I am going to do a series called ‘Guest Blogger’, and yes, as the name suggests I am welcoming anyone to feature on my blog; whether you are one of my best friends, an acquaintance, or just an interested reader of my blog. Today I have a wonderful and honest blog by one of my best friends in the world. We shared the best and worst 3 years of my life: university. We were even neighbours in my 3rd year. She certainly helped keep me on the straight and narrow and always provided a shoulder to cry on. I’m very proud of her, especially with how far she has come with her mental illness. She is going to be an f’ing doctor – how amazing is that? Please get in contact with me on rosiebrown.contact@gmail.com if you want your blog featured on this website.
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You must excuse me but I’m finding it hard to find the words to write this blog. Do I try and be funny? Nah, I’m not that good at that. Do I try and be serious and thought provoking? Well that’s not me either. The thing is, I’ve been writing this blog post inside my head for a long time. Over and over I will think of how witty I might be, how charming this story could turn out. But then I bottle it. No one wants to hear what I say I’ll tell myself. Well I’m so over that self-loathing bullshit (for today anyway), I’m going to hammer on these keys until magic happens, or I give into the temptation of a Muller corner and run downstairs to the kitchen. So hold onto your knickers ladies (and fellas, if you’re so inclined)…
I first realised I didn’t feel quite right when I was 12. I tell my mum in the car on the way to Merry Hill that sometimes I felt sad and I didn’t know why. She correctly points out that I’m going through the shitfest that is puberty and it’s only natural. She is right; I’m 12 for gods sake. I can’t even work out which member of Blue I fancy the most (just kidding- yours forever Duncan).
Puberty rages on, but I begin to notice I really don’t feel ok. I fly off the handle at the most bizarre things, I cry for no reason. I start cutting myself. It’s the only way I can turn this pain into a tangible, comprehendible thing. By this point mum’s clocked on, as all good mothers would, that I’m not coping. She thinks it’s academic stress. I always put myself under the most ridiculous pressure for no reason. A classic example of this would be when I gave myself psychosomatic stomach problems in year 3. Eight year old me couldn’t cope with the stress of mental maths and studying the Tudors, and got myself a free pass to the loo for every wave of sickness. Vomming in the junior school loos on a daily basis was not a highlight of my career it must be said.
I find myself on the waiting list for my local Children and Adolescent Mental Health Services. I lie my way through the interview with the kindly therapist: “Do you ever hurt yourself?” “No”. “Do you ever have suicidal thoughts?” “No.” Lie lie lie. By this point I’m wanting out of this strange world that only seems to want to bring confusing sadness. My attendance at school drops to a dangerous low, which is kindly highlighted on every school report with a big fat “!”from the headmaster. The battle to leave my bed is too much. When I make it to school I end up leaving my classes, accompanied by one of many concerned friends to the sickroom. That little cupboard under the stairs is my private Idaho. I nestle amongst the emergency tampons and antiseptic wipes a blubbing mess waiting for the nurse and my form tutor to arrive and sympathetically stand there, clueless as to how to proceed.
After several ruined family events (I really am sorry about that BBQ mum) and threats by an exhausted mother to have me sectioned, I eventually get to see my CAMHS therapist and psychiatrist. My life begins to change. Simon, my therapist, sees me at school and home and helps me use CBT. Monthly trips to Dr Win keep me in good supply of both fluoxetine and a shoulder to cry my secrets into. It’s still tough; I’m still not in control how I’d like to be. However by age 16 I’m leaving school with more GCSEs than I really need and new focus- I’m going to be a doctor.
I’m not cured, I’m no survivor. Partly because it’s a wank cliché, but also because depression is a spectrum you never leave but merely move around on a day to day basis. I have regrets. I regret the pain I put my parents through, the shit example I set my little sister. I regret having a body covered by scars that leave me embarrassed getting naked in front of anyone new (although I do worry more about the size of my thighs). However, the experiences I’ve had leave me with a unique perspective that I really hope will lead me to be a good doctor.
I guess I’m writing this for several reasons. Firstly, I’m well jealous of Rosie being so awesome and right on and setting up such a successful blog, something I’ve never had the balls to do. I thank her for giving me a platform and the confidence to write this post. Secondly, I’d like to think I’m an example of someone that went from the lows of suicides notes and daily self-harm to achieving their goals. Fourteen year old me would never believe I could be sat on a Cambridge degree, battling through the final years of a medicine course. But here I am, battling on. I have bad days, bad weeks. But a friendly citalopram every day doesn’t hurt, and I’m learning to talk to those around me more about the way I’m feeling (although this is arguably the hardest part of my illness). I’m hoping that this has been more than self-satisfied drivel, and maybe an insight into a person’s progression through what I still see as a highly misunderstood illness. I’m not the first and won’t be the last (especially if Cambridge exam term has anything to do with it), but hopefully I’m one a growing number of people that have learned to accept their depression and not let it hold them back.
Yasmin.
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