The S-word

First of all let me apologise for taking so long to get another blog post up. Life has that funny way of getting in the way of the best laid of plans and somehow 2 years have gone by since I last posted. I will try to post more often now (if for no reason other than having a lot of things to say about mental health) but we'll see how that goes. One of these will be a bit of an update on many things in my life and my mental health, but for now these's something else I want to talk about:

Suicide.

It's a word that has a lot of power and stigma, but one we really must not be afraid to talk about. I've been wanting to write about this for some time, in light of the number of celebrities we've sadly lost to suicide in recent years. Since my last post we've lost Chris Cornell, Chester Bennington, Keith Flint and many others. They were all great musicians, and great people and their music has been a big part of my life. I've been particularly motivated to write this post today in particular as it marks 25 years since we lost Kurt Cobain to suicide. We are all too aware of how the media coverage goes for such tragic deaths and how we talk of the great tragedy and how things need to change for the better. Sadly other things (B-word for example) quickly dominate the news and it feels these days the mental health is taking more of a backseat in the collective consciousness than it did 3 years ago. This is a shame because progress has been so hard fought for and has been made in a huge way. We are still fighting to keep mental health on the national agenda, and it should be as it is a health crisis in the UK. In 2017, 5,821 people lost their life to suicide in the UK (per the ONS), that's 16 people a day, or one every 90 minutes. Progress is such that many, if not most, of you will have heard many of the statistics about suicide in the UK. The key points being 3/4 of suicides are by males (12 a day in 2017) and that suicide is the leading killer of young people, and especially young men. This has spawned a wealth of campaigning which I have been so happy to see about the epidemic of young male suicide (though suicide is most prevalent in those in their middle age). In particular the Campaign Against Living Miserably (CALM: thecalmzone.net) have done some amazing work and Mind, the Mental Health Charity, have worked closely with many sports teams and organisations to open the discussion of mental health. A lot of work by CALM,especially with musicians, has led to some very powerful art out there, one of my favourite songs of late being Dead Boys by Sam Fender which is about young male suicide and its effect on communities (who is awesome and you should definitely check out - here's the song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FcO8uV2n3Ys). This work has been fantastic and seeing people feeling more able to talk about their own mental health is something I'm so glad I have been able to see, so you might ask what's this post all about...

Suicide.

There I've said it again. It's the elephant in the room. The one bit of mental health it's still so hard to be frank about. The thing that has such huge effects on all those around it and yet people are so afraid to talk about it.The so-called 'silent killer'. There's still so much stigma about it, and in that stigma we give it power. I'll let you into a not-very-well-kept secret, talking about suicide won't be the straw that breaks the camel's back. Actually, if someone is genuinely having thoughts of suicide, asking about it is one of the best things you can do. I would be the first to admit it won't be an easy conversation, having sat on both sides of it, but it is a conversation that will save lives. You don't have to beat around the bush, if it's something you suspect someone might be experiencing just ask them: 'Are you having thoughts of suicide?', though do be understanding and really listen to what they say. Often the response will be emotional, often not, but most people will tell you speaking about these thoughts is a huge relief and helps immensely. I for one have never regretted asking the question and know personally how much opening up about my own suicidal thoughts made a huge difference to me. Just to share these thoughts helps to reduce their power. I should add, these are common thoughts. Statistics say as many as 1 in 4 of us have suicidal thoughts in our lifetimes. So why shouldn't we talk about them. It's the silence that kills. All too often we hear of how if only we'd known, so don't let it be too late before you do know. I've never had someone be offended when asked about suicidal thoughts when it's come from me truly caring about someone's well-being. Just don't be scared to ask about...

Suicide.

Again it's something we all too often hear we had no idea it was coming. We should have known, but how could we know. This is my final thought for tonight. I was recently at a training course for coaching and I was told the phrase: 'You never know what is going on in someone's life, never forget that'. It seems so apt in this situation. Especially in high-profile suicides, we hear all about how no one saw it coming, they were always so happy, they had so much success and love and why? Well that's the thing about the black dog, it doesn't care about anything on the outside, but it erodes you from the inside until you feel there is no way out. I myself have battled with my own black dog for years, and this month marks 5 years since my dog was labelled, medicated and forever became a part of who I am. In 2014, I very nearly lost my worst battle with the dog and many people didn't see it coming because I hid it so well. That's why silence kills. You can put on a brave face to the outside world using all the energy you have left, so that once the mask comes off there is nothing left. I myself am all too guilty of this. Thankfully it's never been as bad as it was in 2014, but I still to this day battle with my black dog, but I like to think I've got him more under control and better-trained. The last few years have been up and down and certainly haven't been easy, but because I have people who aren't scared for me to be frank with them I know this isn't just my own battle anymore. On the worst of days (thankfully now rare), those old voices that talk about suicide resurface, and I know that's not me and it's not ideation or planning, but I know those remnants of my dark days in 2014 will never truly leave me and I have mindfulness to thank for being able to put those voices in their box, to let them be heard, shared with others and their power to be taken away. I like to think that those thoughts serve to remind me why I should always hold out a hand to others in their own battles. I want others to know they aren't alone, and having these thoughts is OK, please don't be afraid to tell people. By having these thoughts in the open we can take away their power. We are far stronger together than we are alone. And that is why we need to talk about suicide. People need to know they can let their mask down and let others in. I've heard it said depression is the illness of the strong, those who can suffer so much and yet do all they can for others never giving a sign of their own battle. This probably resonates with many of you, and thinking to Keith Flint and Robin Williams I can see what this means. These were men who many accounts suggest had huge hearts and did do much for so many people (look up the story about Keith Flint and James Blunt to see what I mean) and yet eventually their own black dogs wore away at them until their battle was lost after fighting. That's the thing about suicide, it's not a cop-out or weakness, but from being so strong for so long that it wears you down. So please, let's remove the final taboo of mental health. Let's talk about suicide (in an empathetic way) and let's take the power of silence away. Silence kills and I for one would ask, I hope you would too!

P.s. Sorry if I haven't been great at keeping in touch, between work and varying mental health it's been a long couple of years. But there have been many positives too and you don't need to be overly worried about me, I have a great support network and by now you should know how I'm not afraid to wear my heart on my sleeve. It's my hope with frank posts like this that more people can feel free to be honest about their mental health and we can end that silence that is so deadly.

Mind Hike

Hi again all, whilst I prepare my actual first post in a long time I thought I'd share with you the guest blog post I wrote for Mind last summer when I took part in the Mind Hike. This was a 40 mile hike along Offa's Dyke Path that took about 26 hours in the end for our group. It was a gruelling but great experience and below is what I thought of it last August (about a month after the fact). Thank you so much to everyone who supported my fundraising efforts, it was all for a great cause. One that I'm supporting again this year by another crack at all 100 miles of RideLondon. I'll put out a post about that soon (I promise) but before then, some thoughts on walking through the night:

A month after the event, and the memories of Mind Hike 2016 are still with me and brining a smile to my face. During the course of the Hike I met some absolutely fantastic people and despite heading in to the hike with some hesitancy, I can honestly say I had a great time. Most importantly of all though, we all did a great job of raising money and awareness for such a key cause. I signed up to the Mind Hike 2016 in the December of 2015, after coming across the advert via the Mind Facebook page. I had previously completed RideLondon for Mind and was looking for something a bit different. It was with rose-tinted memories of Duke of Edinburgh expeditions and the fun of trekking that I decided a 24-hour trek sounded like just the ticket and so had no hesitation in signing up.

