CBT

posted on November 12, 2017 by elizabeth

Sertraline and Shame

Funny story – well, it’s funny now and my sister doesn’t come across too well but fuck it (sorry, Rachael).

On St Patrick’s Day, this year I was in the local shopping centre to watch my niece do some Irish dancing. It was packed, as it always is on that day and I was boiling. It was a long wait and after the first watch of the performance I told my sister I wasn’t feeling well and had to leave. She was not pleased. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I had to wait until the next performance to take a video of my niece dancing – because apparently Rachael had lost the use of her hands. I mean, she hadn’t but I blame her for my humiliation so let’s pretend she’s as mean as I’m letting on here.

After that I can remember thinking: “Oh, God I’m going to vomit in the middle of the shopping centre and this is going to be the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Oh, how wrong I was.

As I struggled to find my sister’s handbag to vomit in, as retribution for making me stay in this hell hole, I started to get dizzy and that’s the last thing I remember. I woke up to the sound of a very loud Belfast accent asking me about drugs.

I was completely and utterly confused as to where I was and why the hell there was a man asking me for drugs. He wasn’t of course, it was a paramedic asking was I on any (I wasn’t, mum). I hadn’t vomited; I had fainted in the middle of the damn shopping centre and now was being wheeled out of the place on one of the busiest days of the year in Newry. This was a whole new level of embarrassment and I wholeheartedly blame my sister for this and will do until my dying day.

Turns out, I’m anaemic. No big deal, I have to take an iron tablet every day or I’ll end up on my ass again. It’s necessary and not something I’m remotely ashamed about, although I could stand to eat more spinach now and again. So, why is it that, up until about a week ago, I was still very ashamed to admit that I was taking daily antidepressants?

I mean it’s very simple: the chemicals in my brain are a bit skewed and this sorts it out. I’ve been very forthcoming with my battle against depression. When it comes to the worst times I’ve been through because of this disease, you can find it rather quickly on this website but as for the day-to-day reality of living with it I shy away from admitting things.

I was getting into bed and taking the iron tablet and the Sertraline (my not-so-secret-shame drug of choice) and something just clicked. What’s the big deal here? I have been on these tablets for 15 months; I quite literally need them to keep things on the level and I’ve worked damn hard to get to a place where I can accept these ‘failings’ in my brain.

Don’t get me wrong, they don’t solve everything – not by a long shot – and that’s where CBT comes in. I still have depressive episodes but the difference is I know there’s an end to it and I can bounce back a lot quicker than I would be able to do if I was going without them. I want to have complete transparency with my children when it comes to all things mental health related, especially because I am terrified of the hereditary nature of the disease. I can’t do much about that, but I can be a positive role model on how they can deal with it.

The conversation about anxiety and depression is much more open one these days but I was still ashamed to admit that I needed help of the pharmaceutical variety. I’m not anymore. I’ve just accepted that I need a little help, be it medication or practising the skills I learned through CBT.

I’ve no intention of going off them anytime soon in order to prove to myself that I can do without the cushioning they provide, why would I?

My point is: if you’re reading this and are worried about having to take the step and get help for dealing with this disease, don’t be. Fuck it, nobody is getting any medals for doing without.

I’m not ashamed of being on prescribed antidepressants in a fight against a disease that is literally trying to kill me, should I let it get on top of me again.

I’m not ashamed of who I am, not anymore – and neither should you be.

posted on August 14, 2015 by elizabeth

What Self Care means to me

Ive been thinking a lot about self care recently. With my final CBT session approaching – something that I’m particularly dreading – I’ve been trying to put the tools I’ve learned to good use.I’ve identified my triggers: sleep (or lack of) being the worst offender.

I’ve gone back to exercise.

I’m working on expressing exactly what I mean instead of passive aggressively beating around the bush.

I discovered meditation – full disclosure: I’ve done it once in session and thought it was fantastic but haven’t really done anything more about it.

Finally, I’m working on properly breathing and slowing down my train of thought in order to calm my mind before it spirals..

It’s all going ok, with minimal “episodes”; but there’s one thing I haven’t got the hang of: self care.

It sounds lovely, but with two young children it very much goes to the bottom of my priorities.

