One in four people suffer from mental health problems at some point in their lives, a statistic which has been passed around and quoted so often, we’ve become desensitized to it. It’s supposed to challenge our culture (desire? habit?) of excluding people who experience mental illness by acknowledging the prevalence of it. But the problem (as usual) is a bit more complex. The Department of Health suggests that people can manage their mental health problems successfully, but “the biggest barrier to getting back on their feet is not the symptoms of illness, but the attitudes of other people.”
Time to Change’s recent social experiment (despite its design flaws) has elegantly shown that most people would prefer to date someone unattractive and uninteresting than someone with mental illness. Can I really blame them? I’m not sure I would answer any differently, and I’m certainly not obliged by Equality and Diversity laws when I choose who to spend time with and who to marry.
I chose my husband specifically because he was so stable and kind, and because I believed we would have genetically and socially superior children (Superior to me, that is). Would he have still chosen me had I opened the conversation with “I like Frou Frou and have a personality disorder” rather than simply getting to know each other slowly and sensitively as people? It’s a bit like stating on your first date that you are incontinent or have erectile dysfunction. Who is that helping, really – you or your date?
I defy anyone who feels the need to disclose that they suffer from mental illness to 'prepare' people. If we’re disclosing our personal foibles, what about disclosing our high cholesterol, our physical inactivity, our inability to take out the trash, or our secret belief that we are smarter than most people who will reply to our ad? Wouldn’t that be a fairer comparison than simply being Attractive, Interesting (+ BY THE WAY, Mentally Ill)?
It’s easy for me to toe the line. People with personality disorders are not even considered to be mentally ill by many experts. Ironically, without the power of excuse, all that leaves us PD folk with is stigma and exclusion. Under the new changing times, I am empowered to share that I suffer from depression and anxiety. I experience them from time to time, but I don’t suffer. So what am I left to say that anyone else is prepared to hear? Because personality disorder is not mental illness anymore. It’s me. Just Eliza. Attractive, interesting (+ BY THE WAY, Different).
This is not self-deprecation. A personality disorder is, by definition, undesirable. But I embrace the term. I am okay with being undesirable, moreso while the discomfort helps you realise the massive impact small choices can collectively have on a human life. We all affect each other, whether we are 'one in four' or 'three in four.'
I may be an unavoidably different adult with a spectacularly higher risk of both mental and physical illness (including suicide!), thanks to a gauntlet of attachment problems and series of unfortunate events. And I understand that 74% of you wouldn’t want to date me or be my flatmate. But you would be a fool to not appreciate the unique and powerful perspectives and contributions that people with mental illnesses and personality disorders have.
Let me redefine 'one in four' for you.
If your finger is bleeding, you wash it, bandage it, and more importantly – use a knife more skillfully and more safely in the future.
25% of our nation is bleeding, which means 100% of us need to care. And 100% of us need to change.
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
Monday, 20 September 2010
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
Fourth day of CBT
My therapist had a long talk with his supervisor about me. He revealed it suddenly, as though he wanted to say something else but couldn’t, and just as suddenly tried to explain himself, in anticipation of my own anxiety about breaches of confidentiality. But I’m not an ordinary service user. I know mental health workers discuss cases with supervisors and, where appropriate, their teams. It gives me more confidence and faith in the system to know therapists are supported. His concern was misplaced.
I’m no longer participating in cognitive behavioural therapy. [Avoidant tendencies, check] This is more than how frustrated I felt on my third day. Maybe it has to do with my therapist’s “long talk.” He has noted several times during our meetings how anxious and upset I was talking to him as though it was unexpected of me to be anxious and upset talking to a complete stranger whose sole role is to judge, challenge, change, and support you. What did he want me to say? Correct; I struggle to trust strangers who smile at me on the street, muchless strangers who have the ability to section me.
I agreed to step up my care to a clinical psychologist who would be better suited to help me using alternative therapeutic models. So, in a way, I was right last week. I like to think that my therapist’s supervisor found my case so interesting that she wanted to meet me herself. [Narcissistic tendencies, check]
In truth, I felt both relieved and guilty.
When I offered to quit entirely, my therapist’s reaction was immediately and strongly NO. I wasn’t even testing him; I really do want to quit. I work in healthcare; I know how precious these resources are. Someone else needs him more. I’ve coped for years. I can cope for more. But, NO. Apparently, NO.
The Guilt: Why would the NHS want to help me?