The hike came with the added bonus that is was an event exclusively for and organised by Mind. I have long supported Mind and try to get as involved as I can. For me this is a very personal cause as I myself am in a long battle with depression and its ally, anxiety. In the course of my first degree these two took me to some very dark places and the work and support of Mind and other similar organisations meant that no matter how bad it got, I was never alone in the darkness. This is why I think the work of Mind is so, so key to progress in mental health. Until we can say that truly no one has to face a mental health issue alone we need organisations like Mind in our corner reminding us that no matter how bad it gets, it can always get better.

So I committed to the Hike in December and very quickly received all sorts of fundraising tips and materials from the fantastic team at Mind. I’m sure if you ask anyone from our Hike they can all tell you about how amazing Emily and Alexa (our Mind Hike 2016 event team) were, with so many supportive emails and updates (and even care packages!) coming our way in the months before the hike. There was always a friendly face at the other end of any emails or calls in the build up to the event and I really can’t speak highly enough of those two.

As the hike came grew near we were given two teams, to walk from opposite ends of an 80-mile stretch of Offa’s Dike on the English-Welsh border to meet in the middle after 24-hours of walking, team lion and team dragon. I was part of team dragon who were to walk from the North downwards, taking in a slightly hillier route. We all began to introduce ourselves via a Facebook group set up by Emily and Alexa and already there was so much support and community between us all. Helpful tips were shared, and supportive messages were sent to trekkers when they found things a bit tougher going.

Before I knew it, the weekend of the hike was upon me. Suddenly the reality of it was upon me. I was going to have to walk 40-miles in 24-hours with a group of 20 people I had never met (there had been a training day organised by Emily and Alexa, but I unfortunately hadn’t been able to attend). On the train journey there I was admittedly nervous, but part way on the journey I met Emily and Alexa and Maria (another Mind team member) and they were so lovely and welcoming and we got chatting and before I knew it the journey was over; nerves were a distant memory.

We met on the Friday at the hotel we’d have for two nights (with only one of them being spent actually in the bed) and got a chance to meet all of our teams. I have to say my nerves were completely unjustified. Everyone was so lovely and even the hotel staff were getting into the atmosphere of camaraderie. Some of us even grabbed a beer or two as we watched the Wales-Belgium quarter final of the Euros. There was an air of excitement and we couldn’t wait to get started.

Unfortunately, that didn’t quite translate to as much enthusiasm with the 6am alarm clocks the next morning. Breakfast was lovely and once we got coffee and food into our systems people started to perk up. The two teams assembled for a quick photo before parting ways and heading to our starts points for our 8am set-offs. The journey over was a chance to do some more meeting of team members and the mood just got better and better.

As for the hike itself, it wasn’t exactly what I expected it to be. It’s fair to say that with a 24-hour hike there are many parts that are exactly as you might expect. There’s the highs of the amazing views and summits conquered, and the lows of being caught in a torrential downpour and the realisation at about midnight that this is far from over. But the thing that really comes out of it all is the feeling of being a team. Through all of the swings of the hike, there was a real feeling of being in it together and there would always be someone that would help out when emotions were running high. I can honestly say that I met some lovely people and that’s what will stick with me for many years to come. It sounds like a cliché, but the conversations you have at 3 am on a Welsh hillside really do bring people together. I think our team left knowing more about each other than many of our friends. 

Unfortunately owing to an early sudden downpour, our team ended up having to split into two smaller groups for safety. However, through some cunning route alteration by the mountain leaders we were able to merge up again on the walk into the finish and so we reached the line in the same manner as we completed the hike, as one.

For me, the hike was a brilliant experience, my personal highlight being the amazing views we got when crossing a welsh valley by walking across an aqueduct! To anyone thinking about signing up for Mind Hike 2017 I would say absolutely go for it. It’s an amazing experience and you will get to meet some amazing people whilst making a real difference to crucial cause. I wouldn’t worry too much about it sounding daunting. The Mind team are so supportive, and unlike a marathon this event is more about determination and teamwork then it is about competition and being fit. A bit of practice for longer walks should be enough and the way we approached the walk was about making sure as many people as possible could enjoy the walk as much as possible. This was really helped by the girls at Mind (who even did part of the hike with us, or in Emily’s case the whole thing) who did everything they could to support us, and the mountain leaders who were an endless source of stories, smile and most importantly food (they even had a doctor on hand to deal with any blister emergencies). All in all, it was a fantastic experience and a great way to raise money for such a crucial cause.

Aaaaannnnddd guess which muppet forgot to save any photos from the event. Instead have my selfie from before

I'll catch you up on my life from February 2016 until now in the next week or so. But until then if you want to support my latest fundraising for Mind you can do so through the same link as always:

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/jonathanwilliams28

Thank you so much for any help you can give to this fantastic charity!

Jon

My time to really talk

Below is a blog post that I started yesterday. It's a post that I have been meaning to write for a long time and have decided to finally post. I must warn you that it gets very personal and as such comes with a trigger warning for:

Trigger Warnings: alcohol abuse, self-harm, suicidal thoughts, suicide plans, binge eating

Yeah, it's not an easy read I'm afraid. But if you stick with it you will understand ore than ever why I do so much to support Mind, and why it is time that we need change. We need to talk and break the stigma. Anyway here's the post...

Sorry that it’s been a few weeks since my last post. As always, Cambridge has been very intense of late, but this time life has decided to join in with that. For those of you who haven’t heard, I lost my grandmother last week, and hence the last fortnight hasn’t been easy (as if dealing with an episode of depression was ever easy). That said, I’m writing to you now on a train on my way back to the Cambridge bubble after a beautiful funeral. The never-ending grind that is Cambridge again drives on relentlessly. Anyway, tomorrow is time to talk day. This is a campaign run by time for change, where we get people to talk openly about mental health in order to help break the stigma. Last year I wrote a very personal post on this day. What I am about to write below is going to be a lot more personal and hence I must warn you now that it will contain references to alcohol abuse, self-harm and suicidal ideation. Basically I’m about to lay down the truth of my depression in a way that maybe 2 people truly know.

