"I said to you on the night that we met, 'I am not well'" ~ Waxahatchee
-
I remember vividly the very first major anxiety attack that I had. It was around 6 years ago (when I was 31), on an October morning, around 5am. After waking up in a start and sitting bolt upright, I became aware that something was wrong very quickly. All at once it felt like my mind was screaming, horrible thoughts and images filled my head, and I was absolutely terrified. Not knowing what was happening, I jumped out of bed, the room was dark with a small amount of light as dawn was breaking. For around 30-40 minutes, there I stood, by the end of my bed, rocking a little back and forth and thinking that I was going out of my mind. After 40 minutes, things started calming down and normality began to creep back in. Then I made what can only be described as a monumentally stupid move, in which I dismissed it as a one off and continued on as normal.
Around 3 days later it happened again, this time late at night, still unaware of what was happening, the same feeling of terror as before, horrific thoughts that added another layer of fear to my mind, that I might hurt someone without actually realising it (I was living with my parents and horrible panic induced thoughts filled my head that I may be losing it and inadvertently hurt them), this bout lasted a few hours on this occasion. In the end I semi barricaded myself in my room so that I couldn't get out in the night and do some horrific deed that my mind was conjuring up. After calming down, feeling completely worn out I fell asleep around 2 in the morning but first thing in the morning I made an appointment with my GP.
Sitting in the doctor's waiting room the first ideas filled my mind that I had not been feeling right for a while, nothing I could really put my finger on but just odd I suppose. Looking back later the whole episode had been building up for many years but I'd just ignored it as something that would pass and got on with the stresses of life. After talking to the doctor for about a minute, and him commenting on me not looking well I burst into tears. He prescribed me some pills (I can't remember which ones) and sent me on my way, telling me to rest up and try not to worry as it was just my body’s way of telling me I'm overdoing it (said in a rather condescending way where he may as well have patted me on the head when he sent me on way with a "chin up old chap")
I started taking the medication that night, all the while keeping this from my parents. 2 days passed and then another big attack hit. That was the night my parents found out. It was late in the evening again, and the first they knew was when I walked into the lounge just before midnight and started begging my mother to take all the knives out of the kitchen drawer and hide them. Again I was convinced something bad was going to happen and that just made the anxiety worse. Not knowing what the hell was going on, she woke up my dad, who then spent around an hour trying to calm me down while I was sitting on the sofa rocking back and forth still pleading to get rid of the knives in the kitchen. In the end he did just that and after another hour of him talking to me and reassuring me that everything would be okay (and my mother not quite getting the hang of calming someone down by exclaiming that if I continued on I would end up in a mental hospital…Motivational coach clearly not her calling) I finally calmed down.
I couldn't face work the next day, called in sick and had some more minor attacks during the day followed by another evening bout exactly the same as the night before. Back to the GP the next day who signed me off work.
For the next 3 months I was off work, and could barely leave the house, it felt like I was in a constant state of fear. 2 weeks into being signed off I saw a psychiatrist. We went through a few things and he explained about anxiety attacks and decided that counselling was the best step forward at this stage. He also prescribed me Diazepam along with what I was already taking.
I had to wait around 4 weeks from that for my first appointment, where my daily schedule was pretty much the following :
1. Get up around 9am feeling like I had the worst hangover from hell and sluggish to the point I could just about slump into an armchair.
2. From 9am until around 6pm I would sit in that chair playing The Sims.
3. 7-10pm I would watch a film. Usually a romantic comedy, something like One Fine Day.
4. Around 9:30pm I would take the Diazepam, which by around 10:15pm would send me into a blurry haze and I would need to go to bed.
A brief explanation on points 2 and 3. They were safe activities, and the routine became familiar, ergo more safe. I would occasionally venture out with my parents to the supermarket, but if I'm honest, I was scared to death from the moment I left the house until the second I got back into the safety of home and my room. Also in this time my medication was changed as the first batch I'd been given really wasn't doing me any good at all.