I’m not a risk to others. I’m not a risk to myself. I obey the law. I don’t misuse substances. I am intelligent. I am independent. I am hopeful. I contribute meaningfully and financially to society through work, volunteering, and community events.
Flip the coin.
I have a personality disorder, and I don’t even have the decency to be a vulnerable child, an offender, or a woman who self-harms. I am Other. I am less than 1% of the general population. No NICE guidelines exist for how to help me.
Stick my smiling face up on a poster. It’s possible to have “an enduring pattern of inner experience and behavior that deviates markedly from the expectations of the culture of the individual who exhibits it” and still succeed. It’s possible to succeed and still be broken.
Or in my case, in exile.
The Relief: I found me.
A step up the mental health ladder means that something must be really wrong with me. All my Stigma bells rang when my therapist suggested I see the clinical psychologist instead. I knew the sorts of people who needed clinical psychologists. I never imagined myself one of them. Not even when I agreed.
Later that day, I devoured commissioning guidelines and service frameworks and, finally, diagnostic criteria on personality disorders. One link, after another, and then: I found me.
Take that, Clinical Psychologist. I’m one step ahead of you. I’m weak in the knees, fuzzy in the head, and filled with a sparkling mix of intimacy and revulsion at this discovery (and doesn’t that pretty much confirm it all). I have my ICD-10 code. I have my “emotional anatomy.”
Now, the reconciliation can finally begin.
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
I’m no longer participating in cognitive behavioural therapy. [Avoidant tendencies, check] This is more than how frustrated I felt on my third day. Maybe it has to do with my therapist’s “long talk.” He has noted several times during our meetings how anxious and upset I was talking to him as though it was unexpected of me to be anxious and upset talking to a complete stranger whose sole role is to judge, challenge, change, and support you. What did he want me to say? Correct; I struggle to trust strangers who smile at me on the street, muchless strangers who have the ability to section me.
I agreed to step up my care to a clinical psychologist who would be better suited to help me using alternative therapeutic models. So, in a way, I was right last week. I like to think that my therapist’s supervisor found my case so interesting that she wanted to meet me herself. [Narcissistic tendencies, check]
In truth, I felt both relieved and guilty.
When I offered to quit entirely, my therapist’s reaction was immediately and strongly NO. I wasn’t even testing him; I really do want to quit. I work in healthcare; I know how precious these resources are. Someone else needs him more. I’ve coped for years. I can cope for more. But, NO. Apparently, NO.
The Guilt: Why would the NHS want to help me?
I’m not a risk to others. I’m not a risk to myself. I obey the law. I don’t misuse substances. I am intelligent. I am independent. I am hopeful. I contribute meaningfully and financially to society through work, volunteering, and community events.
Flip the coin.
I have a personality disorder, and I don’t even have the decency to be a vulnerable child, an offender, or a woman who self-harms. I am Other. I am less than 1% of the general population. No NICE guidelines exist for how to help me.
Stick my smiling face up on a poster. It’s possible to have “an enduring pattern of inner experience and behavior that deviates markedly from the expectations of the culture of the individual who exhibits it” and still succeed. It’s possible to succeed and still be broken.
Or in my case, in exile.
JustEliza says she's 'spent most of my life trying to solve the puzzle that is me'
The Relief: I found me.
A step up the mental health ladder means that something must be really wrong with me. All my Stigma bells rang when my therapist suggested I see the clinical psychologist instead. I knew the sorts of people who needed clinical psychologists. I never imagined myself one of them. Not even when I agreed.
Later that day, I devoured commissioning guidelines and service frameworks and, finally, diagnostic criteria on personality disorders. One link, after another, and then: I found me.
Take that, Clinical Psychologist. I’m one step ahead of you. I’m weak in the knees, fuzzy in the head, and filled with a sparkling mix of intimacy and revulsion at this discovery (and doesn’t that pretty much confirm it all). I have my ICD-10 code. I have my “emotional anatomy.”
Now, the reconciliation can finally begin.
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
Sunday, 15 August 2010
The Little Penguin
If you watched BBC recently, you might have seen an animated short titled "The Little Penguin" by World of Happy. For just a short time, you can view it again on BBC Iplayer. I hope they leave it up for longer, but if you can't find it, try youtube. I hope Giles Andreae doesn't mind me sharing the story here, as it's a very short, beautiful (albeit highly optimistic) lesson on one of the principles of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy: challenging negative thoughts.