Before I start this I want to explain why I’m doing this. This is a post I’ve been meaning to write for over 1 ½ years but I’ve never had the staying power to finish. But this is a story I need to tell if I really am truly going to help do my bit to change the perception of mental health. Especially, we need to break the stigma about suicide and feeling suicidal. This is still such a taboo topic, and yet in staying silent we are slowly seeing the number of people taking their lives increase. This is not something we can keep hiding away as ‘that thing we don’t talk about’. I’m also telling this story because at Student Minds Cambridge we are running a campaign ‘Not Just Five’ with the aim of changing how welfare is dealt with in Cambridge. There is a lot to be said about this on our facebook page and I won’t repeat it as this post will be long enough already. Suffice to say, in trying to add my story of the difficulty I had in Cambridge at my worst, I found it was far too long for anything but a blog post.

Before I start I must apologise for two things. Firstly, if you are a close friend of mine and this whole story is new to you, I’m sorry. I hid behind the realities of my darkness for a long time, and it’s only really now that I feel like I can talk about how bad it really got. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but maybe when you read below you’ll see why it was so hard for me to speak about this. Secondly, I’m sorry if this post isn’t the best written. This is a very personal story so it’s hard for me to structure it nicely and rationally as the wounds are still very real to me.

So as I return to the bubble I should say that Cambridge is a place that will also be bittersweet for me. Whilst it has given me some of the best times of my life, it has also given the darkest, most awful ones too. Whilst it is now clear that I have been living with some form of depression for most of my grown life the story of how I realised this and started to make a difference started in my third year at Cambridge. Up until this point I'd gotten by in Cambridge, mixing work and fun and having a pretty good time. During third year I'd decided to trial for the university lightweight rowing club. This was a long-time dream of mine. In November 2013 it all seemed to be going pretty well, and on the outside I looked like the guy who had it all. However not all was as it seemed. It was in the weeks before Christmas, when I was still in Cambridge for training, that the signs of something not being right first started to show. Things didn't feel the same as before, I didn't find the pleasure in things that I used to love doing. Everything was a chore. I knew something wasn't right, but I kept on going and thought maybe it would get better. In fact, just 3 days before Trial 8s (the big event of the term) I was so ready to quit that I’d written the email and was ready to send it to my coach. I decided to hold off on this until I’d done our test erg (rowing machine test) before hitting send. It took all of my force of will to drag myself to that erg and to stick it out. Turns out I set my personal best (ironically in some ways it remains my PB to this day) and so I deleted the email, saw out the week and then went home for the break hoping things would get better.

Christmas came and went and I don’t really remember much, but I seemed to get by. After the break things even seemed to get a bit better. When I came back to Cambridge I threw myself back into work and rowing. Things seemed to be much the same as before. I spent most of term being incredibly tired. The kind of tired that no amount of sleep can fix. The kind that I now know all too well. Whilst I was still achieving and keeping on top of work (just), I just found myself feeling at a bit of a loss. I didn’t connect with things in the same way as before. Life didn’t really feel like it was real. I kept on going, even as it got harder and harder to do so. All this time I still looked, from the outside, to be this guy who had it all going for him. I got really good at putting on a fake smile to hide the numbness that I felt within. Slowly this started to show in my performance, academically and in sport. I started to slowly fall behind in work, and I just didn’t have the same resilience in training. Eventually, at the start of March I was told I was probably going to be the 9^th guy and should prepare to be a spare for the crew. This wasn’t easy to hear, but after a few days I managed to bounce back up and kept on training with the other spares, preparing to race the Oxford spares. I still felt numb, and work was getting more and more of a problem, but I still had a purpose and a reason to grind on. It was only one month more. Or so I thought.

 On Tuesday 11^th March 2014, in week 8 of Cambridge Lent term, I was hit by a car on my way to lectures and my whole world was thrown into chaos. I remember being incredibly calm immediately after this happened. I reasoned to myself that it would be fine, I could rest up for a day and then get back into the rowing. I thought there was a lot of fuss being made about a simple topple off of my bike. I was adamant that I didn’t need to go to A&E, but someone still called me an ambulance. When the crew arrived they got me to try to lift my right arm, and boy did that hurt. So I reluctantly agreed to go with them to A&E. I was still incredibly calm, reasoning the pain was just some form of shock. I actually scared the ambulance team because I was so calm, that with the gas and air my heart rate was settled at a very low 36. I was just sure all was fine, they thought I may have bleeding on the brain. Turns out we were both wrong.

When in A&E I was rushed to the X-ray room to check my right shoulder. I still couldn’t lift it without breaking into tears, but I was still sure it was nothing. I was sent to a bed to wait and was told I’d hear soon about what would happen next. I just sat calmly planning how I could move my schedule to deal with this unexpected set back. It was only 30 minutes later when the doctor came back to me that I first realised how bad things were. He told me that I had suffered an acromial-clavicular dissociation. Basically, my collar bone wasn’t sitting properly with my shoulder blade. He showed me a mirror, and sure enough, my shoulder had dropped about an inch and my collar bone was poking out as a big lump on my shoulder. I was then told that it looked like it could be very severe given the distance that bones had moved so I would need to wait to see a specialist to see if I needed surgery then and there. It was about then that I finally realised everything wasn’t okay, and it was almost as if something broke inside of me. The doctor left and I was there waiting for about an hour.

The moment the doctor left, I broke out into a huge stream of tears. Everything that had kept me going for so long was gone and I didn’t know what was going to happen next. It felt as though the carpet had been pulled from beneath me. I just sat there crying and crying. Everything I had been clinging to in order to keep me going was all gone. I couldn’t deal with it. Eventually the tears stopped, the doctors returned. They decided that the bones weren’t so awfully mangled so I would be allowed to go home. I would need to come back in 2 weeks to decide if surgery was still needed or not. I was sent home and told to take all the paracetamol and ibuprofen I needed to control the pain. So I went home, and just cried. No one knew about this. I didn’t really understand why I was crying, but I couldn’t stop. When I finally stopped I realised that all of my plans for the coming months were all messed up. I couldn’t see how the future could happen. Nothing felt real to me anymore. I decided to stop this rumination and just live in the moment. To make the most of being able to eat and drink what I wanted again. This is what I would later learn is called maladaptive behaviour.

So here I was, suddenly with so much free time and free to eat anything I wanted. So I ate all the things. Like seriously, all the things. I didn’t stop eating. I would be full, and yet I would still eat. I would feel sick, but that extra mars bar couldn’t be left just as was. People noticed this, but it was shrugged off as me enjoying myself and having a bit of fun after all the dieting. I wish I’d realised then just how textbook a symptom of depression this is. It’s like binge comfort eating, and it’s a now all too familiar feature of my depression. This continued onwards towards the day of the lightweight boat race (March 30^th 2014). I managed to gain 14kg in 3 weeks (this is not something I recommend you try doing). Now race day was a tough day. I watched the guys absolutely smash Oxford, screaming and cheering, but also unable to stop the floods of tears that I didn’t understand.

Oh, I should mention that as this point I was now out of the sling that my messed up shoulder needed. I was still in a lot of pain, but I was told that by some miracle I hadn’t snapped the ligaments that hold my shoulder together. So I now have a messed up shoulder, where physio has helped to compensate. But I will forever have a weak shoulder that twinges and hurts in the cold and when I sleep on right hand side. Not great, but I got off lightly considering I was run over.