Counselling started around 6 weeks in and was brilliant. I went once a week for 45 minutes, talked about how I was feeling, what was going on in my life etc. I got a proper explanation about anxiety, how it works and some breathing / coping exercises. As each week got on I started to feel a little better, I was taken off the Diazepam and switched over to my third different type of medication (this was due to truly horrible 48 hours and a trip to the docs where they decided the second lot of pills I'd been put on weren't for me). I even managed to go out for one evening with my friends for a few hours (which I felt was a massive step for me after the past few months), I thought that slowly I was getting somewhere, even the panic attacks had lessened a little (although they were starting to be replaced by prolonged bouts of depression).
Then on the 6th week of counselling, the counsellor advised me that it was the end and that I'd only had 6 lots of counselling arranged and I'd have to go back to my GP after that.
Feeling a little lost I went back to the doctors who then declared me fit to go back to work. I was a little better and the counselling coupled with the medication seeming to be helping so I then tried to get back to normal as much as I could.
As I have mentioned this was around 6 years ago. Since then I have managed to work and function in a semi-normal existence. I still suffer from bouts of prolonged anxiety (mainly late in the evening) that can last for a few hours at a time or longer. In the mix with this are periods of massive depression. An example of this was boxing day a few weeks ago, where I spent the day with thoughts about my own death and suicide. Now I must state here I have no intention of actually ever taking my own life, I never have and I'm certain I never will. But this is what goes on my mind when it's at its lowest.
In this time I have tried to go via the NHS for some help but admittedly I have given up. Examples include one trip to my doctors when I was a complete wreck, sobbing and didn't know what to do, and then being told to pull myself together and sent out. I changed my doctor the next day I was so disgusted. Another example around 3 years ago after a 6 month wait I finally got to see another psychiatrist. I had a 45 minute review where I was told I was bipolar and I would get an appointment. Another three months I had the first of I think 6 appointments over the course of the next 18 months. Each of these were around 25 minutes, the first two were with a great doctor who I felt comfortable with immediately. These first two sessions were spent with me telling them what had been happening and I thought things might actually start moving forward again. This was short lived as after the initial visits I then had 4 appointments with a different doctor each time who had to spend the first 15 minutes of the session reading my notes and then 10 minutes where I pretty much had to go through things again. My medication was also increased to a higher dosage in this time. I then stopped getting appointments and I didn't chase them.
Now I understand that the NHS is stretched and they do the best they can. But, during quite a large part of my twenties I suffered with kidney stones, which required a hell of a lot of treatment, surgery, laser treatment, frequent trips to A&E. I was very sick at several points. And the treatment I got then was superb, a completely different contrast to my experiences with the mental health treatment I had received.
And if I had to choose between the mental health problems I had and the physical health problems I've been through I would choose the physical any day of the week. I also am fully aware that there are people who have things a lot worse than me, and I know things could be a lot worse. But I still struggle, my moods can sometimes change from anxious to depressed and back again several times an hour, it wears you down, it makes you frustrated as hell. I never know how I'll be feeling from one day to the next sometimes. There are good periods, which are a nice relief, but the bad times always come back. And there is where music comes in (finally! I'm actually going to write about music!)...
Growing up I adored music. Between having a brother who is seven years older than me and my aunt and uncle, I grew up listening to artists such as Kate Bush, Gary Numan, Pink Floyd, Talking Heads, The Damned, Metallica, Anthrax and a shedload more. I remember being 14 and through a friends older sister and her boyfriend discovering Sonic Youth, Dinosaur Jr, Ride, Swervedriver, Spacemen 3 and the like. In 1991, when I was 15, the Seattle scene exploded, and I got caught up in Nirvana, Alice In Chains, Mudhoney etc after that there was britpop. My life was just filled with music. This continued until I was around 19 - 21 when I got diagnosed with the kidney troubles I mentioned earlier. From then on, with being ill a fair bit of the time I kind of just stopped paying that much attention to music. There were a few bands / artists I picked on (a 3-4 year obsession with Tori Amos being one), a few gigs attended but that was about it.
When I was 31, after the 3 month period I mentioned at the very start of this piece, I started to get back into music heavily. The love affair I'd had earlier on in life reignited. I was completely obsessed all over again, most of my free hours were spent either online trawling over new releases and discovering all this amazing music I'd missed out on or with headphones on, in my own little world. And this is what got, and still gets me through the rough times to this day.