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
There was once a little penguin who was frightened of the water.
"This is no way for penguins to behave," said his father.
"Be gentle," said his mother, "for all of us have fears that others may find hard to understand. Come little penguin, come into the water with me"
"But what if it's cold," said the penguin, "What if it's dark and deep? What if there is a big fat scary monster? What if I can't swim?"
"Ahh," said his mother. "But what if it is light and beautiful? What if all your brothers and sisters are there? What if there are fish for you to eat and friends for you to play with? Come little penguin, take my hand."
And with great courage and great trust, the little penguin slipped into the water, and, for the first time in his life, he felt the joy and freedom, wonder and delight, that every penguin's heart is born to know.
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
Wednesday, 11 August 2010
Third day of CBT
In the dream, I am worrying. I look at product after product on the shelf, until I forget I am standing, or where I am standing, or who I am. I've become simply a vessel for image after image of Possibility in the form of Sugar. I worry, visually, and then I wake, because waking is easier than making a decision. Than acting on a belief. Than believing anything at all.
My homework now includes The Workbook -- a collection of checklists interspersed with definitions and stereotyping -- which treats me like I, too, am just a checklist of symptoms just waiting to be defined. Did the person who wrote this ever have anxiety? I'm not sure she did. She might have realised how horrible it feels to battle intellectually with a form over whether "generalised anxiety is a problem for you."
I'm going to skip straight to Section 2: my own Five Areas Assessment. My therapist has now explained this approach to me 4 times. That's one for each time we've met, plus one extra when he was feeling especially pedantic. Essentially, our thoughts, physical symptoms, feelings/emotions, and behaviour all are linked and affect one another. This is basic science for someone whose post-graduate education focused entirely on theories of mind and behaviour, let alone someone who has already been labelled gifted. I'm not looking forward to the fifth time he explains it to me. If I interrupt, will I earn a new label? Difficult? Disrespectful? Impatient?
Shoot, there's another checklist already. I'm putting The Workbook away before I hurt it with my condescension.
We talked in circles this week, because we've finally reached the edge of his understanding of the human mind. I didn't think it would come this early in the process, and to be honest, I'm considering giving CBT up because of it. I feel deliciously mean just writing that, because essentially I just put my therapist, another human being, down.
Did you catch that? I'm being defensive. At some point, I shut the gate, and he's left standing outside, alone.
Cognitive Behavioural Therapy is meant to be challenging. It's good to have help, but we should all be doing this ourselves in the first place. But it's not as easy as thinking "Hmm, I am underestimating my ability to cope with this new situation. I feel unsafe and confused about what is happening to me. I am anxious." I know I can cope. I can make all of my problems disappear, one way or another, with distance and time. I don't worry about me.
I worry about you.
I worry, because I see you. I interact with you and I know you. My mind races through your life, calculating, estimating, testing, evaluating, predicting. Is mind-reading so very wrong then, if I am always right?
I avoid you.
I avoid, because I would rather be alone than have the opportunity to manipulate you. And I will manipulate you, even if it's simply to counsel you. Knowledge is power, and power is responsibility, and I simply don't want responsibility for you.
There comes a point in your life when you realise you will never have what you want most. Is that what I'm grieving? That I won't ever be able to make everything right in the world? That I can't heal everything? I'm past adolescent, past puberty. I've discovered what I am capable of. I'm past exploring. I've recoiled.
My therapist challenged me this week. I reached the edge of my own understanding of my mind. I didn't think it would come this early in the process, and to be honest, I considered giving CBT up because of it. But that would be avoiding, again. So I challenged myself. I went home, and I wrote this, like I'm writing now. We talked in circles because I cannot resist shutting the gate. Because it's easier to be talked to about self-esteem, shaky hands, and shallow breathing than admit what I'm truly afraid of:
Hurting you.
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
My homework now includes The Workbook -- a collection of checklists interspersed with definitions and stereotyping -- which treats me like I, too, am just a checklist of symptoms just waiting to be defined. Did the person who wrote this ever have anxiety? I'm not sure she did. She might have realised how horrible it feels to battle intellectually with a form over whether "generalised anxiety is a problem for you."
I'm going to skip straight to Section 2: my own Five Areas Assessment. My therapist has now explained this approach to me 4 times. That's one for each time we've met, plus one extra when he was feeling especially pedantic. Essentially, our thoughts, physical symptoms, feelings/emotions, and behaviour all are linked and affect one another. This is basic science for someone whose post-graduate education focused entirely on theories of mind and behaviour, let alone someone who has already been labelled gifted. I'm not looking forward to the fifth time he explains it to me. If I interrupt, will I earn a new label? Difficult? Disrespectful? Impatient?
