When I Went Doolally – Depression And Me.

I’ve been thinking of writing about my experience of depression for a while but have kept  putting it off. I have no trouble talking to friends about it, but somehow the thought of publishing it here for the world to see is a bit scary, very scary actually.

A wee bit of background info – well more than a wee bit. I do tend to ramble.

Eight years ago, after months of attending the GP with increasingly severe pain and symptoms and finally seeing a consultant,  I was diagnosed as having Ulcerative Colitis – an incurable but manageable bowel disease. For the next three years I seemed to spend much of my life on the toilet, or trying desperately to get to one on time and not always succeeding! The daily medication included taking 6-8 tablets large enough to be used as stepping stones – at least that is what they felt like as I tried to swallow them. Then the nightly highlight of administering a retention enema. Those of you of a squeamish disposition – skip a few lines! Imagine squeezing a full bottle of frothy shampoo up your bum and having to keep it there and you’ve got the idea! When things were really severe I had to take steroids as well – NOT a good experience and one which has left me with oesteoporosis.

Anyway, things  settled into  a routine of flare-ups and remission, and I learned to cope, sometimes well and sometimes dissolving into a wallow of self pity.

Around this time our son was going through the usual teenage rebellious phase. Normally I would have coped well, but stressing about him just made my colitis worse.

Then my lovely mum in  law was diagnosed with breast cancer for the second time. She was in her mid 70s and was devastated at the thought of a second mastectomy and  follow up treatment. My parents died a long time ago and she has been my “Mum” for over twenty years so naturally I was really worried about her. After her surgery Steve and I did most of the “looking after” as my two sisters in law don’t live nearby.  So more stress and worry. Happy update. She is nearly80 now and is fine.

So,I was coping well with everything, wasn’t I?  After all, I was a strong,sensible, intelligent, independent woman. That’s what I kept telling myself anyway. I had my “public” face that I showed my loved ones and the world beyond, but I knew deep down inside that there was something terribly wrong – I just didn’t know what it was.

As the days, weeks and months went by things gradually got worse. I  ate less and less – not deliberately – food just made me feel sick; I couldn’t sleep; I didn’t want to get out of bed ; I couldn’t read and I LOVE reading;  I had no enthusiasm for anything. I developed an agonising pain in my lower abdomen which never went away. I was poked and prodded by various doctors , one of whom more or less told me he thought I was a neurotic menopausal woman!  I was put on medication for anxiety and given increasingly heavy duty pain killers which I became addicted to. The side effects of these were dreadful and I had to go through withdrawal  to get myself off them.

I felt – well – that’s the thing – I didn’t FEEL anything. Maybe lost, somehow, but even now years later, I struggle to try to explain to anyone what my depression is like.

It was like being surrounded by blackness with no way out. I wasn’t ME anymore. Nothing mattered. I knew my darling husband and son loved me and were worried but I couldn’t do anything about it.  I stayed in bed day after day, leaving my husband to do everything I should be doing. I cried uncontrollably and didn’t know why. I lost about  two stone  and felt weak and sick all the time.

I saw my GPs many times. They were sympathetic and continued  treating me for anxiety and panic attacks, but there was no real improvement.

One morning Stephen had gone to work, son and heir had gone to school and I was lying in bed. I had a  sudden, totally  overwhelming feeling of despair and hopelessness.   I picked up a pillow, held it over my face and wondered how hard would I have to press and how long would it take? A fleeting and terrifying thought. I rang Stephen, he rushed home and I was admitted to the local psychiatric unit within hours.

I was terrified – I didn’t know what to expect or what was going to happen. I only knew I needed help.

I was in the “nut house – the funny farm!” Would there be bars on the windows? Would I be locked in?Would there be people screaming, moaning and rocking endlessly?  I had never met anyone who had any form of mental illness  never mind been in  a psychiatric ward. Well maybe I had but they just didn’t tell anyone!

HOW WRONG  could I have been? The other patients were just like you and me . Normal ordinary folk who, for whatever reason needed help for mental illness. The first few days WERE difficult, but the staff were wonderful and slowly but surely things started to get better. The “happy pills” dealt with the chemical imbalance in my brain, while the various therapies – art, music, relaxation, group&individual “talking therapies” helped me understand how to deal with life again.

Fortunately I didn’t have to stay too long and was allowed home with follow up sessions at the out patients dept.

It wasn’t an instant fix. I had to work hard to stay well and still  do.

I have written this , partly for me , but also to encourage others to talk or write about their depression. It really does help and maybe if enough of us do, it will help to diminish the social stigma which still surrounds the whole subject of mental illness.

Just to end, I have to say that without the love and support of the most wonderful man in the world – my husband, my son and family , I’m not sure I would be here . Thank you is SO inadequate.