I don’t really remember much of the race day that year. All I really remember was just how drunk I got, having desperately felt the need to get a drink in me once the racing was over. This would start to become a habit; we shall label it maladaptive behaviour 2. This was probably the last time I was truly sociable and ‘me’ for quite a while following. I vaguely remember going to watch the heavyweight boat race the next weekend, but I can’t honestly say I remember much of it. This is another symptom of my personal black dog. I really, really struggle to hold anything in my memory when I am in episode. If it wasn’t for google calendar, I have no idea how I’d survive.

Anyway, this all happened in the Easter break. Apart from the rare outings to watch some racing, I spent most of this break curled up in bed, either asleep, or virtually comatose, staring blankly at the wall. This is of course the all too familiar cultural trope of what depression is. Believe me, it is no fun. I was so bored and yet didn’t have the energy to reach out even to my phone. I just lay there waiting, hoping something would change. It was at about this time that it finally dawned on me that something was clearly not okay. I did a bit of googling and realised a lot of what was going on seemed like it ticked all of the boxes for depression. Yet somehow, me being as blind as I was, I convinced myself that I couldn’t be depressed. Why would I be? I hadn’t lost a family member, nor had a life-changing event (did I forget getting run over) so why should I be so sad? This is exactly what goes through the mind of all too many people with depression, believing that they are just faking it, that somehow other people have ‘real’ depression and that I must just be pathetic. This is of course wrong, but it’s hard to see things objectively when you’re in that dark abyss. Somehow in all of this, no-one really noticed how bad things were. Maybe it was mentioned that I was obviously tired, maybe a bit ill, but never anything like depression.

At this point I should add that depression is not ‘feeling sad’. It is perfectly normal to feel sad, we all do at times. Depression is much, much more than feeling sad. I can’t speak for everyone, but my depression is much more like numbness. It’s like knowing something should make you feel a certain emotion, but instead you just feel nothing. There are days when I would give anything to be sad and be able to cry. At my worst, I just can’t connect to, nor feel anything about anything. I’m just a husk of a person floating around, exhausted, emotionless. And what no one tells you is that the worst bit is the boredom. The lack of any emotion leaves you in this emotionless, numb limbo. On my worst days I desperately want to want to do something, but instead I just get frozen wherever I am, unable to find any ability to do anything. This normally means lying fetal on the floor. I can do this for hours. Just lying, looking at a wall. There is nothing fun, no glamour; just emptiness. This is how I was by the time I returned to college to start exam term.

When I came back to Cambridge at the end of Easter (late April), I was worse yet. I remember this being the first time I wasn’t excited to return to college. I think mum knew something was wrong when she dropped me off, but I suspect she was hoping the change in scenery would make things better. Anyway, I moved back in, and proceeded to spend the next day lying in bed staring at my ceiling. I knew exams were that term, and that I should be thinking about my preparation, but there were so far removed from my reality and thoughts that the whole idea of my degree didn’t seem real. The only thing that was real was my emptiness, and that was the only thing I could think about or see in my future. At this point I didn’t see a future, so how I was supposed to get up and start working was a mystery to me.

The next day I saw my then partner for the first time in a few weeks. I had been rubbish and completely dropped off of the grid over the break. In all honesty, sending a message was beyond me at that point so I just stopped trying. This was obviously not a good thing to do, but at this point I had lost any connection to the emotions that would make me get up and do something about this. She told me that we needed to break things off (and I didn’t nor don’t blame her, I was in no state to be in a relationship). In all of this I sat silently staring at the floor for 4 hours, finding words too much of an effort to say. After this was over I returned to mine and crawled back into bed. I’d maybe said 10 words in all of this. I just wanted to curl up and go to sleep, never having to wake up.

It was later that day that my now ex, and my roommate, decided that they couldn’t stand by. They made me call my mum to explain that something was not right. Under this pressure I did as they asked (thank god they made me do this, I’m so grateful). I remember the phone call going something like this:

Are you okay?

No

Do you know what is wrong?

No

Do you know what you need to do to be better?

No

That’s about as much as I can remember, all I remember was breaking out into tears for the first time in a long time. This was oddly comforting, but also scary as I still couldn’t feel the emotion that was making me cry, just that I couldn’t stop. It’s at this point that I will now be more open about my depression than I ever have before. There was one more detail in this phonecall.

On the phone mum asked me something to the effect of ‘Do you want to be dead?’. After a brief moment of thought I realised that yes I did, so I told mum. This was the first time that everything made sense. All of the numbness, the inability to see a future. I didn’t see a future, because I no longer had one, I wanted to be dead. Everything was too much, and I deserved to die. I know this sounds completely irrational, but in my world that was the only thing I knew. I knew that the only way everything ended was with my death. This is the bit of depression we are still too scared to talk about. It’s the suicidal feelings, and suicide that is the ultimate taboo when it comes to seeking help. At this point I had no intention of ending my own life, but I didn’t see a world in which I wasn’t dead within a year. Unsurprisingly, mum realised that things needed to be done immediately. She promised to come to Cambridge the next morning and got in touch with my GP. This was on a bank holiday Monday, so of course the GP was busy the next day. Mum explained what was going on and how urgent the situation was and sure enough they could fit me in to see the nurse clinic the next day.

I still have very strong memories of that appointment. I remember sitting in front of the nurse, barely able to confirm the details she needed to confirm who I was. I sat, arranged like a limp rag doll in the chair. Mum sat opposite me and explained everything I had told her the evening before. The nurse quickly picked up on the obvious symptoms of depression and made it clear I would need to see a doctor. To determine how urgent it was, she asked me a very common set of screening questions. To all of these I very gently nodded, unable to take my eyes off the floor. Eventually she had 2 final questions. First of all: ‘Do you have thoughts of your death or ending your own life’. I nodded and the tears began again. I then remember her final question so vividly. She asked me what she could do to help. I spoke for the first time. ‘I don’t know anymore’. And with that the tears became a full on waterfall and I just completely broke down. It all hit me at once. I realised just how bad things were, and that I couldn’t see a way out. The nurse re-assured my mum that if I came back in 2 hours I would be seen by a doctor and that was that.

Two hours later, we returned, and sure enough a doctor was ready to see me. He told me he was aware of everything earlier. He told me all about how many people in Cambridge have issues with anxiety and forms of depression, or depression-like symptoms. He made me do the NHS screening test (9 questions every depression-sufferer probably knows by heart). He decided I had moderate depression and prescribed me a course of 10mg citalopram. He warned me about the nausea I might have to expect, and that it could make any thoughts of suicide worse, and said to get in touch if there were any issues. That was that, seemingly problem solved, he was all done, I was on my way to recovery. What he didn’t tell me was that the dose he had prescribed me was one you would normally give to someone to help with anxiety, and for depression you would normally expect a larger dose. Also it would later turn out he had decided I was probably just anxious about exams. I still find it amazing that I turned up to GP surgery saying I was thinking about ending my own life and somehow ended up with a diagnosis of mild depression/anxiety. Oh and I was given meds that are known to make suicidal thoughts worse, without a referral for follow-on care (apart from telling me to sign up at the University Counselling Service). There are many, many doctors out there who would have asked me to go on to a psych ward at a hospital, and then would have sectioned me if I had said no. But apparently I was just a bit worried about the exams that didn’t even feature in my reality anymore.

