#ItAffectsMe in the Workplace by Laura Darrall

As I've been talking to people throughout this campaign, what has become a prevalent issue is employment and whether or not it is okay to admit on a form or to a colleague that you have a mental health condition, for fear that they would doubt your ability in doing the job properly.

I would like to state now that I know so many people who manage mental health problems daily, that are brilliant at their jobs, that are reliable, trustworthy and in many ways genius at what they do. 

When I first came out of drama school I don't know if I would have been brave enough to have been so open about my mental health for fear that it would have affected my career. However, now, eight years down the line I have proven myself reliable, solid and good at my job, I feel confident in talking about it because I know thankfully it has never affected my work. But that fear shouldn't have been there in the first place. 

In the same way people with a physical condition may have to take days off sick, people with a mental health condition may have to do the same but it is treated differently. 

People in physical pain may have their moods affected, they may become snappy or aggressive, weepy or vulnerable. But it is excusable because they are in physical pain. 

When someone's mood is affected by their mental health or mental pain it is seen as weak or worse, weird. But do you know what? It is not weak, it is not weird. It is understandable. And it is not their fault. 

We need to become better at understanding, at patience and at being non-judgmental, kind human beings. 

We shouldn't live in fear of ticking a box that says we have anxiety or depression or OCD. Nor, if someone is off sick with a mental health problem should they be scared to return to work for fear of what people might think. Nervous of the task ahead: yes, the recovery process: yes, but of people's reactions: no. 

It may be idealistic (I am an unashamed idealist) but I would like to live in a world where if I am struggling with a mental health condition I could rely on whoever I spoke to, regardless of age, profession or relationship to react in a way that puts me at ease, that makes me feel normal and makes me feel respected. 

That is not an unrealistic dream. With education, funding and normalising the discussion of mental health in the media this dream is achievable. Which is why we must not stop the conversation. 

I have anxiety, I have OCD and I work. So let's talk

Never Forgotten by Becca O'Neil

When people talk about having kids often it's just the next thing to be ticked off the Life List. No biggie: just get pregnant, have a baby... Easy. But it doesn't work that way for everyone. In fact, statistically most people encounter some sort of challenge during this process. I’m now ready to share my challenge. The taboo was one of the hardest things to get my head around and it shouldn't be. So here goes.

In October 2014 we found out I was pregnant after only a very short time of trying. We were ecstatic and busy planning our new life as a three. What we weren't prepared for, was at 7 weeks when the bleeding started but then stopped again, would the baby okay? We were told to wait another 2 weeks and take another test, the test still came back positive and the docs reassured us that everything was probably okay. Already an emotional roller coaster, up down and back up again and only just 9 weeks pregnant. 

Two days later I collapsed in the most amount of pain I've ever been in. I was in the car, on my own with a dead phone. I somehow drove myself to A and E and got taken straight through to majors, managed to call my husband from the hospital phone, left a message and hoped he would arrive. 

He arrived just as the doctors decided that my pregnancy was probably a ruptured ectopic but still they couldn't be sure. I had many tests and was on morphine which still wasn't taking the edge off. By this time it was gone midnight and I was transferred to a ward. I was terrified, left alone and all I wanted to do was to stay with my husband. He wasn't allowed back in until 3pm the next day by which point I'd been prodded, poked, examined and sent down for a scan to confirm what was becoming only a formality. 

It was a new born clinic where I was sent to wait and I can't explain how hard that was. Being in the same room with so many beautiful new babies whilst I sat in my pyjamas with lines coming out of me, knowing that I had a baby at that moment in time but that I was unlikely to ever meet them was the most horrendous experience of my entire life. 

I finally went in after 30 minutes of witnessing mums bouncing their babies and smiling at me, only to be told that my baby was ectopic and had ruptured my tube and that I would need emergency surgery to remove it. 

I was then put back in the room with the babies whilst they waited to transfer me back to the ward and at that point I fell apart. My husband finally found me after being misdirected around the hospital and scooped me up. He took over and I don't remember leaving the ultra sound or getting back to the ward. I do however remember several months later going for a check up and finding myself physically unable to go in to the ultrasound room. I was crying hysterically, reliving the horrendous memory all over again.

The surgeon came in and I was prepared for surgery. I signed the forms in a blur. By this point I was on stronger morphine and I think I've blocked most of it out. But what I do remember is having to sign a form to allow my embryo to be cremated. This stayed with me and is something I still struggle with. Despite knowing it could never have survived, I felt like I was killing my baby by signing this form. It took a long time to come to terms with that. 