Shoot, there's another checklist already. I'm putting The Workbook away before I hurt it with my condescension.
We talked in circles this week, because we've finally reached the edge of his understanding of the human mind. I didn't think it would come this early in the process, and to be honest, I'm considering giving CBT up because of it. I feel deliciously mean just writing that, because essentially I just put my therapist, another human being, down.
Did you catch that? I'm being defensive. At some point, I shut the gate, and he's left standing outside, alone.
Cognitive Behavioural Therapy is meant to be challenging. It's good to have help, but we should all be doing this ourselves in the first place. But it's not as easy as thinking "Hmm, I am underestimating my ability to cope with this new situation. I feel unsafe and confused about what is happening to me. I am anxious." I know I can cope. I can make all of my problems disappear, one way or another, with distance and time. I don't worry about me.
I worry about you.
I worry, because I see you. I interact with you and I know you. My mind races through your life, calculating, estimating, testing, evaluating, predicting. Is mind-reading so very wrong then, if I am always right?
I avoid you.
I avoid, because I would rather be alone than have the opportunity to manipulate you. And I will manipulate you, even if it's simply to counsel you. Knowledge is power, and power is responsibility, and I simply don't want responsibility for you.
There comes a point in your life when you realise you will never have what you want most. Is that what I'm grieving? That I won't ever be able to make everything right in the world? That I can't heal everything? I'm past adolescent, past puberty. I've discovered what I am capable of. I'm past exploring. I've recoiled.
My therapist challenged me this week. I reached the edge of my own understanding of my mind. I didn't think it would come this early in the process, and to be honest, I considered giving CBT up because of it. But that would be avoiding, again. So I challenged myself. I went home, and I wrote this, like I'm writing now. We talked in circles because I cannot resist shutting the gate. Because it's easier to be talked to about self-esteem, shaky hands, and shallow breathing than admit what I'm truly afraid of:
Hurting you.
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
Second day of CBT
Things I stopped doing because they made me feel bad:
Hearing the news
Listening to non-classical music
Reading crime thrillers
Watching violent movies
Developing friendships
Eating processed foods
Sometimes, I test the waters again. I rob a bank on a popular console game. I hear about a brutal murder-rape in the local news. I start reading a famous crime thriller series. I meet a friend for coffee. I microwave some chicken tikka masala. And the music tells me sweet dreams are made of these, but I know better. I’ve been having nightmares all week.
I’m not perfect at avoiding. But, I am practiced.
This week we talked about my past, and I've been paying for it all day in flashbacks, shaking hands, and racing thoughts. It’s been nearly twenty years since all of my bad habits began, but the penultimate one is not sharing how I feel, what I’ve experienced, with others. Complex trauma. Avoidant personality. Attachment disorder. I’m sorry; it’s just that… everyone else here seems identify with labels: Pregnant. Asthmatic. Diabetic. Bipolar. Obese. I thought you might want a label for me. Like Sociophobic. No?
In counselling, I realized being gifted meant more than being smart: it meant being differently human. In cognitive behavioural therapy, I am changing how I cope with being differently human. And the rest of the time, I am unpacking just how different I’ve become, now that the worst is over.
The elephant in the room.
I am happier without you. Should I be happier without you? I feel guilty for this. I feel guilty for being alone so long, loneliness became my familiar. I feel angry, because you never found me. You never even looked for me. I never asked for you, so you never asked for me. And now they’re asking. Now you’re asking.
I have no idea how to answer.
I’m not even sure I want to.
Read on the NHS Choices Blog.
Thursday, 29 July 2010
First day of CBT
“So, how does it feel during those low times?”
I had been rolling a piece of tissue between my fingers, sitting on the edge of my seat, leaning towards to the door, and facing away from him. This was very different from the quiet counselling I had two years ago. I could tell he was new but not new. New to CBT. Not new to caring. Caring, confidently.
I respected that. So, in that moment, I decided to be honest. I decided to look him in the eye as the first tears left mine, my voice just as firm as his:
“I would never, ever consider harming myself or others…”
I pause as my courage falters. Why am I sharing this? Why does it possibly matter?
“But I feel so detached. So apart from everything.”