This is one of my biggest issues with mental health care in the UK. GPs are really the front line staff for dealing with mental health issues, yet my story and countless others, shows how bad this can be. This is one of the big areas where reform is needed if we really are to achieve ‘parity of esteem’. The other areas being community care and education. I promise I’ll stop ranting now and get back to the story.

So here I was, with new medication that I was told would help. Mum made sure I got something to eat and got me to email my tutor and my Director of Studies to explain what was going on. My DoS was fantastic and told me not to worry about work, to get well first and then deal with the consequences as and when I was ready to. He passed on a subtle message that I was ill to my supervisors and took care of everything else. My tutor asked to meet me in the coming days, so I agreed to this. Mum was then happy she had done all she could so she left me to it. She left hoping that now I had a diagnosis, I could start to move forward. Even I felt some slight glimmer of hope that this was the turning point; maybe it didn’t have to always be this way. The next day I took my first pill, with food as recommended.

I have to say, they did not kid about the nausea. The first few days were mainly about my crippling nausea. It was like being constantly punched in the stomach. I reasoned that this was a good sign though, because it meant that the pills were obviously having some kind of effect. During all of this I met with my tutor. He told me he could put in a warning for my exams to explain what was going on and that was the best way to go (as far as I am aware no such thing actually formally exists in Cambridge). I believed him so set about trying to focus on breaking out of the darkness and to move forward, agreeing to come back to see him in a week or two. It all sounded so simple, all I had to do was get better.

ALL I had to do was get better. As it turns out, this is not an easy thing. What instead happened was that I started to have incredibly erratic sleeping patterns. This is of course a side-effect of the medication. Up until this point I had been sleeping a lot, but at normal times. Now I still needed about 12 hours of sleep a day, but when I went to bed I could not go to sleep. The thoughts inside my head wouldn’t shut up. I would lie awake for hours and hours until exhaustion finally forced me to pass out. I know how this sounds, like the cliché of depression. I was this empty, numb shell who was tortured by my thoughts. How artistic and poetic.

NO

OH HELL NO

This is not what the media make it out to be. This is not something to be craved, something edgy and artistic. This is pure and utter hell. I am lying awake until 5 am every night. I have no ability to feel emotions. The only thing that is real in my life right now is the voice that won’t stop saying ‘I hate myself and I want to die’. It doesn’t shut up, it’s the entirety of my existence right now. I have to make it stop. I can’t cope. It has to shut up.

At this point I would say this is about to get very, very personal. I need to warn you that the below contains my suicidal thoughts and plans for my suicide as well as self harm. If this is something that will trigger you, please skip ahead or stop reading. It’s really not easy reading, so please do stop now if you don’t feel comfortable.

Eventually, about a week after starting my medication I find ways to at least quiet this endless self-hatred loop. I start to drink every evening. By the time I am alone with just my thoughts, I’m drunk enough to pass out and sleep through to the next day. This seems to work (cf maladaptive behaviour 2). The thing is, each day it takes more alcohol for this to work. And of course, alcohol is a depressive substance, so it only makes the feelings of hopelessness worse. This is when I first realise that I actively want my life to end. I no longer have a passive acceptance that if I died I’d be okay with that. Now I want this to end. It’s the only way I can see out at this point. The pills haven’t made anything better, everything is worse. I start to make plans. I work out a list of who I need to leave notes for and what I need to say to them. I think long and hard about how and where I can do it in order that it will work but that I minimise the effect on other people (because I don’t want my death to ruin someone else’s). Oddly enough this thought chain seems to calm the voices. I quickly come to learn that this is the most effective technique yet. I finally feel like I have some control again.

The only problem with this is that it’s not a permanent solution. A few days go by, the cycle of drinking gets worse and worse. I still can’t sleep, but at least I now have a way to control the thoughts in my head, even a little. But soon enough this isn’t enough. By this point I’m drinking a bottle of spirits a night. This is not healthy, but I can’t stop. One evening I realise that maybe pain is what I need to shut my thoughts up. Now they are telling me that I should go through with my plan, so planning my suicide is no longer effective. I’ll spare you the details, but suffice to say that self-harm is not glamorous, it’s not edgy, it’s something I did to myself to try to escape the scariest thoughts I’ve ever had in my life and I still wish to this day that I'd never let myself start.

The thing is, even this wasn’t enough in the end. I found, just like the alcohol, the self-harm only got worse and worse every night, but the voice telling me to go out and kill myself didn’t go away. This all came to a head a couple of nights later. This particular night I had already drunk a whole bottle of Jack Daniels, and I had already been at it with self-harms. But come 5:30 in the morning, the voice was louder than ever before. I desperately wanted to end my life. At the point I was the most determined I’d ever been. Forget my plan, I had to do this now. I had the means. I was so alone. I was ready. But something deep within made me pause just before the last step. To this day, I don’t know why, but apparently I picked up the phone to home. And Dad answered. And thank God. I don’t know what could have been, and the thought scares me, but it didn’t happen.

The next thing I remember was being woken up by mum the following morning. Somehow I’d ended up in my bed. I was in a state. There was evidence of my drinking around my room. I still hate that mum had to see this. But am I glad she came to get me. She took me home because it was clear I couldn’t be left on my own. I’m so glad that my parents understood that the worst thing at that time was to put me in a psych ward. Instead they kept me at home, stopped me from being able to drink or harm myself. They got back in touch with the doctor and got me onto a proper course of anti-depressants to see what that might be able to do.

Eventually, after about a week, my parents decided I was ready to go back to college. This seemed like the best way for me to start moving forwards. As I came back, exams were still not in my reality, but at least the voices telling me to end my life were gone. I emailed my tutor to explain all of this. He re-assured me that all was in hand and even offered me space to work in his office if that would help (I’m not sure he understood the reality in which I found myself). It’s at this point that a great story would close with how magically everything got better and I got my starred first and all was well in the world.

The reality of recovery is nothing like this. Not long after I got back I had my first appointment with the University Counselling Service. My counsellor was fantastic and was a huge part of my eventual recovery. However, it was through reporting my experiences to her that my path to recovery took a worrying detour. For the first week or so of being back in college I ended up drinking and self-harming again. This time it was less serious than before (as if it is ever not serious), but I think it was more of a gentle (albeit flawed) coping mechanism as my ability to feel emotions started to return. I was finally able to start to connect to my world again. This should have been the end of it. It wasn’t.

What happened next was that I went to the opposite extreme very quickly. Suddenly the world was so vibrant, and things so amazing. I could hardly deal with it all. I had rushing thoughts that I couldn’t keep up with. My brain started to fire on a thousand cylinders. I didn’t need sleep (averaging about 3 hours a night) nor did I need to eat. I was invincible and had to do all the things (well apart from the things I actually had to do, ie revise). This phase thankfully only lasted for a few days. This was a huge relief to just about everyone close to me (and especially my counsellor).

