backed off - always a little scared. That same week he told our mutual friend he was mad about her and "Claire was okay... but he really liked her".
And thus sealed my belief that I always was the consolation prize.
The angel lady gave me some techniques for dealing with negative feelings and they are helping, but having brought things I'd thought I'd long forgotten back to my consciousness, I now have to work through them. I have to make myself believe that I am more than "just ok".

The vice like grip

For the past week I have been gripped by anxiety. Yes, I have had good times in that week but then when I least expect it a knot of tension will rise inside me and I will get the familiar urge to crawl into a dark space and just be for a bit.
It has been building for a while but last Thursday as I drove to Dublin for the book tour I felt it overwhelm me. I pulled over, felt my chest tighten and my head swim, and texted my husband and mammy to say that I just wanted to turn the car around and drive home. I had a feeling Very Bad Things were going to happen. I couldn't quantify the Very Bad Things - it was just that feeling and in that instance I didn't want to talk to anyone, drive anywhere or put on my happy smiley author face and run the gamut (is that spelled right?) of interviews and booksignings - all of which can be lovely but which can also make you feel like you are walking into your work stark naked and hoping no-one notices you.
My mammy - she who is wonderful - and my hubby - he who increasingly patient - both encouraged me to carry on with my journey. Yes, I was to take a little pit stop, breathe a little and then set off again and take it an hour at a time, an interview at a time and a bookshop at a time.
The feeling that Very Bad Things were going to happen didn't leave. In fact I was perhaps more paranoid than usual climbing into taxis and Darts and walking the mean streets of Dublin* that someone would rob me, or I would get lost or the few measly Euro secreted in my bag would not be enough to pay for ANYTHING (I have a pathological fear of the Euro... I have no understanding at all of its value. I just hand coins and notes to people and pray they don't laugh. In that respect I am an easy target for swizzers).
The interviews went well - helped by the fact that the interviewers were lovely - even the one who said "How come such a well educated person as you is writing chick lit?" in a tone which sounded a lot like "You kill puppies? For fun? How could you?"
Turns out he was just after a bit of banter. The banter was great also when I met the lovely people from Poolbeg for dinner (and perhaps too many drinks). I left feeling my ego had been pampered but also with a sobering (literally) picture of what the book market is like just now.
The booksellers were, as always, lovely. Like REALLY lovely but for the first time seeing my wee book there among the jillions of other new titles I felt sorry for it. I wanted to tell it never to worry, it will be okay and all it can do is it's best and sure that's good enough.... isn't it?
I drove home to Derry, mission accomplished, still with that Very Bad Feeling and it hasn't gone away, you know.
In the last three nights I have had every anxiety dream in the book - teeth falling out, remembering I've not cancelled the lease on my old student digs and owe 13 years rent, having to sit my A Levels again, being back in my old student house starting my degree again and wondering how I'll pay the mortgage, fighting with people yadda yadda yadda.
I look, and feel, zombified. I'm told the dreams are my internal fears about how I'm seen externally and I suppose that is true. The control freak in me does not like the lack of control which comes with books being out there and, well, generally with me a nutcase. I've been dosing the Prozac into me like a good 'un. Admittedly I've not been the best when it comes to taking it recently and that must have made an impact on my mood. I'm trying to get out and about more. I'm trying to assure myself that the Very Bad Things which might happen will not be insurmountable and in the grand scheme of things a book flopping is nothing as long as I have my kids and my health and - most importantly - their health.
Still, my head hurts and the desire to curl into a foetal position and wish away the days has not left and I feel as if I'm teetering on the edge of something. It could either be good or Very Bad Indeed but for now I'm just sitting here, arms outstretched, trying to keep my balance and hoping that very soon someone shows up with a safety net.


*I do not think all Dublin folk are robbers and murderers. I'm just a yokel from the North who is scared of all big cities. Even Belfast, which is quite wee really.On really bad days even Dungiven gives me the shakes.

Depression - again. The curse of the modern woman?

I read an article this morning by author Allison Pearson on her own experiences with depression. I recognised myself in a lot of what she said - the need to want to give the right answers, to appear perfect.


I also recognised the allure of bridges in the middle of the night and indeed the desire to just not “be” any more. No, I don’t want to cause my family the pain of losing me in gross circumstances (suicide is never pretty, don’t let anyone tell you it is) but it would nice to hit an off switch or a pause button.

