The black dog.
Sunday, September 25th, 2011
A couple of days ago, performance poet and literature promoter Harry Giles — who’s also at the helm of Inky Fingers and the Save The Forest campaign and that reminds me have you given them some money yet? — posted on his excellent blog a confession: that he regularly suffers from periods of anxiety, which prevent him from effectively doing things that he’s kind of famous for, like socialising, writing, and being ferociously, relentlessly upbeat.
Harry described the post as a way to “out” his anxiety and encouraged others to do the same. I started thinking about this and realised that, in spite of being pretty much as accepting as it is possible to be about the mental health issues of others, I am still quite secretive about my own. It’s part of my job to effectively teach and support young people with behavioural problems, depression, anxiety and other emotional difficulties, but I try very hard not to mention my own “issues” in and around my workplace for fear of garnering distrust or having my professionalism called into question. Similarly, while I entered into a bit of discussion a couple of years ago about writing and depression here, I am also reluctant to make the state of my mental health widely known in the creative circles I move in. I always assume that people’s response to hearing about such things will either be to pity and cluck over me in a well-meaning fashion, or to roll their eyes and assume I’m being a drama queen who’s fishing for sympathy. It takes a great leap of courage for me to trust the small voice in my head that says, actually, you’re capable of being sensible and understanding about such things — why do you assume that others are not?
Perhaps because I’ve had bad experiences in the past — although when I think back, these have been few, and minor. I think my reluctance to talk about the state of my mental health actually comes from the fact that No One Else Does It. It’s considered bad form, or something. And yet, would I feel a heck of a lot more comfortable if other folk like me were also saying “this happens to me sometimes, and this is what it feels like”? Of course I would. Which is why I think what Harry wrote was admirable, and which is why I am now writing this.
As a teenager, I suffered from what I now know to have been depression. When my parents moved my sister and I to Scotland at the age of 8, my ability to form social relationships (which was already somewhat shaky) took a battering. I’d spent the first year of my school life in an inner-city infants’ school, clinging to my one best friend, and then been moved to a tiny church school in the middle of nowhere, where I was surrounded mostly by nice-mannered upper-middle-class kids and the mini-heirs of wealthy local landowners. When I was moved to a village seven miles up the Bowmont Valley in the Scottish Borders, I suddenly found myself amongst hard-nosed farm kids who mostly spoke Scots. My sister and I couldn’t even understand the taunts chucked at our “posh” mannerisms, parents and Northern English accents.
I continued to be a bit of a social pariah throughout high school. It didn’t help that I was 5′11″ tall by the age of twelve, and just about the only person in my unusually troublesome year who actually cared about their grades. By fourth year I was obsessed with the idea of getting five straight As in my Highers — I also began to suffer from panic attacks, insomnia and paranoid delusions. I became increasingly convinced that some horrendous event was going to occur, and all the people I loved would die. I happened to see an unfortunately-timed and highly sensationalist TV show about black holes, and as a result my paranoia swelled — I became sure that the world was going to end. It got to the point where I was sleeping one hour out of every twenty four, staying up all night listening to the radio and still dragging myself to school the next day. I heard noises in the sky that were not there: deafening, earthquake-like sounds. One night my Dad woke up at 2am and found me standing at the far end of our back garden in my dressing gown, crying uncontrollably, convinced that I could see a black hole enveloping the sky. I was hallucinating. I’d suffered a complete breakdown.
I was diagnosed with stress, and sent for counselling sessions with the school doctor, who happened to specialise in psychiatry. My anxiety abated for a while — I was able to sleep, and somehow I managed to sit my Highers, getting my five longed-for As (to this day, I have no idea how I did this). When my cataclysm paranoia showed no signs of abating, I visited another doctor who referred me to a private therapist. Slowly, I “got better.”
Except that I didn’t. Mental health issues tend to be chronic, so in actuality I was just lucky enough to move into a period of what I refer to as “wellness.” Throughout my undergrad degree, I was more or less absolutely fine — I got a bit stressed out or down every so often, but no more than any of my classmates.
