Finding HopeChanging Therapist
Posted on November 5, 2023
TW: Mentions of self harm and suicidal thoughts and urges.
It’s been a year since I started therapy again after an unintentional break, essentially starting again with a new therapist. It’s been a hard and emotional process, and at times a distressing one; just going to therapy can make you feel so vulnerable and so open to further hurt as you dig into the hard stuff – wading into dark waters that you’d rather ignore and pretend don’t exist, even as they’re eroding your mental health – that adding difficulties to that already difficult thing can feel unfairly cruel. So, given that I’m me, I thought that, perhaps, writing about it might be helpful and maybe not just for me but for anyone going through a similar transition. And if not helpful, then hopefully validating in some way.
I’d been seeing Therapist A for almost seven years when everything changed. She was taking leave and I was on my own.
Pre-2021, I’d seen Therapist A once or twice a week pretty consistently since early 2016. Even when the UK went into lockdown due to COVID-19 at the beginning of 2020, we continued our sessions online; I didn’t find them as productive but it was better than nothing. We continued that way for a while, trying to manage my crippling anxiety over the pandemic, working on issues that came up as I persisted with my now online Masters classes, and continuing to work on the issues that had landed me in therapy in the first place. But then the schedule began to slip: Therapist A’s home life was pulling her away from work and I was working myself into the ground in order to complete the final project of my Masters. I barely saw her in the last four months of the course, which I really struggled with: I was digging into some pretty hard stuff, writing song after song about my experience of being autistic, and I craved that safe space to play them to her, to hear her perspective on what I was saying, talk about the feelings they were bringing up, and she wasn’t there. I told myself that it was a short term thing and that, once the Masters was over and her stuff was resolved, the schedule of our sessions would go back to normal. I think it’s safe to say that, given the title of this post, it didn’t.
I finished the Masters in September 2021 and officially graduated, walking the stage, a few months later in November. I had reduced and stopped taking Phenelzine at this point, in preparation for trying ADHD meds (and we all know how appallingly that went), and my depression was creeping back in; the situation was getting pretty desperate. But luckily, that was when Therapist A reached out and we started having sessions again. We had a lot of catching up to do but, by mid-December, we were up to date. Unfortunately, the ADHD medication was already hitting me hard and my depression had gone from a state I recognised to a whole new level of despair with increasingly overwhelming suicidal thoughts. My most vivid memory from that time is sitting in Therapist A’s new office, staring at the unfamiliar rug and hearing my voice in my ears as I confessed to those thoughts, my voice completely flat (this is known as ‘flat affect,’ a recognised symptom of depression and other mental health conditions). It still makes me nauseous to think about, even though so much time has passed and my depression has gotten so much worse since; I think, in my head, that was the beginning of this awful, awful time.
My last session was on New Years Eve and I was drowning, all of the impending new beginnings feeling more like a threat than a promise. When we hung up, I felt achingly hollow and that was only the beginning of a terrible night. But that’s a story for another time. January was passing around me, aimless and anxious, when I finally heard from Therapist A. But instead of setting up our next session, she was letting me know that she was taking leave indefinitely. Her reasons aren’t mine to tell but, between those, my ongoing abandonment issues, and my overwhelmingly bad mental health, I was devastated, spiralling into some grotesque hybrid of a meltdown and a panic attack that went on for hours: I screamed, I cried, I scratched at my face, I tore at my hair, I shrieked like an animal in pain. I guess that’s what I was. I felt like I was trying to exorcise a corrosive demon from my body but nothing helped, nothing alleviated the pain. I was shattered as brutally as if I’d been hit by a wrecking ball. That’s what it felt like, what my life felt like.
Eventually I physically ran out of energy and fell asleep, too tired and emotionally drained to even engage with the world. My depression became more and more overwhelming, compounded by the devastating effects of the ADHD medications and the loss of a massive source of support in my life, and, for months afterwards, I barely got out of bed, barely ate, barely talked. I abandoned social media and I avoided mirrors at every opportunity, to the point where I started to forget what I looked like. The suicidal thoughts were only getting stronger, stronger than they’d ever been in my life, and the feeling of being intrinsically, irreparably broken was – and is – a constant weight in my chest.
I’m not sure when or why I started getting out of bed, why I decided that I needed to go back to therapy. I think I knew I was getting into a very precarious position mentally and the excruciating pain of being inside my head was getting so unbearable that I was willing to do anything to lessen the pressure. I did see a consultant at the local mental health unit but the experience was another traumatic one: after a panic attack at the front door, a junior doctor took my history and then brought in the consultant who told me about ECT and the Ketamine trials before telling me why I shouldn’t do them and recommending doing more of the things I love (which I’d already told him I couldn’t engage with because I was so depressed). So that didn’t improve my relationship with doctors and the medical profession.
For a short while, I worked with a therapist I’d met several years previously but the sessions only made me feel worse and while I have no doubt that it wasn’t intentional, I ended up feeling more broken and more traumatised by some of the things he said, trauma that I’m still carrying around with me. So I stopped seeing him and met with several new therapists, trying to get a feel for them and their methods before committing to someone new. But, just like with Therapist A, Therapist B was the first of the group that I met (a year ago yesterday, I believe) and between her therapeutic approach, her personality, and the fact that she’d brought along a dog she knew in order to put me at ease, she was the obvious choice.
As therapists, they both trained in several of the same disciplines and their skillsets overlap to a certain degree but, when discussing a particular issue, there were differences to how they’d approach it; there has been a fair amount of whiplash in getting use to Therapist B’s approach after so many years with Therapist A. But the point of this post isn’t to compare them – they’re both lovely people and very good at what they do, at least as far as I can tell – but rather to reflect on the process of moving from one to another and the feelings that that kicked up. And a lot of feelings there were – I even wrote a song about it called ‘Grave Digger.’ During the early sessions with Therapist B, we made a timeline of my life and discussed some of the biggest moments, many of which were difficult and distressing (and remain so to this day). Revisiting and recounting the hardest parts of my life was gruelling but I did my best to push through the internal resistance and breathe through the resulting turmoil; between that and the ongoing mental anguish, it was a difficult few months. I don’t mean to make it sound like one continuous torture because that isn’t true -we’ve talked about the good experiences that’ve made me who I am, of course, and there have been sessions where we’ve laughed a lot – but I think that building a strong relationship with a therapist and making progress will always involve periods of incredible vulnerability, which is always scary and, at times, painful.