The tissue was breaking apart in my hand.
“I deal a lot with death in my work. I’m unafraid even at the best of times. But at the worst, I feel jealous. When will it be my turn? When will it finally be over?”
The tissue falls to the floor in pieces, and I find myself sitting again on the edge of my seat, leaning towards the door, and facing away from him.
“I want to die.”
My eyes were cloudy, and I was falling into memories and shame. Without missing a beat, he asked, “So what did you think then?”
The river of self-doubt choked, like water rushing through a funnel, as I cast about my memories fishing for the Reason that I am still here. My voice cracked. My hands unclenched. But I still didn’t look at him. I knew immediately when I found it, waiting there at the depth of every murky bit inside:
“Tomorrow will be different.”
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
I had been rolling a piece of tissue between my fingers, sitting on the edge of my seat, leaning towards to the door, and facing away from him. This was very different from the quiet counselling I had two years ago. I could tell he was new but not new. New to CBT. Not new to caring. Caring, confidently.
I respected that. So, in that moment, I decided to be honest. I decided to look him in the eye as the first tears left mine, my voice just as firm as his:
“I would never, ever consider harming myself or others…”
I pause as my courage falters. Why am I sharing this? Why does it possibly matter?
“But I feel so detached. So apart from everything.”
The tissue was breaking apart in my hand.
“I deal a lot with death in my work. I’m unafraid even at the best of times. But at the worst, I feel jealous. When will it be my turn? When will it finally be over?”
The tissue falls to the floor in pieces, and I find myself sitting again on the edge of my seat, leaning towards the door, and facing away from him.
“I want to die.”
My eyes were cloudy, and I was falling into memories and shame. Without missing a beat, he asked, “So what did you think then?”
The river of self-doubt choked, like water rushing through a funnel, as I cast about my memories fishing for the Reason that I am still here. My voice cracked. My hands unclenched. But I still didn’t look at him. I knew immediately when I found it, waiting there at the depth of every murky bit inside:
“Tomorrow will be different.”
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
Saturday, 10 July 2010
Catching you up (20)
40 weeks have passed since I wrote my last blog entry, just after I self-referred myself for the next tier of mental health services: cognitive behavioural therapy. I had taken dexamethasone to suppress my cortisol for an endocrinology test, and the side effects were unexpected: deep depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts.
The funny thing about feeling depressed, anxious and wanting to die is that they are just that: feelings. We can justify them, embrace them with logic, bury them with piles of sensation, or express them, but, at the source, they are combinations of chemical states in the body that we are consciously experiencing. They will affect us. They are not us.
I don’t often feel like I want to die, but I regularly do. Waking suddenly from an unsettled, deep sleep comes with a flood of deep syrupy emotion – a slick of separation between body and mind – that feels acutely like death. Like dying. I call it Liquid Dread: a sudden rise in cortisol without an associated rise in adrenaline. The DSM-IV calls it Depersonalisation.
Nothing traumatic provoked this particular feeling in this particular moment. My life hasn't been especially difficult, painful, or upsetting lately. For many (many!) years I thought it was. I thought, since I felt so detached and depressed, that I must be reflecting an awful, mad world.
I was, for the most part, wrong.
With practice, I learned to recognise these feelings for what they were: experiential manifestations of chemical imbalances. Distracting, annoying, but at worst: a disability. Not a definition of me.
The causes:
Sleep deprivation (including Jet Lag)
Alcohol (usually by causing sleep deprivation)
Overconsumption of Carbohydrates
Drop in Progesterone/Estrogen (pre-menstrual)
Stress (especially acute episodes)
The cures:
Circadian rhythm balanced by adequate sunlight exposure
Vitamins & supplements, especially omega 3
Stress management
Balanced diet
Time (← absolutely essential)
If I stop taking my vitamins, start eating more chocolate and ice cream, become socially engaged, stay up late, and avoid going outside: I can guarantee my poor health within a month. In an ordinary fertile month, the change in hormones in a female reproductive cycle bring a reliably severe and temporary pattern of depression followed by anxiety. If my body doesn't have the resources to cope with this hit, it takes even longer to recover, making me even more fragile to traumatic, stressful experiences, degrading my social relationships, and allowing my mind to associate even more negative feelings with my life.
In short, the further you fall downstream, the harder it is to swim back up.
Do I blame the cycling female hormones? My poor diet? My lack of sleep? A rude acquaintance? Or do I blame me, for being so sensitive and so perpetually weak?