Allison said depression is the curse of the middle-aged woman - well, I’m not middle-aged yet but I do recognise her Blues Sisters analogy and indeed her description of Sandwich Woman - trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea trying to keep everyone happy.

She says our theme song is ‘Rainy Days and Mondays’ - for obvious reasons that made me smile. (A bit bizarre I know...that it made me smile but it felt like a piece of a jigsaw slotting into place).

She said depression is now, some would say, fashionable. Sure Marian Keyes has it, so it’s cool. And Emma Thompson. And her.

I’m not sure it’s a fashion anyone would want to follow but I’m grateful at least that people are talking about it. I’ve been battling for people to talk about it for years (and indeed the likes of La Keyes have been heartbreakingly open about their own experiences for quite some time now).

It’s still a taboo, isn’t it? I still notice the strange flashes of confusion when I extol the wonders of Prozac or mention that I need my happy pills.

I still get called “very brave” for being open about my experiences - I prefer the term very honest. There is nothing brave about getting through another day feeling like this. It’s just doing what I need to do to be there for my family.

Until it isn’t seen as “remarkable” to talk about having a mental illness we’ve not really won the battle, have we? But let’s keep trying.

Thank you all for your kind words

I had a bit of an off day - headache never lifted and felt as if I had been run over by a truck so I left work a little early and went home to bed.
Head still ached like billy-o when I got up but I had a promised a friend I would call round - had a text message typed out to cancel when I decided no-one was going to make me feel better but myself so I had a shower, took yet mroe paracetamol and stopped off at the offy for a bottle of wine.
I went to said friend's house and had a lovely time - laughed and, yes, cried, Talked over a lot of feelings I've been having on and off since last year and got a hug.
And I came home feeling brighter.
Now hubby is cooking me a lovely dinner and I'm going to put my feet up and be good to myself for a bit.
And oh yes, will be a bit more strict about remembering to take my prozac.

Worth remembering

A while back my lovely writerly friend Keris put me on the 'Notes from the Universe' thing - where basically you receive a life affirming message each morning.
I look forward to my notes. I always read them and feel a little bad deleting them when they are done. Inevitably they lift my spirits.
So this morning I clicked onto the email which read


Think that it's fun, Claire, that you're guided, and that all is well; that there's time, that life is easy, and that the best has yet to come.
Think that the reasons that elude you will one day catch up, that the lessons that have stumped you will one day bring joy, and that the sorrows that have crippled you will soon give you wings.
Think that you're important, that you cannot fail, and that happiness always returns.
And think that you're beautiful, Claire.
I do.

I've highlighted certain phrases because this week I have been crippled - the Mad Mammy is trying to make a return and I have felt more than a bit overwhelmed. I've felt overwhelmed by work, by the responsibilities of parenthood, by exhaustion and by cripplingly low self esteem. There is is a voice in my head on a constant loop of "fat, stupid, ugly" at the moment and that is NOT fun.
At times like this - when I can feel myself slipping again mood wise I wonder what the point is. I have been down the depression road so many times - and each time I have a major slip I slip a bit further and it takes a bit longer to climb back out.
This time may not be a major slippage but the fear that it could is heart-stopping so that sometimes a bad day feels like the start of the end of the world. When I have several bad days in a row I really start to get scared.

So the message I got this morning was very apt and I'll be reading a few more times over the coming days and hoping that in a while I will be able to breathe easier again and that I won't be so close to tears morning, noon and night.

Depression - vile, vile thing...

Regular readers of this blog will know about my ongoing battle with depression. They may well even know that just over a year ago I had a complete hissy fit meltdown which resulted in weeks (yes weeks) of squealing, crying, not eating. not sleeping, just staring while waves of utter desolation washed over me.
It was the worst it has ever been and I was lucky - that particularly low phase, while it felt never ending at the time, lasted only a month or two and then tailed off until it was less bad and less scary and now it's only a couple of days of month and not so much about the screaming and the staring.

I read Marian Keyes' newsletter this month and it echoed how I felt back then and it saddened me because this is how Marian is feeling right now. She has laid her soul bare so many times and I applaud it for doing it again now and I hope, REALLY hope that is passes soon.

Her words, which I have pasted below, made me cry, because I know what she means. And I know that no one can help her but herself and that is what is such a bastard about this illness called depression.