Sometimes – okay, often – I feel like I’m not making any progress at all, partly because of all the disruption and the distress it’s caused. A year ago, I hadn’t expected to see 2023 and my depression and chronic suicidal thoughts haven’t lessened, even though I am taking Phenelzine again (at a higher dose, in fact) – after many discussions with Therapist B. It has made me more functional, to a certain degree, but the decision came with a price tag: my self harming escalated from cutting my arm to cutting my face. I’m not convinced anything’s changed; I don’t feel any better. But I can see that some things have changed and changed for the better, even though I can’t feel the effects yet: something has allowed me to start talking about some of the worst stuff in my brain, even if only a little. It’s something I could never have imagined doing so I know that that’s progress, even though I struggle to feel it.
I have heard from Therapist A several times now; the news has generally been positive, which has been a great relief (and I appreciate having a little less uncertainty in my life). Therapy is continuing as normal – the current version of normal at least – which I’m pretty sure is a good thing: the idea of trying to work my way through all of the emotions that I know would come up as a result of any potential change makes me feel physically nauseous.
I’m not always convinced that I’ve adjusted and sometimes I forget that I’m not going to see Therapist A, my body moving in the direction of that office as the car turns down a different road; that experience is more ingrained than I had realised at the time. And I know I’m still carrying a lot of hurt and anger over the whole thing, even though over a year has passed. I’m not angry at the people involved – nobody chose any of this – but there is anger and, although I’ve been slower to realise it, hurt too. I think it’s easier to be angry than to be hurt. Not always but sometimes. And, as I said, I have abandonment issues, issues that I’ve struggled with for a long time, which – unsurprisingly – have been exacerbated by this whole thing. It’s hard to lose someone that you trusted to never leave (a naïve ideal, I know) and it’s hard to trust someone new, ignoring the whispers that they’re just another person who will inevitably walk away. I think these issues are important to mention but they probably need their own blog post rather than taking up space here: when talking about changing therapists, it’s not something that everyone has mixed into the equation. All of that said, I’m trying to trust and I think that, for the most part, I am, even if it does sometimes feel like a conscious, concentrated effort. The progress isn’t as fast as I’d hoped it would be when I committed to therapy again last year but the proof is there. I’m sharing things I never thought I’d share and that’s certainly not nothing.
A Week In My Life (July 2023)
Posted on September 30, 2023
I really overdid things in June and pushed myself harder than I could really handle; I was just so overwhelmed and drained and exhausted so, in July, I tried to take things more gently, to varying degrees of success. Having said that, I did have some completely one-off opportunities booked that I couldn’t – and didn’t want to – miss. It’s hard, relearning to balance doing things with recharging and building my stamina. There are still so many things I want to do, especially see my friends and schedule more sessions with my favourite cowriters but I just really struggle to make things fit, and make things fit without absolutely crashing and burning, something that has happened repeatedly since I started taking the Phenelzine – and therefore doing things – again.
The week in this post started on Monday 3rd July 2023 and ended on Sunday 9th July 2023.
MONDAY
I woke up before nine and worked through some of my morning habits, like drinking water and my Duolingo practice, before getting up and getting in the shower. Then I settled in the living room and got to work on my current blog post, alternating with closing some of the many tabs I have open and trying to tidy my laptop up a bit. My Mum had gone in to town to get her laptop fixed and she’d asked about mine and it’s new habit of randomly turning off at any given moment. They said that, when it was made in 2015 (I got it later, refurbished), running it was like asking it to function at 100% but now, eight years later, running it is like asking it to run at 200%, which is obviously problematic. And given my propensity to work on about seven different things at once (with so many tabs open), I’m honestly surprised that it’s survived this long. They basically said that it’s not going to last much longer and I’m going to need to get a new one soon: the dreaded words with the Taylor Swift ticket sales coming up. Even though I’ve been saving for these concerts and have savings for moments like these (when something necessary, like a laptop, needs to be bought), the money anxiety was sitting in my stomach like a slimy, writhing creature.
Early afternoon, one of my friends came over to visit. She’s probably my oldest friend; we met when we were thirteen and we’ve been really close ever since, even though we don’t see each other as much now, living in different cities and working and so on. But our friendship has been one of the great pillars of my life; we always pick up right where we left off and there’s never any awkwardness. It was so, so lovely to see her, to hang out with her even though it wasn’t as long as we’d hoped for, but we got to catch up properly and we had a good laugh. I miss her more now that she’s further away, further away than she ever has during our friendship; it’s so much harder to see each other. But it’s comforting to know that our friendship has never really changed, even if it has evolved since we were at school and saw each other every day.
When she left, I made sure to take some rest time. Mum and I were both hanging out in the living room; she was working on her laptop and I spent a couple of hours continuing the work of cleaning up my laptop. We’ve been half watching House at times like this and we finally finished it, watching the ‘making of’ at the end. For the most part, it was fun and interesting but there was one part that really got under my skin: one woman was talking about the creation of the character of Gregory House and how the original idea was that House was in a wheelchair but that that was ‘too difficult’ so they changed it. I’m sure she meant it from a filming and set perspective and they eventually got to the idea of him using a cane, which I do think was a better choice for storytelling given the character, but the way she talked about it just felt really ableist and insensitive. I know I get triggered by that ‘too difficult’ and ‘too complicated’ talk but it just felt really uncomfortable and, at the very least, borderline offensive to wheelchair users.