‘But why does that matter?’ you ask. Well, what I have just described is what is often referred to as a hypomanic episode (had it lasted longer and not been a reaction to medication). This would have led to me having an altered diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder. This was a particular worry given a family history means I am at an increased risk of having such a disorder. Lucky for me this particular episode could be chalked up to my medication finally kicking in. In the end I finally settled down and was able to focus on work about a week before my exams. I ended up being able to do a couple of hours of focused work a day and managed to sit my exams. I got a 2.2 somehow, and because of a whole bunch of reasons I ended up taking a year out of uni, but that’s for another post. The real message here is that it can be scary to have a mental breakdown like mine, but that it can and will get better. I’m hardly great at the moment, but that’s the nature of my condition (I now officially have major depressive disorder as I have recurrent episodes of depression).

I hope you found my story uplifting by the end. But I really just want to stress that recovery is not something that just happens overnight, nor is it a smooth ride. Recovery is also not something you can just make happen, no matter how much you want it to. Recovery will not be easy, but it will happen. We need to open up about when we aren’t okay, because only by having those discussions (or making those phonecalls) can we stop things before they get to a point where we can’t come back.

Only when we can be open and talk about things like suicidal thoughts can we truly start to heal things. Luckily my physical scars are, for the most part, healed, but I will carry the mental scars with me for life. It’s by breaking the silence that we can give people the room to get the help they need. SO please, I urge you, have these conversations. The silence has claimed far too many lives, don’t let it take any more. It’s time for change.

It’s time to talk

New year, New me? More like new meds

I've been meaning to write this post for a while, but I've always managed to find some reason why I don't have the time. So given today is apparently the "most depressing" day of the year it seems like the perfect time to post a bit of an update. Firstly, if you'll forgive me for the mini rant, but apparently even mental health can be used for advertising spin. Today is 'Blue Monday', which traces its roots back to 2005, and an advertising campaign for a travel company (check wikipedia if you don't believe me). How ludicrous an idea, nothing says positive change for mental health awareness like using it to boost your sales. Next thing you know they'll be trying to sell holidays for fireworks night because it's the most asthmatic day of the year. See why it's ridiculous... Anyway if you want to see a bit more about this (I promise the rant is almost over) then Mind have a fantastic section on the idea of blue any day

Anyway, it's a new year so I thought I'd write a little something about mental health at this time of year. It was a welcome sight to see just how many articles did the round over Christmas about the struggles of us unlucky sods who have to add mental illness to their list of gripes around Christmas. Nothing tires you out like having to pretend to be 'in the festive spirit' when you just don't feel like you can be. Add to that having to see family and the cost of Christmas, it's no surprise that so many people find it a hard time of year. Oh and if that wasn't enough, then of course practically all community provision for mental health disappears over the break. In all of this, it's places like Mind, Sane and the Samaritans that end up being such a vital point of support for so many people. I sometimes ponder just how much the people on the end of those helplines and posting on forums do at this time of year. Saints is the only word that comes to mind.

Anyway, enough ranting, I promise I've stopped this time, and a bit more about things in my world. As I said in my last post, things haven't been amazing for me of late. The storm in my mind has been rumbling along, slowly picking up speed. This probably wasn't helped by Christmas, and certainly wasn't helped by my coming back to Cambridge. The mix of expectation and lack of free time certainly doesn't help anything. But anyway, I'm holding on to optimism somewhere deep within me, and hopefully that will carry me through this term. This brings me nicely on to the title of my post. As many people do, I've made a resolution for the new year. Now I'm not deciding to stay off fast food (couldn't live without burritos) or anything exciting like that, but instead my resolution is simply:

Put Myself First

I know, how narcissistic of me... That is of course not what I mean. What I mean is to think about my mental health first, and not over-stretch myself; to listen to those storm clouds as they start to roll in and to get my raincoat ready (rather than drowning them out with 3 am Reddit sessions). It may not shock you, but it turns out getting a masters degree from Cambridge is not something you can't do with half-hearted effort. As such, this resolution is there to try to help me support myself on this journey. What's great about this resolution is that it requires so little effort and yet will probably have so many positive consequences. 

Now, after all that about how great my resolution is, I'm going to pick apart exactly what's so awful about resolutions. And what they can teach all of us about mental health. How's that for a well structured piece of prose (hey there's a reason I did sciences at uni...). As far as I can tell, resolutions are a deal we make with ourselves, that we wouldn't normally trust ourselves to make and can only do at a special point in time. Oh and we're always told to aim big. And is it just me, or did we all just spend most of our money a week ago, gorging ourselves and generally just over-indulging. Yes, I know, you say 'but of course, what a perfect time to make a resolution to be better'. But bear with me, I promise we're going somewhere with this.

So, we're here on New years eve, with a sum total of about 2 moths and a piece of lint in the bank account, and also we're probably feeling the sluggish-ness that follows the indulgences of Christmas. Oh and also Christmas is over, and we have to go back to work and it's cold and dark and bleurgh. (Can you tell I'm bitter about my January birthday). Basically, even the happiest, sparkiest of us have good reason to feel a bit of a grump and generally not happy as we enter the new year. But no, apparently that's not enough for us. We feel the need to make a contract with ourselves. And it's probably one with a ludicrously ambitious goal, and not to mention one that will cost us money (how are gyms so expensive?!). It's no wonder most of us give up on our resolutions so quickly.

So there we are, it's the third week of January, we've probably given up on our fundamentally flawed contract to ourselves and now we're probably a bit upset by our inability to see it through and almost certainly disappointed in ourselves. I'm sure you can see why I think the idea of new years resolutions is ridiculous and why I think we'd all be better off if we just agreed not to bother and instead treat ourselves for somehow surviving the Christmas period and making it to another year. But maybe there is something in here to be learned (because consistency in arguments is so boring). Think about that feeling when you've given up on a resolution. I'm sure many of you can resonate with what I am about to say. There's that nagging feeling of 'I should have done better', that voice that says 'come on how could you only go 2 weeks without chocolate', our old friend 'god, you're useless, you actually disgust me'. I think many of you will know what I'm talking about, that inner critic we all have who comes to visit us and give us a boot up the backside. Just think about a time when you've felt like this, try to remember how it felt...