This is much much worse. I know I’m leaving myself open to stinky journalists saying ‘What has she got to be depressed about, the self-indulgent whiner, when there are people out there with real troubles?’ so I won’t go on about it.
All I will say is that I’m aware that these are terrible times and that there are people out there who have been so ruined by the current economic climate that they’ve lost the roof over their heads and every day is a battle for basic survival and I wish I could make their pain go away.
But although I’m blessed enough to have a roof over my head, I still feel like I’m living in hell. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t write, I can’t read, I can’t talk to people. The worst thing is that I feel it will never end. I know lots of people don’t believe it, but depression is an illness, but unlike say, a broken leg, you don’t know when it’ll get better.

It's trite of me to say 'It will get better' but believe me, from painful horrendous experience - experience when I would hit myself around the head to try and stop the inner pain - it does pass.
For now I'll leave you with a quote she has posted... which truly is inspirational...

Believe more deeply. Hold your face up to the light, even though for the moment you do not see.
Bill Wilson, in a letter 1950 in How Bill Sees It

The Wall...

I think there comes a time when every parent of a new infant hits "the wall".
Translation for the wall?
"I love you with every fibre of my being and I would die in an instant for you but I no longer remember who I am. I have become a winding, burping, feeding, nappy changing, laundry washing drudge. I have given up on trying to lose weight and my rubbery tummy is actually quite comforting. Sleep? I no longer remember the concept and even when I do sleep it is NEVER enough. I am always tired. ALWAYS. I hate going to sleep because I know I will wake up and when I wake up it will be the same again... the same nappy/feeding/ changing/ talking rubbish routine until bedtime. I have developed a love/hate relationship with the steriliser and while bath times are fun, I wish I could have one myself.
"I wish I could have a soak and not listen out for you. I wish that you would still be there and will always be here and don't get me wrong, I would crawl into the ground and die if anything ever happened to you... but this is hard work. Damn hard work. And I want to be again - even just a little."

And this is all worse second time around because I knew what I was getting myself in for anyway and still did it. SUCKER!

Can you tell i have hit the wall? This is the longest marathon of my life filled with worry, stress, drudgery and so much more.
But it is wonderful too. I love her. I love her so much it catches in my throat and I want to scream about her wonderfulness.
It doesn't take away the drudgery however.

Depression good for you? What a sick joke!

A study this week by overpaid boffins at New York University has claimed that being depressed is actually good for a person and, in addition, taking medication to tackle that depression could actually be stopping people achieving their goals.
They (the overpaid boffins) have said that extreme sadness or depression can actually help us learn from our mistakes, move on to new and wonderful times in our lives and move our focus away from destructive thoughts. Yes, I had it read it several times to allow it to sink in.
Let’s think about that again - being depressed can help us move our focus away from destructive thoughts or actions, they said. Something just doesn’t add up there, does it? Now I’ve spoken before very openly about my experiences with depression. And yes, in some ways experiencing depression has helped me make some positive changes in my life. I was able to write a book loosely based on my experiences of the illness after the birth of my son and it did quite well for me.
That put me in the priviledged position of being able to reach out to people going through similar experiences and assure them they were not alone. But I was only able to do that after receiving the relevant treatment and support, I’ve no shame in admitting that there have been times in my life when a wee dose of Prozac has done the business or that I have a shelf full of self help manuals and books to help me understand and tackle the condition.
But would I say that being depressed is a good thing - even though in a way it has brought me a degree of success? Would I say that it helped me move my focus away from destructive thoughts and actions? No. Categorically and emphatically no. What utter, utter rubbish.
It is clear to me (and I’m no overpaid boffin at New York University) that anyone who could make such a statement - never mind commission an entire report to argue their point - has clearly never experienced depression. Yes, they may have been sad from time to time. They may even have gone through a severe rough patch and yes, I agree that perhaps we are all too keen sometimes to medicate away general sadness.
Sadness is a fact of life. Bad things happen and we all need a time to grieve over them and come to terms with them. But there is a huge difference to feeling sad (even if at times that sadness seems overwhelming) and suffering from depression. From my experience depression is all encompassing. It invades every aspect of your life until you can no longer think rationally or feel any inkling of positive emotion. It steals your confidence, your sense of self and it certainly steals your ability to look to the future with hope or excitement. It is very different from having a bad day day or reacting to dreadful circumstances in your life (and that’s not to dismiss any notion that a real, clinicial depression can come about as a result of difficult times).
For a lot of people depression is an illness - a deficiency of the happy hormone Serotonin - a condition which needs treatment above and beyond being told to pull yourself together. It is a condition that, at its worst, can be life threatening. And it is certainly not the reserve of the great minds of this world. (The over paid boffins, just so as you know, pointed out a number of great leaders or figures in history who were afflicted and went on to do just fabulously for themselves.) It doesn’t care who you are, what you have or whether or not you should be happy on paper.
It is one of the biggest misconceptions out there that depression only happens to people who have bad things happen to them. The fact is that true clinical depression - the depletion of serotonin - doesn’t give a flying fig what you have or what you have achieved or hope to achieve.
I’m pretty sure there are people who swing the lead and I’m pretty sure there are medical professionals out there who hand out magic prescriptions a little more readily than is justified. I know there are people who use depression as an excuse - a label which they are happy to wear. But for every person swinging the lead there are countless others battling against a genuine illness and getting on with their lives in difficult circumstances. Our GPs and other medical professionals are doing the best they can to help the people who need it, in the difficult position of having been allocated just 10 minutes per appointment.
I think it is wrong, and also verging on the dangerous, to suggest that those who suffer from true depression let it wash over them and avoid trying to treat it. If you are lucky - as I was and am - it can be treated and controlled fairly easily.
You can get your sense of self back and you can feel well again and it is often only when you start to feel well again that you realise just how unwell you had been. That realisation can often be a scary experience. Far from helping us achieve great things, escape the stresses of life and not repeat past mistakes - avoiding help when it is truly needed could cause untold damage. That damage extends not only to those personally afflicted with the condition but their friends and family also.
So when overpaid boffins analyse their statistics and come up with their grand and sweeping statements they would do well to think about the real human impact of an illness which deserves as much treatment, sympathy and understanding as any other life threatening condition.

