Posted on October 25, 2017
A few months ago, my therapist moved to a different office and as much as she tried to smooth the transition, it was hard. It didn’t feel real; I felt like I was just waiting to go back to the old office. But last week, for the first time, I walked into the new office and it felt normal. It felt right.
A part of me does still miss the old office. A lot happened there. So this is a little tribute to the old office and my armchair there. A lot of different versions of myself sat in that chair. Depressed me, joyful me, panicked me, hopeful me, hopeless me… That room saw a continuum. It was the setting for a lot of important conversations. I said out loud things I never in a million years thought I’d share. I processed an Autism diagnosis, I talked about the people I’ve lost, I played each new song I’d written, I cried when I was too depressed to talk, I talked about giving up, I talked about changing the world, I even took my cat and her kittens.
That place will always be special but I’m getting used to the new one. I’m learning how me and my emotions fit into that new space and I think they’re starting to.
Posted on October 21, 2017
Since taking the Venlafaxine, I’ve felt different. I’ve felt a little bit lighter, mentally and emotionally. In some ways this is better but in some ways it’s not. Depression is such a heavy feeling but now I feel a bit like I’m floating away. I feel kind of lost, or like I’ve lost something really important. In a weird way, I miss feeling depressed. No, that’s not right. I don’t miss it, but I feel kind of lost without it. And feeling like that makes me very anxious.
Objectively I understand why I feel this way: I’ve spent a lot of time feeling depressed. It’s familiar. It’s certain. It’s a world where everything is in focus with clear and sharp edges. Now the edges are fuzzy. I feel like I don’t know who I am or what I’m doing. And emotionally, I’m finding that really hard to get my head around.
I know who I am when I’m depressed. Those emotions overwhelm me, they define me. Depression takes over my personality, or becomes the biggest part of it. It affects everything. It’s like depression takes up all that space. But now, there’s suddenly all this space that wasn’t there before. It feels a bit like when you stand in the middle of a really massive empty room. It’s quiet. It’s cold. It makes you feel so small and lonely. And if I look at myself in that big white room, I don’t know who I am. I don’t know if I’m optimistic or pessimistic. I don’t know if I’m a good person or a bad person. I don’t know if I’m loud or quiet. I know some little things but not the big things.
I do recognise the opportunity here, the opportunity for things to be different: to fill the room with new things. That thought is both thrilling and terrifying. But I’m not sure I’m there yet: I’m still pretty overwhelmed by how big this room is, how empty it is. I don’t know where to start.
I’ve thought a lot about identity, both mine and in general. It’s something I’ve struggled with for a long time and something I want to write more about. But I think your identity is made up of the things about you that don’t change, the fundamental aspects of your personality. I don’t know much about myself but I do know that I’m very sensitive. I’ve always been sensitive and I can’t see it ever changing. So I guess that’s a part of my identity.
I’m not sure my depression is gone but I’m not drowning in it anymore. And that’s scary. I’m so used to it that I’m not sure who I am without it. When I’m depressed, that big white room is so dark that I don’t know that all that space is there, so I don’t even know the room is that big. But now I know it’s there and it’s very compelling. I keep turning it over in my mind. As I said, I know who I am when I’m depressed. I want to know who I am when I’m not. So I guess that starts now. It’s a brave new world.
Posted on October 11, 2017
A while back, I found a really good article on The Mighty about Autism and eye contact. As someone with Autism, this is something I really struggle with and something that makes socialising very stressful. People mistake it for rudeness when it’s often a coping strategy, a way to make the situation more manageable. It’s something that seems effortless for everyone else while I feel like I didn’t get the rulebook.
For me, eye contact is a multi-faceted issue.
The simplest part of it is that I simply don’t know which eye to look at. Especially when I’m standing close to someone, I don’t know where I’m supposed to look. That makes me very self-conscious and distracts me from what the other person is saying.
I also feel like I’m really on the spot, that I have to answer immediately if I’m making eye contact. I get very anxious in social situations because I feel like I can’t process quickly enough to keep up with the conversation so looking away gives me time to react and think and then respond.
Then there’s the feeling of it being too confrontational. I find confrontation very, very stressful because of feeling like I can’t process what’s happening fast enough. And that’s without all the emotions associated with such a situation, another thing that makes processing difficult. So anything that feels remotely confrontational is something I shy away from.
The biggest part of it is that it feels so, so personal. When I’m looking into someone’s eyes, I feel like they can see what I’m thinking and feeling and that’s terrifying. I feel so exposed and so vulnerable. It makes me feel panicked and so it just feels safer not to make eye contact.
The act of looking someone in the eye takes up a lot of my energy and concentration. It’s exhausting and overwhelming. I can’t think and so I can’t engage in the conversation. Just because I’m not looking at you, doesn’t mean I’m not paying attention. I am. In fact, I’m more focussed.
Posted on October 1, 2017
I first started pulling out my hair in August 2014 and looking back at everything that happened that summer, it’s probably not surprising that I developed a compulsive behaviour. I was already struggling with my mental health and then, in the space of a few weeks, an important relationship fell apart and I had to have my cat (who I’d had all my life) put to sleep very suddenly. And I was just about to start university. I was overwhelmed by my anxiety and depression and in the lowest place I’d ever been. I was probably desperate to regain some control and when something started affecting the texture of my hair (my money is on the new medication, Phenelzine, which I’d just started taking), my inner perfectionist went into overdrive, tearing out the hair that felt different. At first I was fixing the problem – getting rid of the hair that felt different to the rest – but, of course, it grew back, creating a whole new problem. Then I was tearing out the regrowth, as well as the rougher stands, and the whole thing snowballed. Very quickly it reached a point where I felt like I physically couldn’t stop pulling, as much as I wanted to.