Why you ask, why are you making me think about how rubbish that feels? You have a fair point. But exactly that feeling, the one you are remembering right now, what if that was the only feeling you could remember. Wouldn't that be awful, if all you ever though to yourself was how much of a failure you are, how you deserve to be miserable? Well, the thing is, a lot of us can only think that. So many people experience their depression, their anxiety in this way. It's not fun, it's not something we can just chuckle about the fact it's 'Blue Monday' and choose to move on from, to 'pull ourselves together' These critics are part of the us we carry along with us everywhere we go. Maybe now it makes a bit more sense why we find achieving anything more than binge-watching netflix a task akin to climbing Everest, or running a marathon...
backwards...
hopping on one hand.
 Now you can see why it easier for us to tell you we're fine, and put on our smile-mask. This is why I have an issue with the idea of Blue Monday. Not because I want to devalue everyone's unhappiness at this time of year (seriously can't we all just agree to have a national holiday month), but because so many people equate their temporary feelings of sadness with the daily living hell that those with mental ill-health carry with them, not just on one Monday a year, but 24/7 365. Rather than seeing this as a time to stand side-by-side with our depressed comrades, our battalions of anxious allies, it becomes a time to tell them they've got it no worse than everyone else. Which does no one any good.

So this leads me on to finally explain the title of this post. As I ended last term, and the black dog barked at my heels, I honestly thought I was just being pathetic. Like I was somehow a fraud, who'd blagged their way on to this course. That of course I deserved to be unhappy, because I was a fraud and their were real people with real problems. But come new years eve, I resolved to recognise my illness for what it is, AN ILLNESS. So I rang my doctor, and now, as of this last week, I'm on even more medication. But hopefully this time it will help me kick free of the black dog's bite and get back on track. At least that is the hope, who knows, maybe in 2016 I'll finally manage to achieve a new years resolution.

Exciting New Challenge

I've got some very exciting news to share with you all. Come July next year I will be taking part in Mind Hike, a 24 hour hike along the Offa's Dyke trail. This will see me walk 40 miles in one day, including crossing the English-Welsh border no less than 20 times! I'm sure it won't surprise you to hear that this is in aid of Mind, the mental health charity. I'm aiming to raise desperately needed funds to help them with their mission to make sure no one has to face mental illness alone.

But before I get on to more on that I should mention the fundraising I have done since my last post. Just over a week ago I ran 10k around London's Victoria Park. I did this dressed in a ridiculously over-sized felt santa suit which made for a very sweaty time. It made for a very unpleasant time, but did inspire you to support me with a total of £227 raised fro Sane, another mental health charity. Below you'll see the photo of me on the start line proving that I honestly have no shame (look on the far right)

Displaying my Sane T-shirt with pride

That was hopefully a good warm up for my main fundraising this coming year. I signed up for the Mind Hike a while ago and have very recently been told I've got a place which is a very exciting prospect. It'll see me hike through the night at the start of July, for a total of 40 miles walking.I've never been hiking at night, and 24 hours will be a long time to be on my feet. To put it in perspective, I'll be walking 1 1/2 marathons in one day, all of which will be on variable terrain. Basically, it's going to be tough. To see more about it click here.

But for me that's still not enough. I'm aiming to raise £2,000, and to mark my progress I'm promising to carry a weight on my trek for every £500 I raise. Each of these weights will represent a struggle that those suffering with depression carry with them everywhere, at all times. They will also be very personal and so expect to hear more about them in due course.

If you want to donate to my cause, you can do so here. Any amount will be incredibly gratefully received. It will all help to support Mind with their amazing work.

Whilst you digest the thought of what I have signed myself up for I'll take a quick break. But in the coming days I'll be back with a post about my latest 'fun' with my depression and all the studies and surveys that I've taken part in this term. 

Long time no see

First of all let me apologise for the fact that this post is about 9 months overdue. I got a bit caught up in many things and neglected to keep my blog up to date. But mostly let me say thank you to everyone who supported me on my endeavors this summer. With your support and donations I managed to raise a touch over £2,000 for Mind so THANK YOU, it'll make such a difference to so many people.

Anyway, I'll give a quick summary of the last 9 months. I completed a course in accounting and now have a certificate in it (woo), I also worked at an accounting firm and had a surprisingly good time (it's not as bad as everyone seems to think) though for now it's not for me. Hence it's handy that I finally got to go back to Cambridge and am now here doing a masters in Systems Biology (and before you ask I'm not sure anyone really knows what that means). But more importantly I cycled 99.5 miles around London and Surrey (unfortunately I had to walk some of Leith Hill owing to a a major accident on the day ahead of me). I also took part in the London Triathlon and generally worked hard to earn all the money I could for Mind. If you want to hear more about the details please do get in touch and I'll try to catch up with you when I have a bit more time.

On to the now (and hopefully this time I really will keep the blog up to date with at least monthly posts). I'm most of the way through my first term back at Cambridge, and as I feared might happen, I have slowly slid my way back 'into episode' as the doctors say. In normal English, my brain is being a pain and deciding to make a mountain out of everything I do day to day and so I'm officially depressed again. This time I've taken action sooner though so am still on top of things (I think). Hence I've now added mirtazapine to the list of chemicals I use to 'normalise' myself. So far the side effects aren't too bad, though spending most of my morning half asleep always helps with being productive. Still better the be half-productive than give up all together. If you are reading this and are worried, you don't need to be (too much), Cambridge is just a very intense place and my brain is trying to tell me what I already know, this environment isn't healthy, but it is manageable. Hopefully I'll write a post going into a bit more detail about what I mean when I say this in due course. Don't get me wrong though, I love Cambridge.

This brings me nicely onto the more positive side of things. Once again I'm doing something to help others who are struggling with their mental health. In a couple of weeks time I will be running 10km around London's Victoria Park dressed in a Santa suit and becoming very sweaty. All of this will be to raise money for the great charity Sane, so please do donate via my justgiving page if you can spare any money. What makes Sane so great is the amazing amount of support that they provide for those struggling with their mental health, or those who are caring for others. The sad fact is that Sane don't have the resources they need to help everyone they want to, so this is where we need to do what we can to help.

As it's currently a very busy part of term, I'll leave this post there for now, but I promise that I'll be back soon with more to talk about. In the meantime I'll hopefully give my blog a bit of a spring clean. Do keep your eyes peeled though, something very exciting is in the works and I will reveal all in a couple of weeks. In the meantime please do donate anything you can afford to Sane. Every pound can and will make a difference. Honestly it's the best gift you could give me this Christmas (well, I confess, probably the second best, a PhD place would be pretty nice too) If you can spare any money then you can donate via the link below.

Please sponsor me and make someone's Christmas better

It's Time to Talk (Possible Triggers)

Hi anyone who still checks in here. Sorry for the prolonged radio silence. I'll get to that in a bit. First of all I want to talk a little bit about a campaign that is running today. Many of you will have probably seen it through outlets like Facebook. I'm talking about the 'Time to Talk' Campaign. At the core of this campaign is the underlying need for society to talk more about mental health and to start to remove the stigma that surrounds it. 

Many people might prefer not to talk about mental health issues, believing that they'll never have to deal with them, but the fact is 1 in 4 of us will have a mental health issue at some point in our lives. And just because you don't have mental health worries yourself it does not mean that you won't have one affect your life. Mental illness doesn't just affect the person with the condition. Most sufferers will have loved-ones close to them who will form the basis of their support, and become the foundation around which many sufferers build their lives. Yet as it stands a large proportion of the population is still fairly unaware of the truth of mental illness, and many out-dated (and at times harmful) stereotypes are often bandied around in place of helpful awareness. Hopefully you are now seeing why it is 'Time To Talk'.