I lost my right Fallopian tube, a lot of blood (several litres) and struggled with a reaction to the gas they had used and so had a 5 day stay in hospital and several weeks of disappearing off the grid to recover physically. Only a handful of people knew. I couldn't talk about it, think about it, or see a pregnant person without wondering why us, what did we do? The answer being nothing, it was just one of those things.

I began to not function and completely shut myself off from the world. I finally sought help after 6 months, at that point I was crying on a daily basis and could think of nothing else. The thoughts wouldn't stop. After keeping everything bottled up I finally shared with my husband what I was feeling. His unwavering care, teamed with support from my GP and several online forums where I could share my story and found others in the same boat, allowed me to begin to feel ‘normal’ again. I said yes to going out with friends and finally felt free of the confines of my own thoughts.

Miscarriage and ectopic pregnancies generally happen in the early stages of pregnancies and most won’t have told anyone they're pregnant. This prevents it being easily discussed and creates the isolation which is so debilitating. 

Hopes, dreams, excitement and happiness are all invested the moment you get a blue line on the pregnancy test. My baby wasn’t born but I will never forget them. I had to grieve for a child I had never met and only by allowing myself to come to terms with that grief did I start to get back to me again. Let’s create a world in which we can talk without fear of stigma. #itaffectsme. 

I am a Mother by Sarah M

I am a mother. It feels very strange to see that sentence written down in front of me. You'd think it would have sunk in by now, thirteen months down the line. Sometimes, I don't feel like a mother to my daughter. It's as though I'm looking and listening to her through sound proof glass. Or, when I touch her, that I'm wearing wearing oven gloves, unable to feel the warmth of her skin against my own. Everything is surrounded by a blurred edge, like I've had a bit too much to drink despite me not touching a drop for over a year. Then others, I feel too much. I love her too much. I lie awake next to her cot staring, wringing my hands, desperate for an inner peace that I know will not come. I'm in a high state of readiness, every sound making my stomach clench and my heart skip. I feel nothing or everything. There is no in between. There is no rest, no time out.

I am a mother with PND. 

My labour was difficult. I expected it to be but nothing prepares you for it. I thought I was. I attended hypnobirthing classes religiously. I downloaded my "Relaxing Labour Companion" CD. I practised my breathing techniques every day, twice a day. I was totally ready. Except when I wasn't. I've always been a bit of a control freak. I like order, I like to plan, I like to know what will happen next. Nothing went to plan during my labour, I had no idea what would happen next. I never managed to play my CD (despite the whole experience taking over twelve hours). I never used my breathing techniques or all my lovely hypnobirthing poses. It pains me to say it but it was the worst experience of my life. My daughter was not blissfully placed into my open arms (no skin to skin for me!) I was so pumped full of drugs that my arms couldn't function properly. I did not encounter that warm, glowing, all consuming love when I heard her cry pierce the air for the first time. I didn't even know she had been born. I was exhausted and my body felt like I'd been hit by a train. Everything hurt and nothing felt natural. "Your body was made to birth your baby". Countless times I had heard this. As a woman, I was genetically programmed to have children. I carried this little girl inside my body for nine months, talked to her, told her how excited we were to meet her. So why did I feel nothing. Literally nothing. Empty. Spent. A void. 

I put it down to the trauma of it all. The drugs, the stitches, the tiredness. "It's the baby blues" the midwife told me, five days after Evelyn was born. "It will get better". "Once she gets used to being here, to feeding from you, you'll feel 100 times happier". I didn't and I still don't. I was completely overwhelmed and terrified. I watched my husband holding Evelyn, so calm, so self-assured and relaxed. I hated him. I hated myself. How was he handling the situation so much better than me? I had wanted a baby for over five years and now I had one and she felt like an impostor. The first few weeks were a blur of tough breast feeds, painful recovery and midwife visits. Then it all came to a head eight weeks after the birth. 

My husband is in the forces and so was due to go abroad for a month. The night before he was due to leave I didn't sleep a wink. This was not an unusual occurrence as I had spent many nights previous to this one sitting on the floor of the landing outside of the bedroom, listening to my daughter and husband sleeping peacefully through the night. Morning came and my husband found me hunched on the bed, inconsolable, repeating over and over again that I wanted to leave. "I want to run away" I said, "I need to leave". I have a drama degree so I'm pretty good at putting on a front, playing the role of the happy, doting new mother in front of my husband had been pretty easy up until this particular morning. Something inside me snapped and I had no control. The thought of having to be with my daughter alone for four weeks was too much and all I could think about was leaving and never coming back. Anyone looking in from the outside that morning would have thought I'd lost my mind and looking back on it now I had been slowly unraveling from the moment we returned home from the hospital. 

