So this week is mental health awareness week.
It’s something that has been on my mind (get it? 🙄) for some time.
I genuinely thought my own mental health couldn’t get any worse than last year, but I was wrong.
So yet again, writing it down is part of my therapy. And sharing.
Everyone has it
Firstly, we all have mental health. The difference is that some have good mental health and some have bad. And some have varying degrees in between.
I have had depression several times, following pretty major life events. Until recently I didn’t appreciate that someone’s depression happens without anything. I also didn’t appreciate that other people like to have a reason for your illness: a divorce, bereavement, redundancy etc. If they can’t find something to pin it on, most people can’t cope and don’t understand.
Back to the beginning
My first battle with my mind came in 2005, a year after my mum passed away suddenly on 21 October 2004.
Now that probably seems a bit strange, to be fine and then not. But I think it happens a lot.
Yes I cried when she died. A lot. But then there was my dad. A broken, lonely man. Struggling to survive without the love of his life. He really had no idea what to do with himself.
I spent that year focusing on him. There was no other choice unless I wanted to lose a second parent. There was, however, a tiny furry angel that helped. And his name was Jamie.
Jamie was a Yorkshire Terrier. He was my mums dog. He was not the typical Yorkie. He didn’t yap and didn’t look like a rat. He was gorgeous and adorable and brought joy. He was, of course, a dog. Who needed walks and to go to the loo. Both of these things required human intervention so my dad was required to get up every day. Because Jamie needed him to. Because Jamie was my mums dog.
Grieving differently
So that year I spent most weekends driving to and from Hemel Hempstead and Middleton On Sea. Spent most of my holidays there too. At first it was okay but then I began to dread it.
My dad had started spending most of his days at the cemetery, with a book and a flask of tea, sitting besides my mums grave. It was what he needed to do. So every visit, we would have to go the graveside. Which initially was okay, until it became too much for me.
He needed that. I didn’t. I didn’t need to go there to think about my mum, to be close to her, to,talk to her. I started resenting being dragged there every single time. I also resented that he never once asked how I was doing. I remember expressing these feelings to a friend, whose response was “well she was his wife, she was only your mother”.
But my main concern was my dad so I continued to do it.
The Shift
Eventually things changed. His visits became shorter. He still went every day but it was for a few minutes only. Whereas before when he talked about her he would become upset, now he began to smile and laugh. Talked about things that she had done that weren’t so perfect, chuckling to himself.
He began to heal.
And I began to break.
As his need for me lessened, my own mind started to have space for my thoughts and feelings. The memories that I had of her were too few. The things that we had planned to do and didn’t get time for, the spa days, the weekends away.
The pain grew. The loss expanded until one day it became too much.
My mood was really low, I lost all motivation. I started shutting myself away and making excuses not to go out. I struggled to concentrate at work.
No one understood. Why was I upset now after all this time? I assumed their reaction was because at this point, no one else had lost a parent. They had no idea what that loss felt like. I envied them.
So I did what I thought I should do. I went to see my Doctor (not one I had seen before) and explained myself. I expected an offer of counselling and maybe some anti depressants (although I wasn’t overly keen on that idea).
Instead, what I got was “It’s been 18 months now, you really should get a grip. Perhaps do some exercise”.
Wallop
It felt like a slap round the face. I was astounded and horrified. I remember thinking that had I been a lesser person, that kind of comment could have tipped me over the edge.
So I did something I had never done before. I’m complained. And requested I be assigned a different Doctor. Which I was and who was awesome.
I did have some counselling, 6 sessions, and a mild antidepressant which I stayed on for about a year.
It was all I needed. Some recognition that I wasn’t okay. And some help to get me there. If I had gone to the GP straight after mum had died, I would have received sympathy and understanding, and no judgment. It shouldn’t matter when the depression hits, or indeed why. I felt proud that I had recognised it early and done something about it, but for days after my initial visit I wish I hadn’t.
And that is wrong too.
It takes guts to admit anything to yourself. To ask for help.
Not on your own
Because we are not alone in these battles.
The support may not come from who or where you think, but it will be there.
So do not be afraid to ask.