At that point in time, I didn’t know what Trichotillomania was and I’m still not entirely sure how I came across it but for those of you unfamiliar with it, I’ll give you a little summary. Trichotillomania is a condition where the person feels compelled to pull their hair out (whether it’s from their head or any other part of their body) and is unable to stop themselves from doing so. Although there are different theories (including mental illness, self harm, and addiction), there is still no known cause and there has been very little research into treating it. While checking my facts to write this, I came across a description on the NHS website which, for me, is very accurate to what it feels like: “They will experience an intense urge to pull their hair out and growing tension until they do. After pulling out hair, they’ll feel a sense of relief.” It feels like there’s electricity under my skin and it builds and builds and builds until I can’t bear it anymore; the only way to stop it is to pull out my hair. Then I can breathe again.
I tried to stop but I always ended up pulling again. It honestly felt like it would’ve been easier to break my own fingers than to stop pulling out my hair. It was only the discovery of a bald spot that shocked me into stopping. I don’t know whether it was vanity or anxiety about how out of control it had become but somehow that gave me renewed focus and motivation. I tried everything I could think of: sheer willpower, sitting on my hands, wearing a hat 24/7 (which, bizarrely, has become part of my image as a singersongwriter), fidget toys, jewelry that I could fiddle with. Ultimately I think it was a combination of these that helped me stop pulling.
I managed a whole year. The first few days were awful. The feeling of electricity under my skin magnified, so strong that I couldn’t concentrate, and I’m not sure when that started to fade. But it did. And slowly my hair grew back. But the urge never went away and just passed the year mark, I started pulling again. The relief was huge. And now, over a year later, I’m still struggling with it.
What I think many people don’t understand about this condition is that it’s not voluntary. I’ve had so many people tell me to ‘just stop pulling’ and that’s really upsetting to hear because I don’t want to pull out my hair. I don’t want to sit, surrounded by strands of my own hair. I don’t want this. I can feel myself doing it and I can’t stop. Sometimes I can stop that action but as the tension gets worse, I end up pulling again – it feels like an endless cycle of trying to stop but knowing that I’ll inevitably start again. It’s so hard. And if the bald patches, uneven length, and permanent damage to my hair weren’t enough, that’s only part of it. There’s an emotional impact; it’s not just ‘pulling out hair’. There’s shame, embarrassment, guilt, and frustration. I hate that I can’t stop, that I can’t seem to control my own body. (It’s also worth pointing out that I also struggle with physical pain in my arm and shoulder from the repetitive motion.)
But I’m not giving up. I’m not sure what I’m going to do next but I’ll find something new to try, a different angle to tackle it from. I won’t give up. I can’t, because I don’t want to live like this.
Posted on September 30, 2017
Yesterday, I turned 23. That feels very strange to write and even stranger to say out loud. For some reason, 22 to 23 feels like a bigger jump than 21 to 22. I don’t know why. It just does. And so I’ve been thinking about this a lot, about this last year and the next one. A lot has happened, good and bad. So here is a post about what I learnt this year, what I learnt while I was 22.
1. You do get over things you never thought you would – I learned this last year but I really learned it this year. Last summer, I received a piece of news that felt pretty devastating but now, a year later, I seem to have adjusted to it. It’s strange how our emotions, how our brains work on things in the background. I didn’t do anything to work through this issue (it felt too upsetting to even talk about); I just slowly got used to it.
2. If you don’t ask, you don’t get – This doesn’t really need an explanation but I have learned to be a bit more forward this year. I’ve always hated asking for things and I still do but I am learning to do it. And sometimes, amazing things happen.
3. Sometimes things come full circle – I never really believed in closure. In my experience, things just end, leaving jagged edges. But this year, I got the opportunity to talk to someone who had really hurt me and ask her why she did what she did. It was a stressful and upsetting experience in itself but I am glad it happened. I had already let go of what happened but I appreciate the full stop on the whole thing.
4. Remember to tell your friends you really love them – A lot has happened in the last year, a lot of emotional ups and downs, and my friends have always been there for me. I’m so, so grateful for that.
5. You can let go of something without forgiving the perpetrator – I’ve always struggled with the idea of forgiveness because it just feels like I’m saying that whatever they did is okay when it isn’t. But I’ve learnt this year that you don’t have to forgive to let go. You can just leave it where it is and move on. I don’t know how I did it but it’s nice to know that it’s possible.
6. Procrastination reinforces procrastination – I learned in therapy that every time I put something off, I was making that habit stronger and therefore making it harder for myself. I learned that, even if I only did five minutes on whatever I was avoiding, I was breaking that pattern and that really helped with my motivation, regardless of the task. Plus, that was five minutes more than I would’ve done otherwise.
7. Crying in public is not that big of a deal – I have now cried in public so many times that I just don’t care. It doesn’t matter. There are more important things to worry about.
8. Having an item of clothing that makes you feel like you can conquer the world is really worth having – A couple of months ago I bought a pair of boots that kind of changed my life. It sounds silly but when I wear them, I feel like a superhero. I stand up straighter, I carry my body differently, and I feel better about myself. I wish I’d found them sooner.
9. Trust your feelings but also give them time to settle – I can tell if something is right or not because of how it feels. But having said that, I feel things so strongly that sometimes I need to sit with them for a bit, especially if whatever has caused those emotions was a shock. It’s like flood waters going down: it’s all about survival when they’re high but once they recede, I can figure out what the new normal is.
10. Find something that makes you feel like you’re making a difference – I’ve started volunteering for Autism research projects which has not only been pretty fun (I got to see my own brain waves!) but has helped me process my diagnosis of ASD. I still struggle with it and struggle with what it means for my life but being able to use it in a positive way has improved that.
Oh, and you don’t play ‘22’ by Taylor Swift as much as you think you will.