Holiday!

So, off to the airport shortly – very long flight, London/LA, very anxious passenger, should be fun all round!

Bit too early to write much, but I will be trying to post when away – moving around a bit, but will give it a go.  May be a bit erratic!  Holidays always a bit of a pressure cooker moment.  Huge amounts of expectation, everyone in close proximity for long periods.  Have to look like fun being had even if things not perfect…but who knows, maybe this will be the perfect holiday!

Mother Love: Parenting through Depression

As I have mentioned before, one of the key indicators that a child is likely to grow up to suffer depression is having a mother who is depressed.  There is a whole nature/nurture debate tied to this, but it strikes me that the nurture aspect must have a greater bearing as a mother being depressed during the formative childhood years is a stronger indicator than a mother being depressed during a child’s teens.  If purely genetic, timing should make no difference.

And all this makes perfect sense.  Feeling loved and valued as a child is vital if we are to love and value ourselves as adults.  I say feeling loved because a mother suffering depression does not love her child any less, but if she is withdrawn physically or emotionally, then communicating that love my be more difficult.

My mother was first taken to a psychiatrist at the age of 11.  In the 1940′s in England, that was comparatively rare.  She suffered two breakdowns by her early ’20′s for which she received treatment.  These experiences so frightened her that she never sought further help for her anxiety and depression.  She self-medicated with food and weekly trips to the library where she would take out a pile of books, usually biographies, and spend her time in bed immersing herself in the lives of others.  My father would frequently return from work and make supper, taking a tray up to my mother.  Mummy’s tired, he would say.

So, we became used to being on our own, raiding the larder for tinned pineapple and condensed milk if we became hungry.  I can’t say that my childhood struck me as unhappy at the time.  My parents had frequent screaming rows which frightened us – fear of divorce, fear of our father leaving and then what… But the feelings of not being valued came to roost in my teens, which were truly horrific.  Wild child par excellence.  Drugs, drink, running away from home, living in squats, anything to distance myself from feeling worthless and anything to get away from home.

By and large, things worked out.  Met wonderful man at university who still thinks I’m clever and funny and gorgeous (well, he’s a bit short-sighted…) and I think he saved me from myself.  The clinical depression came later, luckily, so I hope that my own children, who I have told every day of their lives are the most brilliant people on earth, got the best of me.

All this mother talk came from a brilliant book I have just finished reading, The Ghost in the House: Mothers, Children and Depression by Tracy Thompson.  She is a journalist, a great writer, compassionate and insightful.  Her first book, The Beast: A Journey Through Depression is also one for the book list.  She interviews countless women bringing up children in the face of depression.  All inspiring, and immeasurably helpful to hear their tales and learn from the challenges they face.

And above all, remember that we are all doing our best.  My mother did her best. She loved us but sometimes found it too difficult to leave the safety of her books.  And, despite everything, she remembers the time when my sister and I were little as the happiest days of her life.

Depression: Fighting Workplace Prejudice

The stigma of mental illness not only makes the business of depression all the more difficult to deal with but in many cases exacerbates the problem.  Mr Totalblue (who loves all things financial) spotted this article on Bloomberg this morning and was onto his blackberry in a second.  Two things struck me about what I was reading.  The first was that us Brits (yes, all those stereotypes are true) do the stiff upper lip thing about mental illness, only getting help when a lot of damage has already been done to ourselves and our families.  Not only do we not want anyone to think there is something “wrong” with us – we don’t even want to admit it to ourselves.

The second thing I was struck by was the bravery of these men* at the top of their cut-throat professions coming forward and admitting that they had suffered from debilitating depression, often requiring becoming psychiatric in-patients.  You could say that they are all very successful and make a great deal of money for the financial institutions they work for and so would only be out of a job if they stopped being productive.  And that may well be.  But, to my mind, any examples out there in the workplace of people living with mental illness and combining that with a successful career has to help.

The CEO of HBOS, who has battled depression for twenty years, said that the pain of depression was worse than when be broke his leg skiing – and then had the ambulance door shut on it!  He is not the only one to prefer the pain of physical illness to the insidious, terrifying pain of mental illness.  And the more that he and those like him tell their stories, the better it will be for everyone.

* only men mentioned in the article.  And, let’s be frank, the City of London is still very much a male-dominated arena.  No doubt there are many women at the top of the financial tree who are similarly afflicted.  Could the thought of that great glass ceiling have made them a little more cautious about “coming out”?

Fear of Flying? You Bet.

Sunshine!  Maybe summer has arrived in London – just as I am about to take a three week hols in the USA.  First family holiday abroad for three years.  And I’m knee deep in packing, trying on swimwear ( quite testing…) and making list upon list upon list.

Two things about going away.  The first is that I start to panic about what I’ve forgotten.  Yes, I know we don’t leave until Wednesday, but I’m already imagining that airport scenario, the one where the tickets/passports/citalopram has been left on the kitchen worktop.

The second is flying.  Although Mr Totalblue jets around the world on business regularly, I have a lifelong fear of flying.  Common, I know, but nasty nonetheless.  I have missed friends weddings, wonderful holidays and opportunities for study abroad because I just couldn’t face the flight.  Over the years I have had good and bad patches of this.  My best friend from school was American, living over in London with her divorced mother, but when she went to college in the States, I was determined to visit.  And I did.  Several times.  With varying degrees of success.  This largely depended on whether I overdid the Ativan – four tablets every one hour as opposed to one tablet every four hours.  One time ended up on the luggage carousel at Logan airport, not my finest moment, and on another flight I had a massive panic attack and threw up on a fellow passenger.  Ugly.