However I am feeling, terrified to my core or in a deep depression, there is always a band, or an artist, who relieves some of that pressure. Sometimes I need to hear 45 minutes of drone-y feedback, sometimes I need to hear the voice of Nina Nastasia pouring her soul out, other times I need to scream along with Falco while listening to Mclusky Do Dallas.
About three and a half years ago, a work friend who would listen to me daily going on about music, what bands I'd been listening to, that kind of thing, asked if I ever considered doing something on the radio. He already did a show on a Brentwood based radio station called Phoenix FM. I went along to watch a couple of times, then did a trial hour for a couple of weeks. These two trial hours were absolutely terrifying (after the first I admit I nearly didn't go back), I met the station owner and was offered my own show. I called this 33RPM and have been doing it weekly ever since.
To say I love doing it is an understatement. For starters I have amazing freedom in that I can play what I want. Most of my week is spent listening to music, new and old, in preparation. But the playlist is usually quite indicative of what mood I am in that week and the kind of week I'm having emotionally. Also, I'm a firm believer that great music should invoke some kind of strong emotional response, good or bad. Something that springs to mind is I went through a period last year of falling in love with the Heavens To Betsy album Calculated. I played a particular song from the album called Stay Away, which has a chorus that's screamed rather than sung. A listener informed me they had to turn off while it was on as it made them feel so uncomfortable (they did tune back in after though, which was thoroughly nice of them). Of course I want people to enjoy what I play but at least it wasn't shrugged off with a mediocre that was average, that was alright; it provoked an emotional response, admittedly it was bad but still, it connected emotionally.
It's possible that the fact that my mental health goes through extremes, ups and downs that reflects in the kind of music I listen to and enjoy. I need that variation, I need that mix, whether it's in the form of a 25 minute Godspeed track, a minute of noisy punk, something ambient, something folk, whatever. There's always that track that will make dark days a little brighter, a lyric that you hear and you know, that the singer has been there, they've been in the darkest place and they've felt despair.
There is a part of me in every show I do, every track I pick means something to me. The feeling that I get when someone says "I love this track, going to check out more" or something similar is amazing. For me it's all about the music, I just want to share with people the music I love and support the artists I care about and music in general.
The station I'm on is a community station and we are all volunteers, and through this I have met some great people. The work everyone puts in amazes me time and again, it's not just about music but it just shows what can be achieved when you have passion and love what you do.
Live music also has a part to play in helping me in a positive way. If it's a small local gig or something bigger, once I'm in the venue I not only feel at home but I feel part of something. Everyone in the room is there because they want to be part of an amazing moment, and for those few hours I forget about everything that's going on and I just let go, completely in the moment.
I've been lucky enough for the past 3 years to go to Latitude festival with the station, interviewing bands etc. I love that community feeling you get being at a festival. And very much like at a one off gig, I can forget about my troubles and just enjoy myself.
So where am I now? Well, I still struggle at times, but I am better now at managing when I know that a mood swing is coming. I know the signs. I have had no official diagnosis on what exactly is going on. I've been told it's anxiety disorder, I've been told it's bipolar. I don't really know. I've been on medication now for 6 years, but I also don't know whether the medication actually helps or whether it's just with time I've got more used to what's going and can deal with it a little better. I do know one thing though, that music is a massive help and it's one thing I can always rely on that never ever lets me down. And I also have to give thanks to Steve and Paul at Phoenix, for believing in me and letting me loose on the airwaves.
Finally. A lot of what is written above is known by very few people, some of it by no-one. I have some amazing friends that I know are there for me, but to be honest, I never know what to say. I hate to burden myself onto other people when everyone has their own problems. Saying that I firmly believe in Time To Talk, and that the stigma about mental health has to stop. In my time I have been called mad, accused of faking and a fair few other things. Part of that possibly may be my own doing for not telling people how I'm feeling and just getting on with things. Maybe I am now ready to talk, after 6 years. And I hope that maybe someone reads this and decides that they too, know that is Time To Talk.