My Mum and I had an early dinner together and finished His Dark Materials while we ate. It was the first time Mum had seen the end and my second. God, the end just wrecks me; it’s so heartbreaking. Dafne Keen and Amir Wilson’s performances (and, of course, Ruth Wilson’s – I love her) are just incredible. I think series three is my least favourite, just because there’s so much happening that needs to be shown in order for the end to make sense but, when any of those three are onscreen (plus the scenes between Ruth Wilson and James McAvoy), it’s breathtaking.
I was freaking exhausted but I made myself go and do my hydrotherapy anyway. I tried – I really, really tried – but my back still hurt and I was so exhausted that I didn’t manage as much as I usually do. I was so tired that I felt like, if I’d rolled over and floated face down, my body would have been too tired to care and I would’ve just drowned. But going was better than not going and I had a nice time with two of my parents swimming too.
Back home afterwards, I put on Doctor Who, too tired to think any harder about what to watch, and kept working on my laptop. It was a struggle though because I kept getting distracted by the cats playing with their new donut toys, plus I kept falling asleep sitting up; I was that tired.
I dragged myself to bed, utterly exhausted, but then I was still awake at three for some reason. That was deeply frustrating; I was so tired but I just couldn’t sleep.
TUESDAY
I struggled to wake up, finally managing to drag myself out of bed around twelve; I was just so tired and the lack of decent sleep made me feel heavy and groggy. I don’t know whether it was connected or not but for the next few hours, I had some really miserable stomach problems that meant I couldn’t do much more than lie on the sofa. I felt hot and faint and nauseous and sweat was all but dripping off me. It wasn’t fun but eventually it did recede a bit and I was able to haul myself up and into the shower.
Back in the living room, I spent the next several hours working on blog posts, hanging out with the cats, and dreading therapy. I was just feeling so tired and raw that putting my feelings under a magnifying glass was the last thing I felt like doing. But I went and it wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined it would be: I’d recommended The Anthropocene Reviewed by John Green to her because I related to so many of the feelings and philosophies that Green had written about (my copy, full of highlighted passages and comments scribbled in the margins, is an incredibly revealing insight into my brain, into my emotions and experience of the world) and she’d just finished it so we decided to go through some of the things that had really resonated with me, especially in the context of my mental health. It wasn’t easy but it wasn’t as hard as it could’ve been. I do think our discussion made it clearer than ever that my depression is still hanging around, dark and heavy and cloying.
Back home, I spent the evening working on blog posts and trying to reduce the amount of open tabs on my laptop. For a while, there was some amazing heavy rain and that really helped to lift my mood; I’ve always found it so calming but also really invigorating. If I recall correctly, rain releases a wave of negative ions which apparently relieve stress and alleviate depression as well as boosting energy. I don’t know how much research is behind those findings but heavy rain and thunderstorms always have that effect on me.
I wrote in my diary for a bit and then started to go to bed early but got distracted by the piano. A little fiddle turned into a couple of hours as I started playing old and half finished songs; my early night became a distance memory when I got sucked into writing a bridge for a song I’ve always loved but never managed to finish.
When I eventually got to bed, I quickly planned out my route into London for the next day and then went to sleep around two in the morning.
WEDNESDAY
I struggled up early but kept falling asleep again, which resulted in me running around like a headless chicken as I tried to get ready to leave. I just managed to catch my train and spent the journey catching up with various family members, working on various blog posts, and listening to Maisie Peters’ album, The Good Witch. I’m obsessed with it.
It seemed to take ages to get to Richard (one of my best friends, my most trusted cowriter, and my producer) but I did eventually arrive, exhausted, out of breath, and hot. We hung out for a bit as I gathered myself, catching up and chilling. We were both tired but eventually we got going, settling into his studio to work on some music. We didn’t have a specific plan and ended up writing a new song together, based on an idea that I’d been turning over in my head. It was hard to start with, like we’d both forgotten how to write together after going so long without doing it – it did get easier but I think that, if we can get back to writing together more often, we’ll find our groove again (no pun intended). By the time we had to stop, we’d written a delicate little song based on The Nettle Dress, an art piece with an accompanying documentary.
That done and running late, we raced across town (my joints were deeply unimpressed – although admittedly I shouldn’t have tried to be a hero and just gotten the lift out of the tube station instead of trying to manage all of the stairs) to the O2 Forum Kentish Town for the Maren Morris show. We both love her and we always go to see her together whenever she tours here. My Mum met us there: I had a disabled ticket and she had the accompanying companion ticket since I find these environments so hard (concert accessibility is unbelievably terrible) and she knows best how to help me through them. The O2 Forum Kentish Town doesn’t have an accessible section (which, again, just blows my mind – how can they be a functioning concert venue that hosts acts as big as Maren Morris without accessible seating?!) but they offered me early access so that I could, in theory, get a suitable seat. That was very stressful but fortunately we did get in quickly enough to get a seat that wouldn’t leave me in excruciating pain the next day. The few in total that I could’ve used only fanned my frustration with them as a venue.
Sam Palladio was the support act and he was good but his musical style wasn’t really my taste; for the most part, I couldn’t stop thinking about him as Stoke in Episodes, which was pretty distracting. Ah well. I’m happy to simply enjoy the support slot; becoming a fan of the person filling that slot is a bonus considering they’re not the person you’re there to see.
Maren Morris was incredible, as always, and she played so many of my favourites, including ‘Circles Around This Town,’ ’80s Mercedes,’ ‘The Middle,’ ‘RSVP,’ ‘Nervous,’ ‘Once,’ ‘Second Wind,’ ‘Rich,’ ‘The Bones,’ and ‘My Church.’ Her voice was in top form and she’s such a great performer; it’s always such an amazing experience to see her live. I love how much London means to her, how she never fails to acknowledge how much she loves it. And to honour that this time, she played a brand new song called ‘Get the Hell Out of Here.’ That was really special.