I am incredibly fortunate to have such a supportive and understanding husband who immediately sought help. Within hours I had been referred to Community Mental Health as well as a wonderful charity called Cross Reach who specialise in counselling and therapy for women suffering from PND. My journey to beating this illness has only just begun and it's safe to say that I have a long road ahead of me. However, I believe admitting and acknowledging that something has to change is the first big step. I am currently taking each day ten minutes at a time and there are good days (where I feel I have done a half decent job as a mum) and awful ones where my anxiety levels are sky high and the slightest problem (today it was losing the nappy cream) can push me over the edge. Knowing that there are people fighting to end the stigma surrounding mental health is a huge comfort for people like me who have always struggled to express what's really going on inside their head. Living with one's thoughts can be a scary experience but verbalising them or even scribbling them down can be an incredibly effective, cathartic release. I'm still learning to do this and I urge anyone else who is going through a similar situation to find someone who can help. 

Don't be afraid because you are not alone. Depression: it affects me. I'm not ashamed to say it, and neither should you. 

Shame: The Social Pressure

Part of the problem of my personal experiences with depression, OCD and anxiety, apart from the effects of living with these issues, is the very obvious and unnecessary cultural aspect we as a society have attached to mental health; shame.

I have recognised shame in a number of guises over the years as a very peculiar form of policing how we think, identify and speak.

The taboos we face are particular to the cultural definitions of what is supposedly worth feeling ashamed about.  In this economy, hard work is viewed as a virtue in a false dichotomy with the concept of being lazy.  These are largely subjective definitions as we are all built differently, have differing talents and energy levels.

I contracted glandular fever when I was about 15.  The energy levels were disabling, my ability to complete my GCSE’s were affected and I suspect I have been affected ever since in my ability to energise and self motivate.

I work as an actor, its my passion, the most powerful work I have ever enjoyed. Yet I recognise the pervasive attitude that arts are frivolous pastimes in comparison to ‘serious’ subjects such as abstract finance careers in speculative finance economics, or traditional ‘real’ jobs viewed in a Victorian moralising light.

I think this has permeated our culture, this prejudice of who is worthy and unworthy.  Deserving of support and undeserving.  It cultivates two tiers for care and support.  It enters our very own psyches as a form of self policing which only enforces depressive and self-judging mentalities, feeding intrusive thoughts about being unworthy, about needing to earn safety, peace and love, rather than having these as a right.

I think, ultimately, how we interact socially affects very closely how we fare and heal mentally.

We are still essentially a Victorian society when it comes to the *morality* of mental illness.  There are way too many people who still falsely believe that being ill in the mind is a form of moral failure.  

It is a cultural, political ignorance which holds us back from honestly and maturely linking our scientific knowledge of mental illness to how we as a society face that and support the vast numbers of us who are affected by it.

It is pervasive in our language, when arguing, people tend to shut a person down by labeling them ‘mad’.  How many women over history have been imprisoned using the excuse of ‘madness’?  How many abuses have been concealed by such a morality of silence?

I think cultural identity operates in this vein of self policing.  Thus we don’t ask for help, even when we are breaking inside.

The myth of masculinity is a powerful case in point.  Look at the suicide rates among young men.  When the internal reality of being ill faces the crushing pressure of social expectation, many tragically end the pain the only way they know how.  Somehow, suicide has become more acceptable than asking for help.  Another myth; the noble end.

We are triply burdened; by the illness, by the toxicity of the shame associated with it and finally by the lack of resolution or integration we allow in ourselves by not asking for help.

Funding for mental health care services is a powerful indicator for how significant we actually, officially consider this to be a concern.

How we treat the weakest, those least able to help themselves, is a reflection of how we view ourselves internally.  The priorities we give ourselves as a society and a political system reflects this.

Communicating the experience of depression or anxiety often requires abstract forms of explanation to another person who has not experienced it.  Yet communicate we must.  Because it is ignorance which has fed fear over the years, ignorance which exacerbates the isolation and atomisation which has traditionally burdened those already in pain and need of help.

I have chosen to write anonymously because my point is this isn’t about any one of us, but all of us collectively.  

I know I have been harder on myself than others have.  Its easy to forget that the best friend we can have in this life is our own self.  If you judge yourself so harshly as deficient to your expectations, what hope can others expect of you?  