Putting it all in perspective - an explanation for my general crapness since June

This is going to be VERY self indugent, you have been warned. But for the last few days I've felt I needed to get this all down to put into perspective what has going on with me and the "joys" of pregnancy.
This might, in fairness, be a little TMI at times so you have been warned. Anyone of a sensitive disposition should run away, screaming, at this point.

Anyway, on June 25 (the husband's birthday) I got a very faint positive line on a pregnancy test. However I had managed to get distracted between the peeing and the reading of the result so couldn't be sure it was an accurate result and convinced myself it was purely an evaporation line. This was despite feeling rough as the proverbial badger's arse for the previous 10 days.
The following day, I started bleeding so was convinced it had indeed been only an evaporation line and came home from work - poured a mahoosive glass of wine and drowned my sorrows.
Only I was still feeling sick and, well, pregnant.
I was convinced to test again and a positive line came up straight away (no distractions) so immediately all I could think was that yes, I was beduffed, but feck it, I was already miscarrying.
My head, as they say round these parts, was a marly.

The next day, bleeding having stopped, I bought a Clear Blue Digital test which proclaimed "pregnant" at me in large letters and this was one about 2689 pregnancy tests I did over the coming weeks.
Feeling sick as a dog I soon started to feel sorry for myself but reminded myself that with the boy I had felt sick til 13 weeks and then been just fine for the remainder of my pregnancy. The countdown to 13 weeks started in earnest. I would feel well again then - and be able to eat and do what I wished.

At 6 weeks and 2 days beduffed, I started bleeding again. Bright red blood. Now I'd bled with the boy - but it had been browny and "old blood" and he had been fine and while it had been scary, it was nowhere near as scary as bright red blood. I took a panic, told a colleague tearfully in work and she whisked me to A&E - where I did yet another pregnancy test and was sent for a scan.
Now by 6 weeks you should see something in a scan - but they couldn't. They thought they saw a yoke sack, and possibly a foetal pole (which is basically a dot) but there was no heartbeat or anything discernably baby looking.

I was told to go home, rest, and wait it out for two weeks before a rescan. All the while still bleeding. (With that fecking Leona Lewis song playing through my head the whole time... "keep bleeding, keep, keep bleeding").

It was the longest two weeks of my life. And yet I was feeling sicker and sicker. (I started to wonder was it possible to actually feel any sicker?) But when we reached 8 weeks (5 weeks before the hurrah! 13 week mark) I was taken for me scan.
And lo, there was a heartbeat and a shrimpy shaped thing on screen wiggling at us. Our baby was alive. The bleeding had stopped. We would most likely be parents again.