It was a really, really awesome show. She’s such an amazing performer. My only regret was that she didn’t play ‘Humble Quest’ since I love it so much, but then it seems that we got a lot more songs than the rest of the tour did – plus a new song – so I really can’t complain. It is surprising to me though, since it is the title track of her most recent album. (The show had also meant I missed the Song Suffragettes show – and, as it turned out, the last one – which I was sad about because I love or am desperate to see most of the girls playing and see my friends who work the event but it couldn’t be helped. It’s Maren Morris!)
Richard and I hugged goodbye, repeatedly and effusively, before going our separate ways. A short bus ride later and I was on the train home. I was exhausted but I used the time to make sure my Ticketmaster and AXS accounts were linked up and organised, all the information stored clearly and carefully to hopefully make any ticket buying as straightforward as possible. It was a cold train on a cold night and even though I’d sat for most of the show, my joints were so sore (probably from the slightly panicked journey to the venue); I was hobbling by the time I got off the train.
I was very pleased to get home and into my bed but I needed some time to decompress before I could sleep. I was scrolling through BBC iPlayer, looking for something that would soothe the still surging adrenaline. I spotted Wallace & Gromit, consistent figures in my childhood, and ended up falling asleep as those stories played out.
THURSDAY
My alarm went off at the usual time but I ended up going to back to sleep. It was a very slow start to the day but I was just so tired and sore from the night before. I also had a throbbing headache so I figured I was dehydrated, having probably not drunk enough at the concert. I’ve been trying to drink more water (my hEDS comes with Dysautonomia so I’m quickly and easily dehydrated) but the habit hasn’t become ingrained yet and I’d been distracted by the trip to London.
I lay in bed for a while, looking through my photos from the night before. There weren’t many good ones. I would love to get a new camera – mine is probably ten years old now, if not more, and I’m finding myself increasingly unhappy with the quality of the photos – but between the cost of Taylor Swift tickets (fingers crossed that I can get them) and the looming expense of a new laptop (mine is dying a slow, painful death), I can’t afford it, at least not for a while. Hopefully I’ll be able to get one before hopefully seeing Taylor Swift next year.
It turned out to be a hard day. I did manage to get my budget clearly worked out for seeing Taylor (I’d had a rough idea, having been saving since The reputation Tour ended, but it needed to be hammered out, which I’ve now done) but I spent most of the day in tears, stressed and overwhelmed and exhausted; it’s never been clearer that I need a day off, that I’ve been doing too much and need to slow down a bit. The boost Phenelzine gave me seems to have worn off, at least to some degree, and now I’m left with more plans than I have the energy or emotional capacity for. Between the busy weekend ahead, my stress around money, and the fear that I won’t get to see The Eras Tour next year: I’d received a presale code but there was no information about disabled access and when we rang them to ask how to handle the ticket sale, the information was different from last time. It’s different every time. The whole thing is just getting more and more distressing; it’s just another aspect of the world telling me that, because I’m disabled, I don’t matter as much as the rest of the population.
So it wasn’t the best day and I struggled to get much done. I did some writing and posted on my cat Instagram – a throwback to when my lovely Lucy was a kitten – but that was about it, having lost so my of the day to panic and distress…
I had a quiet evening, watching New Tricks with Mum and working on a couple of different blog posts before going to bed.
FRIDAY
I could not sleep, no matter what I tried; I think three hours is probably a generous estimate if I totalled up the sleep I did manage to get. It was frustrating and boring but the timing could’ve been worse as it meant I was awake to listen to Speak Now (Taylor’s Version) when it came out. Given that her album releases are always at five am for me, I don’t get to join in the countdown with everyone online. So that was a bonus of sorts.
I always loved Speak Now – it was the album that had me absolutely invested in Taylor’s music – and I think this is the best rerecording of the three so far, in terms of how closely she’s managed to replicate the sound. The vault comes close to being my favourite, just after the vault on Red (Taylor’s Version): I love ‘Electric Touch (Taylor’s Version) (From The Vault),’ ‘I Can See You (Taylor’s Version) (From The Vault),’ ‘Timeless (Taylor’s Version) (From The Vault),’ and ‘Castles Crumbling (Taylor’s Version) (From The Vault)’ is fast becoming one of my favourite songs on the whole album. And the prologue is beautiful but heartbreaking; I’m tempted to call it one of the best non-musical things she’s written. Speak Now has always been about using her music to express her feelings and tell her side of so many different stories but this new prologue exposes a new side of that: that she was ashamed of not speaking up in the moment (something that she now tries hard to do) and that writing these songs was her way of coping with it, like she needed to prove to herself – and everyone else – that she could speak up. That undertone of shame is also present when you look at the songs she didn’t include at the time, in the context of the prologue: there are powerful emotions and experiences – the insecurity in ‘When Emma Falls in Love (Taylor’s Version) (From The Vault),’ exploring her sexuality in ‘I Can See You (Taylor’s Version) (From The Vault),’ and the pressures and fears that you can hear in ‘Castles Crumbling (Taylor’s Version) (From The Vault),’ for example – that it seems she didn’t feel able to share and thus an album about being honest wasn’t as honest as she’d intended. I have so many thoughts about this album already but I think I’ll save them for my albums post.
I got up around seven, bored of trying to sleep; I figured I’d have a nap later in the day if I needed one. My plans for the day had changed anyway: I’d originally been going to see Madeline Edwards at OMEARA that night, having seen her in Nashville and fallen in love with her album, Crashlanded, but she’d cancelled the show (with promises to come back soon). I was disappointed – I’d been really looking forward to seeing her perform again and seeing her perform a show after seeing her in a songwriters’ round capacity – but personally, it was probably a good thing that I didn’t have to travel up to London with the weekend I had ahead of me. I was already completely exhausted and it meant I could still go to therapy – not as much fun but still a worthy use of time.