I stop blaming.
Right now, I'm further downstream than I've been in months. I suffered jet lag, hormonal changes, poor diet, chronic stress and lack of vitamins. I felt depressed and, even worse, detached; my choices continue to deteriorate. Another week of this and my immune system will fail. If my immune system fails again this year, I will be placed on probation for poor attendance. The disappointment and failure will colour my work relationships with shame. I will feel more and more anxious each day. My colleagues will see my anxiety and withdrawal and interpret it as rejection. They will, in turn, reject me. Feeling even more excluded and alone, I will look for and succeed in finding a new position, probably even a new career.
And all because I ate chocolate instead of carrots. Because the egg didn't fertilise and implant in my uterus. Because my cells weren't rejuvenated with sleep. Because I lacked familiarity and intimacy with others.
I'm sipping an iced rose wine in a dark room with no windows. The only light is the green of the football field. The only sounds are vuvuzelas and a quiet chittering of the commentators. I am balancing at high heights, but still, I know not to expect this brief high to last. Tomorrow I will feel worse, but if I make better choices, I will feel better.
Now, we are caught up.
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
The funny thing about feeling depressed, anxious and wanting to die is that they are just that: feelings. We can justify them, embrace them with logic, bury them with piles of sensation, or express them, but, at the source, they are combinations of chemical states in the body that we are consciously experiencing. They will affect us. They are not us.
I don’t often feel like I want to die, but I regularly do. Waking suddenly from an unsettled, deep sleep comes with a flood of deep syrupy emotion – a slick of separation between body and mind – that feels acutely like death. Like dying. I call it Liquid Dread: a sudden rise in cortisol without an associated rise in adrenaline. The DSM-IV calls it Depersonalisation.
Nothing traumatic provoked this particular feeling in this particular moment. My life hasn't been especially difficult, painful, or upsetting lately. For many (many!) years I thought it was. I thought, since I felt so detached and depressed, that I must be reflecting an awful, mad world.
I was, for the most part, wrong.
With practice, I learned to recognise these feelings for what they were: experiential manifestations of chemical imbalances. Distracting, annoying, but at worst: a disability. Not a definition of me.
The causes:
Sleep deprivation (including Jet Lag)
Alcohol (usually by causing sleep deprivation)
Overconsumption of Carbohydrates
Drop in Progesterone/Estrogen (pre-menstrual)
Stress (especially acute episodes)
The cures:
Circadian rhythm balanced by adequate sunlight exposure
Vitamins & supplements, especially omega 3
Stress management
Balanced diet
Time (← absolutely essential)
If I stop taking my vitamins, start eating more chocolate and ice cream, become socially engaged, stay up late, and avoid going outside: I can guarantee my poor health within a month. In an ordinary fertile month, the change in hormones in a female reproductive cycle bring a reliably severe and temporary pattern of depression followed by anxiety. If my body doesn't have the resources to cope with this hit, it takes even longer to recover, making me even more fragile to traumatic, stressful experiences, degrading my social relationships, and allowing my mind to associate even more negative feelings with my life.
In short, the further you fall downstream, the harder it is to swim back up.
Do I blame the cycling female hormones? My poor diet? My lack of sleep? A rude acquaintance? Or do I blame me, for being so sensitive and so perpetually weak?
I stop blaming.
Right now, I'm further downstream than I've been in months. I suffered jet lag, hormonal changes, poor diet, chronic stress and lack of vitamins. I felt depressed and, even worse, detached; my choices continue to deteriorate. Another week of this and my immune system will fail. If my immune system fails again this year, I will be placed on probation for poor attendance. The disappointment and failure will colour my work relationships with shame. I will feel more and more anxious each day. My colleagues will see my anxiety and withdrawal and interpret it as rejection. They will, in turn, reject me. Feeling even more excluded and alone, I will look for and succeed in finding a new position, probably even a new career.
And all because I ate chocolate instead of carrots. Because the egg didn't fertilise and implant in my uterus. Because my cells weren't rejuvenated with sleep. Because I lacked familiarity and intimacy with others.
I'm sipping an iced rose wine in a dark room with no windows. The only light is the green of the football field. The only sounds are vuvuzelas and a quiet chittering of the commentators. I am balancing at high heights, but still, I know not to expect this brief high to last. Tomorrow I will feel worse, but if I make better choices, I will feel better.
Now, we are caught up.
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
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