The 'Time to Talk' Campaign simply asks for people to take 5 minutes today to talk about mental health. This post is my contribution, but if anyone wants someone to talk to about mental health, as always, I'm more than happy to talk about my experience. The more we share experiences and knowledge, the better prepared we, as a society, will be to help people struggling with mental ill health. I don't think I can possibly overstate the power of talking in dealing with mental health. Often people suffering with mental health conditions feel isolated. Often they develop poor views of themselves and their self-esteem suffers. Unsurprisingly this leads to many sufferers becoming withdrawn and actively isolating themselves, feeling like they have nowhere to go or no-one to talk to. But many sufferers will tell you, a friendly face popping round, an old friend giving a call, or even just a 'how's things?' text can make a world of difference to someone in the midst of a battle with their brain chemistry.

So, on to my 5 minutes.

For those of you who know my story skip the next couple of paragraphs for my update, those of you know to this feel free to read on. This time last year I appeared (at least to outside observers) to be in a great place with the world being my oyster. I was at Cambridge studying maths, I was well on top of my work. I was rowing with the university lightweight rowing club and I had a reasonable chance to get one of the seats in the boat to race Oxford. I was fitter than I'd ever been. This all changed on the 11th March when I was hit off my bike by a car. I injured my shoulder. I couldn't row. Writing became hard. Yet still I seemed to have come out of it amazingly well and no one had any reason to believe there was an underlying problem.

Yet barely two months later you would have found me at home (when I should have been at College revising). I was brought home by  my parents when they realised how deep my depression had become and they were worried for my safety: what I might do to myself. This is what depression had done to me. To this day I'm still on medication to help keep it at bay, but that doesn't mean it hasn't shown up from time to time. Right now I'm on a year out as a result of under-performing in my exams last summer, but signs are good for me to return to study next year. In the mean time I've signed up to do Ride London and some other sporting events to raise money for Mind, the mental health charity. It probably doesn't surprise you that this is a cause close to my heart, but any help or support you can offer (there's a donation link on the right at the top) will be greatly appreciated.

MY UPDATE

So I've been away for a while, time for me to explain. I have been quite busy over the last few months and have been meaning to sit down at a PC when I got a chance to update this blog. So let me summarise what I have been up to.

Things I've done since my last blog post:

• Raced 10km cross-county
• Completed my first cycle sportive (all 120km of it, including my wrong turn...)
• Helped my college boat club by coaching on their training camp
• Started studying accountancy courses with the Open University
• Celebrated Christmas
• Turned 22

Things I haven't done since my last blog post:

• Much training (I could probably count the session with my fingers)
• Felt particularly great

So let me explain. I've struggled. My mental state hasn't been so great. Depression isn't an illness that can necessarily be solved with one course of medication or therapy. That's not to say that my state isn't better than it was last May. I'm in a much better place than I was then. But still, my condition has left me struggling for motivation and having to battle myself to get up and train. Now I might have taken part in more than my fair share of incredibly intensive training plans, but even then I had days where it felt like it took all my willpower to get into kit and go training. This is a feeling many of you can probably empathise with. My experience with depression is often like this, only rather than fighting myself to go training, my battleground is much more day-to-day. I find myself needing all my willpower to get out of bed, and the idea of showering seems more akin to trying to climb Everest than a standard minor feature of my day.

Now I think I should clarify, of late I (thankfully) haven't been quite as bad I have described above. I have however really really struggled to do much more than get by day to day. Typically I would find myself in front of the TV or buried in the A Song of Ice and Fire books (much better than the TV series IMHO) and I did a lot of comfort eating. A LOT. This is a surprisingly poorly known symptom of depression: overeating. This hasn't helped me in any way. Thinking back to this time last year I had pretty much the lowest body fat I could be healthy with, I was able to consider doing a 'casual' half-marathon with no planning should the feeling take me. Now I am 'Overweight' for the first time in my life, and running 8km (~1/3 of a half marathon) two days ago wiped me out. It's safe to say of late I've gone backwards a fair bit. But that is the way of depression.

What a lot of people will struggle to understand until they have suffered at the hands of depression is the internal battle that so many of us go through. I don't let myself get 'lazy' and out of shape willfully. Those who know me well will tell you I'm not often one to sit around much, and I am very proactive. What depression does is steal that away from me. My inner voice (me in my head) still tells me that I should be training, I shouldn't have that ice cream, I should go get an apple. The problem is that depression hi-jacks that side of me, it makes me question the point. It tells me not to bother because what difference will it make. This is the start of the slippery slope. As I start to slip into this period of inactivity I start to see my fitness and health get worse. My inner voice still tells me to get up and do something. But I don't because depression weighs down on me pinning me in to lethargy. So my inner voice (ie me) starts to shame me, telling me I'm lazy and pathetic and why am I not doing anything. My identity wrestles with my reality, I'm not lazy, that's not me, I'm just being pathetic. At least that's what my head says. Next thing I know I'm lost and confused. I keep hearing these negative thoughts, but I can't tell which ones are really me and which are the voice of my depression. This is what makes depression so crippling. It tears down my identity and leaves me with so many negative thoughts that I can't decipher from my reality. On my worst days in May I turned to alcohol and self-harm to quiet the maelstrom of negative thoughts in my head. These aren't the best ways of coping, but on the days where I really couldn't cope they kept me going. And at times that is what battling depression becomes, simply the battle to keep going. And boy is it tiring.

This is what depression does, it tears you apart from the inside, all the meanwhile leaving you looking normal from the outside. Keeping up this facade takes so much effort that you are left exhausted simply by existing. It breaks you down, and leaves you with nothing of 'you'. And it sure as hell is a lot harder to build an identity back up than it is to break one down. It's why it can become easier to slip back into depression than to climb back out. And so that is why I've been so quiet, because my depression has been snapping at my heels and I've been using my energy to break free.

On the positive side I've started to make a change. I'm slowly working my way back in to training. It's going to be a long slow slog uphill. But I've done it before and I'm determined to do it again. I've also started to diet, the 5:2 diet to be specific. I'll probably keep updates on here about how it goes. Hopefully with all my free time I'll be able to write some posts that are less narrative. I hope to write about my historic experience. I'd also like to write about some of the ways I visualise and deal with my depression. So you have been warned, watch this space.

I'd also like to take a moment to thank everyone that has supported me so far. Be it with donations or through getting in touch. It's really been quite humbling to have so many people reach out to offer their support and share their experiences. I wish I could have known all the friends and family that have been through similar experiences. One of the most powerful pieces of knowledge on my worst days was that I wasn't alone in my suffering. And no one should have to be, its going to take a huge cultural change, but it is past time we open up about mental health. I commend anyone who has the bravery to do so. Only by making it acceptable not to be okay can we help those who are struggling. It's Time to Talk.

Until next time (hopefully not too far away)

Jon