So you could say that I am viewing the flight to LA with some trepidation.  Few Xanax in my bag.  Will try to avoid them and breathe deeply instead.  Not holding out that much hope for the breathing, but you never know. 

A few years ago I went on a fear of flying course.  Not only did I meet one of my now-best friends as we sat waiting for our test flight in and out of Heathrow, but I did pick up a few tips which helped.  One of which is this: when you think the plane is banking so steeply that it must at any moment be on it’s side, take a look at your glass of water.  The water level will be at the angle of the plane.  Amazingly gentle!  The other tip is this: when you hit turbulence (my pet hate) shut your eyes and imagine that you are in a car driving down a cobbled road.  On a road, the bumps would be nothing.  So try not to let those bumps in the air worry you.

And now all I have to do is follow my own advice!

The Supportive Blog

Peace and quiet.  Babygirl lying in bed reading, teenage son still sleeping – and likely to remain so for quite a while.  Mr Totalblue currently 35,000 ft above the Atlantic, so it is just me and the hairy hound sitting in the kitchen.  Too quiet, in fact.  Was trying to finish my novel but kept finding that I had no memory of the page I had just read, so went for the re-read, only to repeat the experience.

So here I am!  Back in front of the screen again.  Only been blogging for a short while, but I do find it an escape and a distraction.  And starting to feel that there really is a community out there full of people who experience life in some way similar to me.

I have picked up my psychology studies again (on and off for years now!) and am interested in the power of social media to support people through depression and other mental illnesses.  I can be a bit sceptical about traditional therapies that root around in your past (years of that and not sure it was helpful, although I appreciate that it is horses for courses) and am starting CBT when I hit the top of the waiting list, but maybe talking to fellow sufferers is one of the best therapies of all.

Which is why I am taking the group CBT option.  And why I am looking into depression support groups.  Will report back on both!  And I wonder if anyone has done any research on the power of the blog to effect change in those suffering depression and anxiety?

More questions than anything today, but it is Saturday and I am tired and I need my toast and marmalade!

Sleeping Alone

Mr Totalblue is away on business.  For three nights I have had the bed to myself.  I have been sleeping in until 9am.  Sleeping so much, in fact, that it takes me quite a while to come to.  Much dragging myself around the house, consuming endless cups of tea.  But somehow that heavy, drowsy feeling is comforting.  Certainly after years of waking at 1am – and staying awake, brain running around like a crazed mouse, trying to find the most irritating, worrying things to nibble at.

Now, I’m not about to go all Doris Day and switch to twins beds after 24 years of sharing, but when you are such a light sleeper as I am, the slightest twitch of the duvet can be all it takes to summon total wakefulness.  Still, I miss him when he’s not here and hate the thought of him in the house in another bed.  So that’s that.

I’ve always connected my depression with insomnia.  The first debilitating depression I suffered as an adult was after a neuroma in my foot would wake me up screaming in the early hours.  The timing coincided with Mr Totalblue setting up his own business – very stressful all round.  So, not only was I waking in pain but I had something real to worry about as I lay there waiting for the knives in my foot to start again.

And that was it.  Over six years ago now.  And I have not slept through the night since.  The citalopram helps.  No doubt.  When I decided that I would be fine without it (!) a few months ago, I was plunged straight back into the nightmare of insomnia, anxiety and panic attacks, gripped by fear and crying in the dark.  I still wake up when taking it, but that rush of adrenalin doesn’t kick in and I get back to sleep quicker and generally without the tears.  Although the pills definitely make me a little slower, I have to accept that.  For me, it is better than living life in a state of mental exhaustion and physical hyperactivity with the feeling that an elephant is sitting on my chest.

Beat SAD with a Book

Well, I’m hoping this will work.  Yesterday was about as depressing as a day can get.  That rain!  And the grey skies, lowering clouds wherever I looked.  Mangaged to get out to meet a friend for a coffee first thing, which kept me cheerful until early afternoon.  Downhill after that, I’m afraid.

And I know that it is the SAD thing.  Bit of a myth that it is just in the winter months.  The expectation of the summer months, warm, long, sunny days, is what keeps me going through the colourless winter (and spring).  And when those expectations are dashed and July looks more like February, well, come on down depression.

The disjunct between our expectations of life and the reality is often cited as one of the causes of depression.  I think that is why autumn is my favourite season.  Every good autumn day is a bonus.  I have no expectation of sunny skies and dry days, so when they come I feel unreasonably cheery.  And also the colours.  All those reds, rusty browns and yellows.  The London parks are always at their best in the autumn.  And much less crowded.

Anyway, back to now and the failed summer.  As I sat inside yesterday, channel hopping but not able to concentrate on anything, not even Oprah, I found myself wanting to hop into bed with a good book.  But none were to hand.  I read avidly and quickly, so books tend not to lie around unread.  What I wanted to do was to hop to the charity shop and pick up a quick and absorbing read.  Crime is good for disappearing into fast – moves along nicely, no high-faluting concepts to grasp, and a neat solution.  Perfect.  Or funny.  When I was a teenager and feeling low, I would pick up my fathers’ P G Wodehouse and laugh out loud at the absurdities of upper class life in the 1920′s.  In my twenties, John Irving and Robertson Davies were my favourite funnies.  So humour also works well.

Yesterday I needed a book, but I couldn’t face the rain.  So today I am off to the charity shop (might pop next door to the bakery for a donut or two) to satisfy my literary cravings.  And unless the weather perks up considerably, I hear my bed calling.