At the end of my Masters year, I had a brief relapse. I became anxious and sleepless, but because I thought I’d been “cured” when I was seventeen, I didn’t associate this with my previous issues. Without noticing, I became highly delusional — I began to see conspiracies being built all around me. I “uncovered” the fact that one of my classmates had possibly been unfairly awarded a literary prize, after she sought help with the work she entered from one of the judges (the latter half of this did actually happen, but I had no proof that said classmate had got help from the judge). I accused one of my tutors of bullying other students on the course via seriously unsuitable channels. I filled out the University’s “anonymous” end-of-year feedback form a little too honestly. At no point did I think I was being unreasonable or irrational in any way — I had no idea that I was leaving a trail of destruction in my wake.
I learned that the department wanted to expel me for my behaviour, and by extension, refuse my application to study with them for a PhD. Fortunately, I was saved by a few excellent staff members who stuck up for me, and possibly in part by the summa cum laude honours with which I was about to graduate. Hearing that I had put my academic career in serious jeopardy snapped me out of my trance and dragged me out of the black hole. This time, I clawed my way back to “wellness” quite quickly, and without therapy or any kind of medical aid.
It didn’t last as long this time. About a year later in early 2010, my relationship of nearly five years ended, and I spiralled again. This time I spotted the signs, went to the doctor and was diagnosed with depression for the first time. I also learned that I am a sufferer of social anxiety. One doctor I saw was adamant that I should be medicated, but I have always been queasy about anti-depressants. I allowed them to prescribe me beta-blockers for the palpitations I was suffering as a result of my anxiety. To this day, that’s the only medication I’ve ever taken to deal with the situation.
I’ve come to think differently about my depression. I now know that I can’t ever be “cured,” and that at some point — be it sometime soon, or in many years’ time — I might find myself way down at rock bottom again. I’ve learned to recognise the early warning signs that suggest I’m not really coping very well. Ironically, when I’m feeling unstable I have a tendency to overload myself with new projects; to get very excitable about everything and rush around, breathlessly doing things. Of course, when I finally crash and burn, I then feel all the more guilty and worthless for having so many different balls in the air, as it were, and then having to drop them.
I really liked the fact that Harry had made lists of things that made him feel ‘Scared’ and ‘Safe’ — and that he was brave enough to share them. My own lists are probably endless, but as part of the “outing” process I thought I would also take a leaf out of Harry’s book and share the most relevant and immediate items.
Things that make me feel scared
- Sending out my work for publication (these days I do this very, very rarely, usually waiting to be asked for a poem, or only submitting to magazines I’m sure I’m cool about)
- “Networking”, socialising at literary events, readings etc.
- The few hours before a reading or performance
- Vague, flighty, insecure or hyper-confident people with whom I am unsure where I stand
- Exercising in any way in public (this includes ceilidhs, which I really, really hate)
- House parties
- Watching TV, wwilfing, other sedentary, empty activities (this sometimes includes non-academic reading)
- Crowded places (particularly unfamiliar ones); being surrounded by a lot of people I don’t know
- The dark
- Financial insecurity, but also financial dependence (on overdrafts, a job etc)
- Being spontaneous; being unsure where I’m going; not knowing what the end result will be
- Feeling like I’ve cheated or been dishonest, or gained something unfairly
- Debates/arguments on the internet
- The admin and bureaucratic box-ticking that comes with my job
Things that make me feel safe
- Steve
- Tidying up, cleaning, housework
- Honest, straightforward, vocal people with whom I always know where I stand
- Having enough time to do all the things I want to
- Hula hooping
- Studying and academic reading
- Setting aside long periods of time to write
- Walking around the city
- Planning; knowing where I’m going; having an end goal to aim for
- Feeling like I’ve worked hard or really earned something
- Discussions in person, with people I trust
- Talking about the past
- Feeling like I’ve been productive
- Feeling like I’ve been helpful or handled something well
- Teaching (even a “difficult” class); marking; giving feedback to students
Writing my lists was more difficult and cathartic than I expected. I think I’d be interested to read the lists of others, too. I strongly urge you to go and read Harry’s post and, if it chimes with you as it did with me, to write your own, too. A nonjudgemental community for creative people who also suffer from anxiety or depression, even if it is just online, could potentially be hugely useful. As Harry says, “really: everyone feels as anxious as you.”