I tried to have a restful day but I was so anxious about going to London Film and Comic Con the next day. It was my third attempt; my first was thwarted by COVID and the second by my anxiety. It’s not a happy environment for me and I was stressed about being surrounded by so many people and so much noise. I was also worried about messing up out of anxiety when meeting Amanda Tapping, my reason for going. So the whole thing had me basically paralysed by anxiety. I tried to do nice things, like watch my favourite TV shows and make bracelets (my current hyperfixation), but it was still a lot.
I went to therapy and we split the time between going over the coming days and my coping strategies before continuing with our discussions inspired by The Anthropocene Reviewed by John Green. I do like having something to prompt our conversations, especially when it’s a busy, stressful week; I feel like it allows us to keep moving forward, for her to keep learning about me, without flooring me the way sessions often do. When I’ve got something big the next day (or during the week), I can’t really afford to give everything to therapy. It’s a good way of still making the most of the time, at least for me.
Back home, I put on New Tricks (an oldie but such a goodie – apart from some of Brian’s mental health stuff) and continued resting, methodically making more bracelets. I wasn’t sure if I’d have the opportunity (or the confidence) to give the handful I’d made for Amanda to her but I wanted to be prepared. I also wrote out my letter for her (I wanted to make sure I could share the thoughts I wanted to share with her, even if I froze up in the moment) and chose the photo I wanted her to sign at the autograph booth (one from the final episode of Sanctuary – Sanctuary, my beloved).
One of my parents (one that doesn’t live with me and Mum) joined us for dinner and we caught up and continued our watching of Lucifer while we ate. I finished the bracelets I’d been making and went to bed early, very aware of how early I had to be up in the morning to get to London.
SATURDAY
I had a stressful early start but despite everything, Mum and I still made the train on time. Mum had a carer’s pass for LFCC; there was no way I could do it without her. Maybe one day but certainly not at this point, having already attempted to go and backed out because my anxiety over it was so paralysing. Even with her there, I was worried about getting overwhelmed and having a meltdown. But at least with her there, someone knows what to do; I wouldn’t have to manage something like that on my own.
On the train, I managed to get my new blog post up and then there was nothing left to do but wait and deep breathe until we got to London and then over to Olympia. Getting in as a disabled person was complicated and stressful – I absolutely would’ve had a meltdown if I’d been there by myself, without her to take over and cut through the chaos – but the people were really nice (one of them at least was autistic too) and skipped through all the complications to make it easier and get me through the registration and back out into the open hall and away from the dense crowd, which I really appreciated. We’d arrived in good time so at least I didn’t have to worry about that. We’d planned to be there just for the Amanda Tapping parts – the meeting and photograph, the autograph, and her talk later in the afternoon – so that I didn’t overwhelm myself when I was already anxious about my first trip to the convention but that meant we had a pretty big gap in the middle of the day; I hadn’t booked anything because I hadn’t been sure how the autographs worked. But according to the schedule Clark Gregg and Iain De Caestecker – both from Agents of Shield – had a talk right in that block of empty so I booked us into that.
I’d been well prepared and had the map on my phone so I navigated us up to the second level where the photo booths and autograph tables are. I spotted Amanda quickly and just stood for a while, watching people take their turn and trying to get an understanding of how the whole thing worked. But since it was just about time for her photo session, I didn’t join the queue; I’d just have to leave it again in a few minutes. So I found a quieter area to sit and wait, deep breathing to try and keep myself calm for the impending meeting. I was so anxious and so anxious about doing something stupid or embarrassing that would make me cringe for the rest of my life; I tried not to obsess over that possibility and just breathe but it was hard. My Extra Help wristband meant that I was allowed to go straight through for the photo – so I didn’t have to stand and didn’t have to spend too long completely surrounded by people – but there were still several people before me, which was a relief; that meant I could watch both how the process worked and how they interacted with Amanda (and how Amanda interacted with them, not that that had changed from when I met her back in 2018 at AT9 – she’s so open and warm) to prepare myself. When it was my turn, we hugged and I said how good it was to see her in real life and not on a screen. She was really lovely; I hate that the memory is already fading. We posed for the photo and then we said goodbye, that I’d see her at the autograph table. I don’t know how she does that kind of event; I’d be completely overwhelmed. My photo was printed right there and I collected it on the way out. I wish I was happier with it: my fringe rarely looks good in photos and I feel like I never look like myself in posed photos. But, as it turned out, it was the autograph moment that was really special.
The adrenaline was still pumping, my hands shaking, when I met up with Mum outside the photo booth and it took almost an hour for me to calm down. The adrenaline crash was making me feel sick and I was obsessing a bit over whether I should’ve done the autograph before the photo, whether I’d been too enthusiastic, and so on and so forth. The photo session had ended and, after taking a photo with Matt Smith, Amanda was back at the autograph table. I was really stressing about messing up but I knew that putting if off was just giving me more time to worry. At that moment, the queue was pretty short so I joined the end and pulled out the photo I’d printed for her to sign.
The photo sparked surprise from her helper person – I think everyone had one to take care of the admin of checking everyone off and getting names right – about her with long, dark hair, which Amanda laughed about and I expressed my love of Sanctuary and how important the show was to me, how it always will be. I gave her the letter I’d written, briefly explaining that I’m autistic and had worried that I’d get too overwhelmed to talk, which she took in stride (I was feeling pretty overwhelmed, talking to her face to face – although having no one behind me, waiting for me to move on, did help). I also gave her the bracelets I’d made and she was so gracious and so lovely about them, instantly noticing that both Mum and I were wearing others that I’d made. The conversation actually felt surprisingly easy and, like any fan I think, I couldn’t help wishing I had hours to talk to her and ask her questions. My Mum also grabbed a moment with her, thanking her for everything she’s done for me – for how much her presence in my life has helped me – from one mother to another. We all ended up quite emotional and Amanda stood up and gave us both a hug, saying that we’d made her weekend. I’m sure that we’re one of multiple moments that made her weekend but that meant a lot to me; I treasure that comment.
