Baby steps ...

Warning: This blog entry may be boring and repetitious, but I need to write today so bear with me.

I was never quite sure why I stopped writing. I thought it was because I had run out of things to say and yet I never stopped talking to whoever was around to hear. I imagined that as my life was reasonably even for a bit I didn’t need to use this forum as a way of clarifying my thoughts.  I stopped using my writing as therapy and felt that the course of sessions had run their time and it was now time to listen and not write. All of these are valid. They were all true to a greater of lesser extent, but in talking to a very old, good friend a few nights ago I re-inspired myself. I got excited once again about writing, not as therapy, as creativity.

Let’s cut to the chase here – go straight to the core of all of it. I am often not okay. I have long periods of time when I sink into places of such darkness that I cannot begin to see any glimmers of light. This past six months has been one long bad dream. Even before the death of my father I was in pain with my back and neck. This pain has carried on, worsened and ground me down until it was almost all I could think about. Sleepless nights, limited walking, pain, pain and more pain led to months of drugs, x-rays, doctor referrals, fighting with the National Health Service for adequate diagnosis and tests and finally, not a great diagnosis – nothing too serious, but not easy either. My father’s death sent me into a downward spiral of sadness and long periods of time when I didn’t work. When I finally returned to work it was the middle of winter and the dark days sent me further into my old friend, depression. A brief respite of a delightful few weeks in California with my children was a welcome change, but only solidified my despair at having limited mobility and pain. Returning to London I was sad, dispirited and anxious as hell. Work was adequate at best. I’m sure others didn’t really notice my lapses, my lack of passion and my partial commitment, but I did. I was distraught. It’s hard to do less than your best when you know what you are capable of achieving.

Two weeks ago I finally made the decision to give up work for an extended period of time. I also finally realised that I couldn’t weather this particular spell on my own and needed the help of medication. This was and still is, a hard thing for me to admit. I have spent many years in an environment where the route through depression was always expression, catharsis and therapy. To take medication feels like failing. It feels like I am saying I can’t do it anymore and that admission is a weakness. I am working with trying to drop that belief because I also know that that is a belief that works against me. It is an old message that probably has its roots in fear that if I show weakness, if I admit that I need help, I will be vulnerable and that’s dangerous. I wonder where I’ve heard that before!

I am not familiar to myself at the moment. I am not capable and in control. This means I am adjusting to a different me right now. A part of me that needs very careful nurturing is more present than the independent adult self I present to the world. I am a bit more reclusive and a lot more fragile. I do feel like I am suffering from some sort of post-traumatic shock, though I am not quite sure what the shock is/was. I don’t know yet if the anti-depressant meds will help, but hell, it’s worth a shot. What helped immediately was just letting me hear myself say, I need help. I can’t do this alone.

Baby steps… a day at a time.