To be honest, it just seems self indulgent and unnecessary – and there lies the problem.

I’ve spent years telling myself that I don’t deserve that time to myself, or that dress I’ve been eyeing, or taking the morning to go to the hairdressers.

Before you start to think I should be canonised for being the selfless Saint that I am, it really comes down to a poor self image.

Conor is regularly telling me to do these things ‘just for me’ and I have good intentions to do it but they never materialise.

There’s always something that needs done around the house, or I have to go somewhere with the kids or I’d rather vegetate on the sofa after a poor sleep up with Oz.

When I do decide to take some ‘me’ time all I really opt for is a nap, and it’s wonderful. Yeah, I’d like to get dolled up and splurge on some beauty stuff but sleep is just so wonderful and really is the first line of defence when I feel a bad dip coming on.

There’s a quote from Macbeth that has always stuck with me and it sums up my preferred method of self care perfectly:

Other than stolen naps here and there, I am working harder on my self image.

For years I’ve put up with sub standard behaviour from people around me because I assumed it’s what I deserved.

When you spend a lot of time accepting a lack of decency from people just because you don’t want to make a fuss, or you laugh it off, it can be soul destroying.

Thankfully CBT has taken off my blinkers and shown me that just because I’ve let people treat me that way in the past, doesn’t mean I have to continue to accept it.

Despite my well-documented temper, I’m actually rubbish at saying how I feel, and even though I can see things clearer I’m not about to put on a sandwich board with a bell telling those who have ‘wronged’ me exactly what I think of them.

I’m simply just not absorbing it anymore.

If I have a problem with the way I’m being treated I will voice it as clearly as I can and change things.

Because if I’ve learned anything since all this began it’s this: I’m worth it.

(Sorry L’oreal).

I’m worth someone taking the time to be part of my life, and if they don’t make that effort they simply won’t get to be part of it anymore.

It’s this type of self care that I think is really important.

Screw the hairdressers, I want to be able to look in the mirror and know that I haven’t been treated like a disposable commodity.

It’s happened for so long but that doesn’t mean that it can’t change.

To be honest this has turned into a bit of a rambling post and it was more about me voicing this change in the hope that when I’m at a weak point that I stick to my guns and realise that I’m worth the work I’ve put in, and to keep going.

Instagram is great for those inspirational quotes and when I was scrolling through them I found this one:

I’d like to think I believe this a lot more than I ever have, but as with everything: I’m a work in progress.

posted on March 1, 2015 by elizabeth

Time to Say ‘Goodbye’

It’s a Sunday morning and instead of indulging in my hangover anxiety I’ve decided to make a change.

Anxiety goes hand-in-hand with depression for me. At it’s worst it can stop me functioning or even from putting my head above the covers, and this week I could feel its grubby little hands tightening around my throat.

My palms were getting sweaty at the thought of having to leave the house, I was getting stressed out being left in charge of two small children and with Conor working late I was allowing myself to indulge in the isolation and letting it breed and grow.

The only thing that can anchor me back to reality when I can feel it rising is to curl myself up onto Conor’s lap. It’s like a safety net and gives me the opportunity to slow my breathing down.

Anyway, this isn’t meant to be a post about anxiety. This is about me deciding to fight it.

I’m ready to take it all on. It’s the first time since all this has started that I finally believe I can do it. I can take it all on and, most importantly, win.

I’m ready to really put my all into CBT and properly see doctors to tame this once and for all (I’m not stupid enough to think this can be eradicated, but I will conquer it).

I went out last night and had a fantastic time laughing and dancing and drinking with my family. The morning after nights out are normally spent nursing a hangover and is loaded with the usual personal character assassination of the most brutal kind: you’re a horrible wife, a useless mother, a rubbish friend etc etc – but not this morning.

This morning, I went into my kitchen I put on some loud music (Sia – how freaking amazing is she?) and I danced barefoot around the table. I danced like no one was watching, because know one was. It was just me, letting go and being happy in the moment.

It was fantastic and inspiring and it helped me take this step. The veil dropped and I’m ready to be the best version of myself that I can be.