13 weeks came and went - the sickness just came and came. I went to Dublin at 14 weeks for book promo and ended up violently ill in Bewley's Hotel (entirely pregnancy related). I learned the valuable lesson that day that mushrooms take a long time to digest.

Two weeks later I went to Dublin again thinking I would be safe if I flew down- and spent the day trying not to be sick - only to find on the flight home that there was nothing in this world which was going to stop me puking. All over myself. Twas not my finest hour.

At that stage (16 weeks and three weeks past the magical 13 week mark) I begged the doctor for help and was prescribed metoclopromide for hyperemesis - even though at that stage I was only being physically sick 2/3 times a week - the nausea was becoming a little much to take.

So I took metoclopromide for 8 weeks until I was advised to try not taking it - just to see how I went. By this stage, I should say, even on medication I was now being sick daily.

The day after I took my last metoclopromide I woke in what can only be described as a state of panic. (I should state that two weeks prior to this, partly I think to the constant sickness, I had been diagnosed once again with my arch nemesis depression and put on Prozac- I have thought long and hard about revealing that on this blog but as I have been so open about my depression in the past it would be remiss of me to pretend to be just fine and dandy now).

Anyway, that panic attack didn't lift and was accompanied by constant retching, throwing up and a total loss of appetite. I spent that weekend crying, throwing up and feeling utterly, utterly rotten. I can put my hand on my heart and say that I have never felt so low - so utterly in hell - as I did that weekend.
And yet my brain was addled. By Monday morning - despite not having eaten in three days, not being able to keep water down and bursting into tears at every opportunity I insisted on getting ready for work. I dressed, throwing up into a basin beside me, and it was only when I narrowly avoided fainting that I realised something was seriously wrong. By that stage I couldn't even keep a sip of water down.

Cue me being taken to the doctors and admitted to hospital (see post further down about that).
I was rehydrated, given different medication and urged to keep taking the Prozac. The panic didn't ease. I spent hours staring into space feeling as if I wanted to give up. I saw no joy in anything - I just felt beyond wretched. In many ways I think I had a breakdown of sorts - which I know was contributed to by the dehydration.

Earlier this week, or perhaps last, something changed. Whether it was body recovering from the dehydration - whether it is the new anti-sickness medication (valoid) working, or the Prozac kicking in I have felt able to cope. Yes, I'm still being sick on a daily basis and it does get me down - despite having mastered the art of projectile vomiting - but I see hope and joy again.

I can put my hand on my heart and say in the last week I have finally been able to feel excited about the prospect of being a mum again - and it's not forced or because I should feel that way. It is genuinely and honestly how I feel - and it had destroyed me for a long time not feeling any glimmer of hope or excitement.

So if you want to know why I've not been posting as much, now you do. I felt the need to share so that anyone else going through this doesn't feel quite so alone.

That sounded a bit poncy, didn't it?

That stuff about song lyrics touching my soul... I mean, wtf does touching my soul mean anyway?
Surely you need some sort of degree in medicine and latex gloves to be allowed to touch someone's soul?
But that song made me cry and I've been listening to it on a loop ever since - to both the original Snow Patrol version and the Leona Lewis cover. (Can't decided which I like best. I like the Snow Patrol because it is somehow cooler, but the Leona Lewis version is breathtaking).
Anyway, I've been having some minor emotional issues lately and it's nice to even sing that song to myself and remind myself that I'm still there beneath it all and I'll be back someday. (Or does that sound even more pretentious that something which has been touching my soul?)
So I've spent some quality time with the boy, taken him for lunch and to the beach in the freezing cold to build sandcastles while rubbing my hands together to get a heat.
I've also been thrown up over. (The boy seems to be a on deathwish at the moment. Today he not only narrowly missed falling down some escalators, but ran in front of a car and fell over and cracked his head. It was after the cracking the head incident that he cried so hard she projectiled all over me, in the street - and I caught it in my hands.)
But I feel slightly better now - a little more relaxed - a little more like me. And that feels good.
So maybe touching my soul was a good idea?