The internal policeman isn’t you, it is learned.  As is the idea that exhaustive work earns, or qualifies you for, happiness. Give yourself the grace to ‘fail’.  Prioritise compassion for your self.  And in that practice, compassion for others becomes habituated.  The point of this campaign is to normalise communication about issues which affect us all, without fear of consequence and without shame. #itaffectsme

When the Drearies Do Attack and a Siege of the Sads Begins by Mark Shenton

Depression is a lonely experience; but you are not alone.

One of the most powerful things I've discovered in my life living with depression is that there's comfort to be found in owning your depression — and sharing it with the world. Not, I hasten to add, to seek comfort — well-meaning people will often supply "helpful" suggestions to try to mitigate the pain (as if you hadn't thought of them yourself) or (worse) platitudes — "it's not as bad as all that;" "cheer yourself up!", you've heard it all before and more. No, what I mean is standing up and being counted: It Affects Me, Too.

By that simple act, you reach out to fellow sufferers and they know that they are not alone, either.

It takes one to know one, goes the famous saying; but it also takes an experience of depression yourself to know what someone else is going through.

Not that this will supply a solution. Each of us, when cocooned in our own fog of depression, won't be able to see the blue sky that lies beyond it. But fellow sufferers know, as no one else, just what that feels like.

I have suffered depressions since I was a teenager, and have had no idea what the source of them had ever been — but I knew exactly the day they arrived, and also the day they departed. Somewhere in the time in-between, I have never stopped looking for a solution: whether therapy (often), medication (sometimes), or changing my personal circumstances (always) — whether my home, lover or job.

But guess what? None of those seemed to fix it long-term. Somehow a new trigger would occur and the depression would return.

My last depression ran for a seemingly overwhelming 21 months. I tried the usual strategies: I resumed working with a therapist, I went back on Citalopram. I got out of the relationship I was in.

But still it lingered… and lingered. I even embarked on a new, much happier relationship — but it still didn't cure it. (No one else can ever come in and solve your own emptiness, can they?)

Then a friend made a suggestion — a helpful one, for a change. He had benefited greatly from attending a 12-step fellowship, and saw a pattern in my own behaviour that he thought might qualify me to go there, too. I realised he was right. And two summers ago, I started attending meetings. I started working with a sponsor, but I could usually only get to the meetings once a week, whereas they always recommend you get to at least three a week.


The Christmas before last, I was in New York for an extended period where there is a very active fellowship right near Times Square — I always love that line in Guys and Dolls, my favourite of all musicals that is set on the very streets around there, about being on the devil's own streets in the devil's own city, and New York always used to be the playground for my demons.

Well, on the very same city block where I regularly used to "act out" (to use the 12-step terminology), I went to meetings every single day for a month — including on Christmas Day itself. About two weeks in, the fog suddenly lifted. I was with people who knew exactly what I felt and experienced and were struggling with some of the same issues, whether they were straight or gay, male or female. Some had recovered, but still came to meetings. It gave me hope.

One of the difficulties some people have with 12 Step programmes is the idea embodied within them of surrendering to a Higher Power, particularly if you are not religiously inclined. But though there is a lot of talk of God in meetings, I have chosen for myself that the Higher Power is the meetings themselves. I find the rooms deeply spiritual: a place of healing, where we come freely and of our own choice, and without any organisational hierarchies, to share our stories and work towards changing our lives.

One of my other favourite musicals is Pippin, and there's a song that one character sings:

    When the drearies do attack
    And a siege of the sads begins
    I just throw these noble shoulders back
    And lift these noble chins
    Give me a man who is handsome and strong
    Someone who's stalwart and steady
    Give me a night that's romantic and long
    And give me a month to get ready

She's seeking her answer in sex. I've found that the answer isn't there, but amongst a community of fellow sufferers. And that's why I'm writing this. You are not alone, either. #itaffectsme

In Sickness and in Health. Part Two: Wife

I knew my husband wasn’t well and eventually he agreed to talk to a doctor. When his GP said ‘You are unwell and need help, we can give you that help’ it was a relief to know we weren’t alone. It was especially a weight off my shoulders as I had been trying to fix everything by myself, but it isn’t something I can do. I was frightened and wanted to make it all better, but I just need to be there, holding his hand. It is not my job to ‘fix’ him; sometimes my role is to help him see clearer/ to listen to him/ to give him space – which is what I would be doing with or without mental illness in our lives. 

I have had to learn that I can’t help my other half if I am worn out, so I have friends who are there for me when I need to talk things through, and I’ve called Mind Charity when I need advice; it has to be a team effort. 