I know I can be a better wife, a fun mum and a supportive friend. I’m going to be a better runner, writer and housewife. I’m going to dance barefoot in my kitchen with my children and enjoy their childhood. I’m going to leave the toys on the living room floor because they’re not meant to live in a box. I’m going to kiss my husband just because I can. I’m going to hold his hand when we are sitting on the sofa doing nothing but looking at tv and enjoy it because we’re lucky to have each other. I’m going to enjoy spending time with my family and friends because I love them. Each and every annoying, mentally imbalanced one of them.

So right here and now I’m making a promise: I’m going to beat this.

It’s not for my husband, my children or my friends it’s simply for me.

I may fall, I may falter but I will not fail because in the words of my very wise friend Lasairiona: “I’m a fucking gladiator.”

Bring it on.

posted on February 18, 2015 by elizabeth

Tackling Negative Thinking

Negative thinking is a nightmare.

It’s the route of where my depression comes from. In knowing this, you’d think I’d be able to identify the truth from fiction in the ‘bad’ thoughts that pop into my head. Unfortunately that’s not the case.

The good news is: now that I can properly understand that I’m not actually a raving loon, (it’s just my thinking needing a bit of an overhaul) I’m trying to do something about it.

Once I was finally fit enough after the events in ‘Coming Out of the Fog‘, I was referred to CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy). It’s with this, I’m hoping I can finally rewire my brain.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I went there. In my head it was going to be a run-of-the-mill counselling service. An hour of talking about my happy childhood and trying to figure out where I’d gone wrong. It wasn’t.

I was told we were’t going to be delving into my past (unless I wanted to – I didn’t), and we were going to look properly at how I handle information, stress in general or spirals into depression. Being pregnant when I started this, I was told it wouldn’t be helpful to go into deep analysis until after Bosco arrived. It’s because of this that after months of trying to figure out why I think the way I do, I’m still in limbo.

I still don’t have a notion why it’s easier for me to believe the negativity I’ve literally made up; why I’m constantly telling myself not to bother to try anything new because I would fail at it; why I place invisible barriers in front of me and those simply trying to help.

It’s frustrating for me, but it’s also frustrating for those around me.

I have been blessed with a lot of very understanding friends and family, and they regularly do their best to try and save me from my thoughts. The problem is: I can’t depend on this forever, I need to ‘fix’ this for myself or I’ll be stuck in an ongoing cycle of depression.

I need to be armed with tools so I can help myself. Although I’m reluctant to give myself any credit, I have to be pleased that I managed to get through a pregnancy unmedicated for depression and now, postpartum I’m still not taking any.

I should also be thankful that, despite my best efforts, I did not manage to completely destroy my relationship with my husband. I spent months successfully putting up a barrier between the two of us; isolating me away from his support and help because I didn’t believe that he loved the person I’d become. I didn’t believe a single compliment or reassuring word he had to say. How could I? I had spent that long believing that I didn’t deserve any type of love so I was punishing myself and blaming him for imagined distance.

It was a horrible time.

Then, one morning as I was driving to a hospital appointment, a song came on the radio: Billy Joel’s, Just The Way Your Are.

I’d always quite liked the song but hadn’t really bothered to listen to the words. I’ll not go into the cheesy brilliance of it, but it was basically every nice thing that Conor had been painstakingly trying to tell me FOR MONTHS. I don’t know why I hadn’t been able to hear and believe them from him but apparently as soon as Billy Joel popped up as a go-between it finally clicked.

Unsurprisingly I started to cry. It was an epiphany. Since then, when I’m starting to doubt our relationship or that I feel like I don’t deserve to hear that someone loves me, I listen to the song. It may sound silly, but it helps.

Another tool I’ve been armed with thanks to CBT is a simple question: ‘Where’s the evidence?’

It’s a powerful question that helps me cut through the make-believe I’ve created. For example: Why shouldn’t I try and do a website? Where’s the evidence that people will hate it, or me, for writing these little posts?

The next one is more of a mantra to remind myself that all is not what it seems in the darkest of times: ‘Just because you think it, doesn’t make it so.’

Even with music that breaks my train of thought, support from those around me and mantras, I still have a long way to go. Even when I think I’ve got it together I can have a bad night’s sleep and I’ll wake up feeling completely defeated, asking: ‘What’s the point?’

I’m trying. That’s all I can do, for now.

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