I was beyond hyped and very emotional after that and needed a quiet moment to myself in the bathrooms in order to bring everything back down to manageable levels, levels where I wouldn’t get tipped into a meltdown by the business and background noise of the convention. And by the time I’d managed that, it was time for the Clark Gregg and Iain De Caestecker talk.
Clark Gregg is so lovely, warm and open and affable, and although he was quieter, Iain De Caestecker seemed really nice too. They were clearly really good buddies and they told lots of funny stories; they were very enjoyable to listen to. It was really cool to hear how they got into acting and how some of their early roles shaped them and their approaches to their careers and their new projects sound interesting, although I’m not entirely sure Iain’s is my thing. They talked a little bit about Agents of SHIELD but I couldn’t help wishing that they’d talked about it a bit more, about their experiences on the show and with their castmates. I’m pretty sure everyone there was an Agents of SHIELD fan and would’ve welcomed any behind the scenes stories. On that note, I’m still sad about missing Ming Na Wen when my anxiety forced me to cancel and I would LOVE to see Chloe Bennet at a convention, although I’m not sure she does them anymore; she hasn’t done one in years, pandemic irrelevant. I can only imagine what an absolute mess I’d be if I had the opportunity to meet her, given how important the character of Daisy Johnson is to me; her acting is, of course, a big part of that.
When the talk ended, Mum and I found a table tucked away and had some lunch. We ended up chatting with a man who had a service dog, a gorgeous yellow lab or golden retriever, I wasn’t quite sure. But he was lovely and that got us talking. Now that I’ve been accepted to Autism Dogs‘ service dog programme (yes, I am SO excited about getting a service dog but I want to talk about that properly in its own post because the whole thing is a really big deal), I’m always keen to talk to people about their experiences and about their service dogs. This guy – he was also autistic but had his service dog due to being in the armed forces – patiently talked with me about his previous and current service dogs and even showed me photos of his dogs meeting various famous people; that made me laugh. While obviously not a good reason for trying to get an Autism service dog, I think that must be a super cool way of raising awareness about Autism and the needs of autistic individuals: posting pictures of your service dog with someone famous.
When the time rolled around, me and Mum headed down to the little auditorium area. I ended up making friends with someone in the queue and we spent the wait, discussing how much we love Amanda Tapping, about Stargate SG-1 and Sanctuary. She was having a hard time and, as the only person there, I did my best to keep her occupied until the talk began and then we were all absolutely occupied by Amanda. She walked out onto the stage and I noticed straight away that she was wearing three of the bracelets I’d made her – I thought I might explode with joy. (I couldn’t see, at the time, which ones she’d chosen and my photos turned out not to be clear enough. I ended up scouring social media for photos that would reveal them and, although it took several days, I did eventually get to see which ones they were, which made me very happy.)
I’ve always found Amanda to be a beautiful, thoughtful speaker. Even when answering questions from the audience, questions she couldn’t have prepared for, she speaks well, earnest and personable and funny, always engaged with both the person who asked the question and the audience as a whole. I think it’s because everything she does comes from a place of empathy. All of that said, the talk was really interesting and enjoyable. She told stories, from the set of Stargate SG-1 and Supernatural, and joked around with the host; she talked about her upcoming projects (although the future is very unknown with the writer’s strike going on) and how she’d been thinking about the future and what she wants to do next, how she’s told her agents that she wants to act again. That was very exciting to everyone. She also shared quite a lot about her life, like stories from quarantine times and how she prepares for these events and recovers after, and it was so lovely and such an honour to get a little glimpse into her world. The one thing that I felt was missing was any talk of Sanctuary, especially as her most recent starring role and a project that was such a world unto itself, driven by this small, emotionally invested circle. It would’ve made the experience perfect to hear a couple of stories from that time. I kept waiting for her to mention it or someone to ask a question about it but nobody did. I’d finally gathered the courage to put my hand up and ask a question about it (I can’t remember what it was now – probably something about how it differed to other shows she’s been a part of or about the character of Helen Magnus, another of my absolute favourite characters of all time) but it was too late; we’d run out of time and they weren’t taking anymore questions. But it was fine. The day had been amazing and the fact that I’d even considered asking a question was a really big deal. Maybe next time I go to a similar event, I’ll actually manage to ask one.
So, yes. As I said, it was an amazing day and an amazing experience, despite all of my anxiety around. It took me a while to process it all but when I finally felt like I could put at least some of it into words, I posted this…
When Amanda’s talk finished, Mum and I got going, heading back to the station and catching the train towards Manchester. Having been accepted by the Autism Dogs charity, we wanted to go to their fundraiser the next day to show our support and our gratitude. It was a bit of a trek though, especially after such a long, emotional day. I’d planned to work on the train but I was so tired that I ended up putting my head down on the table and sleeping for more than two hours. Oops.
It was pouring with rain when we arrived – absolutely tipping it down – and since our hotel didn’t do dinner, we picked up fish and chips and the hotel was really lovely and accommodating in letting us eat in our room. I was still falling asleep, literally wherever I stopped (like leaning on the bannister while the hotel staff member retrieved plates and cutlery for us); I barely made it through my dinner. We ended the day watching one of the Sanctuary episodes I had on my laptop (and were properly weirded out, watching Amanda with long, dark hair after just talking to her in person with short, blonde hair). We were both asleep early, probably by ten and definitely by eleven.
SUNDAY
Exhausted from the day before, it was a struggle to wake up early but I did eventually manage to force myself out of bed. The shower was super slippery and I nearly fell over several times, which was a bit scary, but I did survive – just – and then ran around like a headless chicken as I got myself ready and packed up. The cab was already waiting when I was done but then I got lost twice on my way out of the hotel. So… not the most graceful beginning to a day.
My Mum and I spent the morning at the Autism Dogs fundraiser, which was really enjoyable. We ate cake, met some gorgeous dogs, and watched the dogs compete in some very adorable competitions, including waggiest tale and several rounds of musical sits. It was all very cute.