Also, if I am having a hard time he is there for me – there is a misconception that people who are suffering from depression/anxiety or any mental health illnesses can’t be good friends/partners but this is a lie – a lie born out of not talking about it enough, a lie that breeds when there is shame and stigma. 

I talk about the challenges he/we have faced and some people say ‘but you seem happy’ or ‘what does he have to be depressed about’ but there isn’t always a why, mental illness doesn’t discriminate. It just is, it happens. He is not a statistic and this is not a dirty secret – it our real lives and this is what we face. 

It is 20 months since he survived a suicide attempt. He has been on a waiting list for treatment for those 20 months and has only just now begun therapy. This is far too long. In fact he is only being seen now as we have a baby on the way and it pushed him up the waiting list quicker. We want to see change in policy and funding so there isn’t this ridiculous waiting list – and hiding away won’t make that change happen. Staying silent won’t bring change. 

 

My husband is kind, funny, cheeky, generous and loving. It isn’t hard to be with him. It is hard to see him suffer, but we also have so much fun together; we have a great relationship which isn’t defined by his illness. He has worked really hard to help himself – he runs, talks to me and friends, sees his GP when he needs to; he has learnt how to see what he needs and act on it. We are both excited for the future. He is a wonderful husband and will be a fantastic dad. 

I used to keep quiet about our battles, I didn’t want people to know our private lives or judging us, but now I say ‘it affects me’ because it is a privilege to be by his side and I am so proud of all he has achieved. I say ‘it affects me’ so my child grows up in a world where there is education about mental health and it is ok to ask for help. Now we say ‘it affects me too’ – so others know they aren’t the only one; there is hope for the future – things do get better. You are not alone. 

In Sickness and in Health: Part one: Husband.

The Long and Winding Road.

Today is 29/1/2016 and is a very significant day. No, it’s not my birthday and no it’s not my wedding anniversary or a ‘10 years and free of cigarettes’ day. Today is the day I started therapy, a day that, more importantly, marks the end of a twenty month wait for treatment. I have severe depression. I cannot say when it started to affect me, or why – as I have only had 1 therapy session, but in the last few years it had escalated to a point which was unbearable. The result of which was that in May 2014 I attempted to commit suicide and ended up in hospital. This is where a 20 month journey for long term treatment started.

The days and weeks that followed my suicide attempt, when reflecting seem a distant blur, like a half forgotten dream. I could tell you places I went to and people that I saw, but whether I was aware of much that was going on, I couldn’t say. I was fortunate enough to have incredible friends and family around me that were there to help ‘nurse’ me through the immediate fallout. Could I relate to them at that point, or to anyone? No. I felt emotionally disconnected from everything I saw or came into contact with.

In the time from then till now I have (approximately) seen 15 doctors/ psychiatric nurses, been on at least 4 different waiting lists and had to visit 5 centres for help. It has been the most exhausting wait I can remember. Some nurses and doctors are better than others, some I found easier to talk to, some I found rude. 99% of the time this just depends on who has an availability for you to be seen.

At the best of times, waiting to start therapy has felt not so much as living, as surviving. Doing what I had to do so I made it to the next day. In the days/ weeks after my suicide attempt I was given a piece of advice that I still use to this day. Don’t think too far ahead. Break the day down. If you are struggling, get yourself through the next hour, then the next one. Then get yourself through the next two hours and build it up. I have had and indeed still have days where I have to do this so I don’t lose the small ground that I have to keep my feet on.

I was due to get married a few months after that May and my fiancée asked if I wanted to postpone the wedding. I am not sure why I said no let's go ahead, but I am sure that it had something to do with admitting to myself that I had a serious illness. I was on anti-depressants on my big day and still had to look after myself, just as a cancer patient would. It still was the happiest day of my life and shows that the human mind is a remarkable thing. I hate dodgy clichés, but time truly is a great healer. I doubted things would ever get better but they did and I have hope that they will continue to get better.  

There have been many frustrating factors about having to wait so long for help, and many helpful aspects. It is draining and tedious going through endless lists and having to do so many ‘initial appointments’. It is daunting every time you go to a new building, dragging with you the hopes and fears that maybe this time I can start to get better. The time I have had to wait however, has helped me to see that life is ultimately a rare and precious gift, one that is worth fighting for. What has got me through those fights, when I simply didn’t have the strength to leave bed, was being honest enough to allow someone to help me fight. Depression is a serious illness that if left untreated can and will affect all parts of your life. Respect the disease and allow others into your journey.

I know that this is one of many stories of people out there going through the same battle that I am, only together can we help end stigma and raise support for ourselves and each other. I have depression #itaffectsme.