Defeating depression

The very kind people at Aware, a Northern Ireland based organisation which supports people with depression, have asked me to support their 'One in Ten' Mothers' Day Campaign which will highlight how one in ten women will develop post natal depression.
I developed Post Natal Depression after the birth of the boy, and I intend to write a full blog of my story in the coming weeks. It was not a pleasant time and I still have some emotional scars from it.
One of the biggest things for me at the time was that I felt there was no support out there. And even in this enlightened day and age I felt as if I was broken on the inside for not immediately falling head over heels in love with the J-man.
Of course, I got help, and I love him now more than anything in this world with a sense of pride so fierce I would do anything for him. (Die, walk over hot coals, give up chocolate. You name it!)
I still have depressive episodes, but I know there is help there.
And I intend to work with Aware over the coming month to make sure others know that help is out there too.

Tis the season to be meh....

My struggle with depression is well documented on the pages of this blog and believe me, I thought I was doing okay. I really have felt (apart from the PMT monsters) much brighter, calmer and generally more zen.
I've even spoken to my doctor about coming off medication after almost five years and the thought didn't terrify the bejaysus out of me for once, but God I'm in a dark wee place at the moment and I want out of it.
(Now I'm not thinking of jumping off bridges or taking overdoses or the like so please noone worry on that score). I just feel meh.
It seems that the last two months has been a series of knocks in my personal life which are now affecting my ability to think rationally in the day job and the night job.
I'm also immersed in a pretty serious storyline for my third book and when I'm writing about human misery I have to kind of feel it for it to be honest.
I'm paranoid, weepy, whiney and generally in that place in my head where I want to take to my bed and do mny dying swan routine until it all goes away.
I hate this feeling - when my bad days become a bad week - but I know it will pass and I'll come out the other side soon (I hope).

Rainy Days and Mondays...

I've had the song by the Carpenters stuck in my head all week now. (Can't think why? ;) )

There is something about the line "What I've got, they used to call the blues..." which blows me away a little. It just seems to hit at the taboos surrounding depression and while the song itself is kind of sad, there is that hope at the end of a brighter day.

It's not really suitable for a Tacky Tuesday...but let me share the words anyway.

Talkin' to myself and feelin' old
Sometimes I'd like to quit
Nothing ever seems to fit
Hangin' around
Nothing to do but frown
Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down.

What I've got they used to call the blues
Nothin' is really wrong
Feelin' like I don't belong
Walkin' around
Some kind of lonely clown
Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down.

Funny but it seems I always wind up here with you
Nice to know somebody loves me
Funny but it seems that it's the only thing to do
Run and find the one who loves me.

What I feel has come and gone before
No need to talk it out
We know what it's all about
Hangin' around
Nothing to do but frown
Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down.

Month 32- God Bless Slugsy

Dear Joseph,

We have reached a critical point in our relationship. While you continue to delight me I'm starting to find this parenthood melarky hard work.

By 32 months we would have hoped to have sorted the whole "pooping in your pants" thing (not one of your finest social habits) and persuaded you to give up your nappies for proper big boy pants.

Alas, it's not to be. You seem to resist the potty training whole heartedly and while it's really up to you if you want to walk around smelling like pee the rest of your life, it is frustrating for me as your mother because I know you know how to use the potty. You do it when we least expect- you just like to tease me.

We are also trying to break your addiction to your dummy. We've managed for the most part to hide them from you during the day and keep them only for bed time but we are being thwarted at every turn by people who perhaps don't have as much patience for your whingey phases as we do.

Part of me of course thinks you look so much the baby with your dummy in your mouth and your nappy on that I myself am resistant to change. I don't know when I'll get round to adding to our family, and it pains me to think that I don't have a little baby anymore.

Which brings me on to my next topic- this is kind of inspired by Dooce's ramblings this month and also a thread on Damsels about new babies.

When you were ickle I loved you and I cared for you, but I wasn't in love with you. I was caught up in my own world where I was unwell, tired, depressed and I wished away so many of your early weeks and months. I'd love to hold you now, as a newborn, and shower you with kisses for hours instead of forcing us into a routine.

I hope that I've made it up to you now. That you know I love you with all my heart and soul and would die for you in an instant (although preferably it won't ever come to that). They say a woman discovers the true meaning of guilt when she becomes a mother and its probably not far from the truth. Just know I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you and I promise there won't be one moment, ever again, when you will feel anything but cherished entirely.

And to end on a more positive note, as we say our prayers each evening we've added in a God Bless section this month. I was delighted when after naming all our family members you added 'God Bless Slugsy' at the end.

Love you loads,

Mammy