The event being so far away meant that we didn’t know anyone there (apart from a few people from Autism Dogs) but we met a really nice family and ended up spending most of our time chatting to them (and their gorgeous dog). It was a really nice morning.
Then it was back to the station, a really long wait for the train, and a long series of trains home. The only thing of note was a really adorable corgi on one of them. I could definitely see myself having a corgi. But beyond that, it was long and cold and monotonous. I was completely exhausted – physically, mentally, and emotionally – so I didn’t manage to do anything on the journey; I ended up alternating between scrolling through social media and sitting back with my eyes closed.
Getting home was a great relief. It had been a really good weekend but, as exhausted as I was and needing to process everything that had happened, I really needed some time in my safe space without loads of people around. I was delighted to see the cats too; I hate being away from them. I went to bed ridiculously early and was asleep in minutes.
This post is – clearly – quite late. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if anyone cared, a fear that I often have about this blog, especially in my lower moments. But this blog really matters to me so I’m trying to ignore those whispers. This was a really cool week where some really special things happened and so I came back to it and pushed myself to get it done. I hope you enjoyed it, or at least found it interesting. It’s kind of funny; I think these are the posts where you can potentially learn the most about me but because they’re so busy, with so much happening in each one, that fact sometimes goes unnoticed. I don’t know. Maybe that’s just my runaway brain overthinking.
I hope you’re all doing well.
World Suicide Prevention Day 2023
Posted on September 10, 2023
TW: Discussions of suicidal thoughts, suicidal urges, self harm, and irrational thinking. PLEASE think carefully before reading further if these things may trigger you or cause you distress. Please always put yourself and your mental health first.
This, I think, is the first time I’ve written directly about my experience with suicidal thoughts and urges. I’ve mentioned it in relation to the side effects of medication and written around the edges of it but I don’t think I’ve ever talked about it in such detail. I have omitted certain moments and details since it’s been proven that sharing about plans and methods can lead to further suicides but this is as honest as I can manage, even though it terrifies me. But as hard as it is, I’m sharing these experiences because I think it’s so deeply important for people to understand what it’s like to feel this way, to live in so much pain, to feel so desperate. Keeping these stories in the dark only increases the shame and stigma so, even though it’s difficult and uncomfortable and scary, we need to talk about them. It’s the only way the world will get better at supporting people who are struggling.
I’ve experienced suicidal thoughts on and off since I was a teenager but for a long time, they were passive. Walking to school, I’d cross the road and, dreading the day ahead, I’d imagine getting hit by a car. But the thought would leave as quickly as it arrived. I thought it was normal. To quote Ned Vizzini, “Who hasn’t thought about killing themselves, as a kid? How can you grow up in this world and not think about it?” (I may have hated that book but that line really resonated with me.) This was before I was diagnosed as autistic* and I thought everyone felt as overwhelmed by their emotions, by their anxieties, as I did – as I do – but were just better at managing it.
*Autistic individuals, especially autistic women, are at a much higher risk of suicide than the general population; the factors include mental health problems (especially if they go untreated), the impact of a late diagnosis, challenging life events such as bullying and ableism, the burden of masking, isolation, and cognitive inflexibility, which can lead to difficulty in seeing any option but suicide. (x)
(Left: During secondary school // Right: During sixth form college)
I continued to experience passive suicidal thoughts and then, during my second year of sixth form college, I started to struggle with depression and my ever-present anxiety reached all-new heights (although, in comparison to what I experience now, I’d happily go back to it). Almost a decade, multiple diagnoses, and more than twenty medications later, my depression is the worst it’s ever been and I’ve been actively suicidal for almost two years. There have been short periods over the years (always in concert with the times I tried medications other than Phenelzine) where I’ve struggled with suicidal thoughts but, for the last two years, they have been almost constant.
They began in earnest when I started taking Xaggatin for my ADHD (and had to stop taking Phenelzine because my ADHD clinician was insistent that the side effects were unsustainable – I disagreed for multiple reasons but this isn’t the post for that story). I thought the intensity of the thoughts – and their slow, scary manifestation into urges and intentions and plans – was a side effect but it wasn’t long before my depression crept back in, sucking me down. Between that and the other awful side effects, my psychiatrist switched me to another medication, Bupropion, an antidepressant that’s supposed to help with ADHD but it only made things worse: I was so anxious, depressed, and suicidal that I couldn’t function. I tried a few more antidepressants, was traumatised by several more doctors, and had the crisis team called out (although they didn’t do anything, including the things they’d said they’d do). I quit treatment entirely for a while, unable to mentally handle it; I basically retreated to my bed and stayed there. I couldn’t engage with the world: it just hurt too much. But without treatment (I didn’t even have a therapist at this point, another thing that had spun my life out of control), the claws of my depression dug deeper and deeper. I remember one day where I had the sickening realisation that I wasn’t doing anything worthwhile with my life, that I had wasted my time and my education, that I was a complete waste of space. There was another day when I realised that something had broken inside me, something that could never be fixed, and I was no longer the person I had been and would only ever be a defective, inferior version of her. I avoided mirrors for months. On New Year’s Eve of 2021, I stared at the fairy lights in my living room and thought about how I had no desire to survive even the next 365 days. It wasn’t a resolution but I felt it with a quiet certainty. I thought about it everyday but then somehow that dreaded day arrived and I was still here, despite that certainty, despite my plans. I hated myself for it, feeling like a pathetic, weak-willed coward. It was a terrible night, not that I remember much of it given the distress I was in.
Somehow I ended up on Phenelzine again, despite my revulsion at the thought; I still don’t really know how it happened and I still find myself so angry about it that it feels like it might consume me. But, for a while, the chronic suicidality was relocated to the side burner: it was all still there but it wasn’t the only thing in my brain anymore. I could ignore it for sometimes days at a time. But after a while, my depression seemed to billow back in, like ink in water. The suicidal thoughts and urges became – and still are – the constant undertow to my thoughts and sometimes it’s all so overwhelming that I can barely breathe. Self harming has long stopped being an effective coping strategy as it just makes me feel pathetic for not doing more damage. I don’t know why I haven’t acted on these thoughts. I don’t know why I’m still here. If asked, I’d probably say, “because I’m a coward,” even though I know that I’d likely get a verbal thrashing from anyone I voiced that feeling too. I can practically hear my therapist (yes, I’m back in therapy) encouraging me to dissect that feeling. I know it’s not a healthy, rational thought but it is a real one. It’s a weird state to live in and the conflict of planning for a future I don’t particularly want to exist in is disorientating and miserable. It’s exhausting. But I know what my fate is, whether it comes sooner or later, and I have for years.
Following a slightly different train of thought, it’s very strange to me that people can’t seem to tell, just because it’s such an overwhelming experience for me. I feel like I have a massive neon sign over my head: “SUICIDAL.” But then I wouldn’t be surprised if people just don’t comment because they don’t know what to say. The last time I self-harmed, I cut my face because I needed to look as broken as I felt (or inasmuch as I could physically manage, which wasn’t enough – more shame and self-hatred) and almost nobody even mentioned it. (Not that that was the point but it did surprise me. Most of the time I avoided the question. I only lied once: I was in a weird headspace already and the question took me off guard and I just didn’t have the emotional energy to explain.) The cut got infected and took weeks to heal. I’m glad it left a scar but I resent it for not being bigger: the disfigurement doesn’t accurately reflect the feelings, not by a long shot.
(Left: The dressing on my face after I self harmed // Right: The scar after it finally healed, having got infected.)
In some ways, I feel like I’m already disappearing: I struggle to make sense of my face in the mirror and, while I don’t know about this year, there are fewer than ten photos of me in 2022; my autistic masking is so ingrained that the real, brutally honest me who is struggling and suffering (who so desperately needs to be seen) gets locked away so tightly that she might as well not exist, while a socially acceptable and palatable projection of me – the only version of me that people could want, says the voice in my head – takes over my body, acting almost without my permission; I feel like no one knows the real me any more, not after months in bed, besieged by suicidal thoughts and impulses. I feel permanently damaged by it but people are still treating me as who I used to be and not who I am now (not that I think it’s their fault – while the damage feels so deeply clear to me, I know that it’s not visible to anyone else). I remember the old me. I remember the person who could be proud of being different and who advocated for acceptance, even though she still felt broken. It was a balancing act but there was balance. Now the broken feeling has broken the scale. I feel unrecognisable. I noted down somewhere – last year at some point, I think – that feeling like this feels like one elongated near death experience. Almost every day for more than eighteen months, I’ve been so close to death that I can feel it’s presence in the air when I breathe in; I can feel it in my lungs. One decision – one split second – away. Maybe it’s just dying in slow motion. Feeling this way… I don’t know how it doesn’t change you.
I was reading various articles as I both researched and procrastinated this post and, in one of them, the author had written this: “Because depression, as we all know, is almost always treatable.” The statistics vary, depending on where you look, but a high percentage of people (this page claims between 80% and 90%) do eventually respond well to treatment. After ten years, over twenty medications, and more hours in multiple therapies than I can count, I’ve only ever managed periods of being mentally well. The longest period was, I think, two and a half years at the most. Only one medication actually helps and I’ve run out of new ones to try. The other options, according to a consultant in another very distressing appointment, would be the Ketamine trials or Electroconvulsive Therapy, neither of which doctors fully understand (the same could be said for antidepressants). Given how abnormally I respond to multiple medications, I’m terrified of how these treatments might affect me. I’m terrified of how Phenelzine is affecting me. With all of that in mind, I can’t help but wonder – and have wondered for a long time – if I’m included in that small percentage that doesn’t respond to treatment. And if that’s the case, it means that this is forever and that is an unbearable thought.
I’ve spent a lot of time talking with my therapist about this – and no doubt this post will spark multiple new discussions – and we did talk briefly about what I could write for this post, what would feel actually helpful to someone reading (I never figured that out, by the way, so I have no idea if this is helpful or not). She said that the most important thing is to talk about it and that it’s much more dangerous not to talk about it. I agree with the latter part but I’m not convinced that talking about it is helping me; I often feel like I’m just going around in circles and exhausting myself. She asked me what I would say to someone I loved if they expressed all of this to me and the truth is that I honestly don’t know. I don’t know because I’ve never heard anything that’s helped me. I think we all have the knee-jerk reaction to say, “Please stay. I love you and I’d miss you.” It’s true and it’s heartfelt but is it fair to ask someone to live in agony, in unbearable misery, because you’d miss them? We want to say, “Things will get better.” But we don’t know that. We can’t promise that. We want to say, “How can I help?” But it’s unlikely that there’s any one thing a person can do to help, although that one is more specific to the individual person. If someone asked me that, I couldn’t give them an answer because there is nothing they can do to help. It’s so much bigger than one person, than them or than me. Maybe these help some people. For me, none of these things change the reasons I’m suicidal and they’ve only added unhelpful pressure and stress. I’d hate to do that to someone else. I’m not saying the right words aren’t out there. I’ve just never heard them. Or discovered them.
Obviously I haven’t shared everything. As I said, I didn’t want to share things that have been proven to push people passed their limits (although I hope everyone read the warning and acted accordingly and prioritised their mental health) but there are also certain things that are too hard to share, too raw, too loaded. But I wanted to share my experience today, not just because it’s an overwhelming aspect of my life, but because sharing our experiences and our feelings is, as I said in my introduction, one of the few ways (and possibly the most powerful way) that the world gets better at helping people. People can only do that if they understand the battles being fought and the support that’s needed. I hope that sharing my story can help with that, even if it’s just a drop in the ocean.
RESOURCES:
Finding Hope 