No journey, no matter how well planned is ever smooth. There’s always roadworks, bad weather and other unknowns to pop up and delay progress. Where I live in rural Lincolnshire, it’s usually tractors, potholes and cyclists that delay almost every journey! With health, it’s life that delays you.
In my journey to better mental health, I have hit a pothole and broken a metaphysical wheel. This pothole is so deep that I’m struggling to climb out. As I want my blog to be an honest account of my ups and downs as I try to improve, I will be honest with you today; well, as honest as I can be. This is not a blog where perfection is the only way.
So, Steve, what happened?
Those of us that suffer with anxiety and depression know that things can build up. Little problems on the journey of life that gather in a trailer which you tow behind yourself as you progress through day-to-day living. Eventually, the trailer gets heavier and the axle breaks, or you hit a steep hill – or both.
A couple of weeks ago my trailer broke an axle and I had a breakdown. So many car metaphors!
The pressure had been building for weeks, if not months. Problems with neighbours, work and my health filled my trailer like a digger filling a dumper truck. I wasn’t sleeping well and had stopped my mindfulness practice, as well as stuffing my mouth full of all the junk food I could find. Basically, doing everything I could to make myself worse and ignoring the warning signs. You know what they are. You get irritable, weepy, on edge and who knows what else?
Then, one Tuesday afternoon I walked into our kitchen and it stunk of weed (Cannabis). We live in a semi-detached house and our joined-on neighbours have a grown son that lives like a parasite in their outhouse, swearing and smoking weed all day. I’ve asked them many times to smoke outside to stop the smell coming through the walls. It makes my daughter ill as her bedroom constantly smells of the stuff. But being the low intellect scum he is, he didn’t stop.
Anyway, I walked into the kitchen that day and the anxiety that had been building up, exploded through my kidneys into a panic that wouldn’t go. Diazepam and increasing my Fluoxetine barely helped. The fear was constant. I became hyper-vigilant – every musty smell came with a stab of panic. I couldn’t sleep or eat and had to have time off work as I couldn’t concentrate.
I considered leaving my family just to get peace, but knew that wasn’t the answer as I couldn’t leave them with the scum next-door. To be clear, I wasn’t considering suicide, just running away
"I wasn’t considering suicide, just running away."
Just in case you’re thinking I overreacted to what is just a smell, we’ve had nearly a decade of their antisocial behaviour – from fighting to drugs. The weed was the final straw as it was affecting my daughter. We also don’t smoke, and the smell is overpowering to us.
I knew I had to do something, and murdering the useless waste of DNA was not an option. I had to do something, make some positive moves forward. I suppose, do what men all want to do, and that’s to be in control – or try to take control.
How am I getting out of this hole?
Just like Hannibal Smith in the A-Team, I made a plan. First, we’re going to save up and buy a house. It’s a long-term plan, but if puts a light at the end of the tunnel at least; distant hope is better than no hope. I also got the council involved and they are dealing with the neighbour – who has stopped smoking inside for a time as they’ve threatened him, or them, with court action.
Also, during those long nights awake, rocking with the pain of constant anxiety, I gave my perfectionism some thought and why, when things weren’t fine, weren’t ticking along nicely, I stopped looking after myself. I didn’t see it as food for my wellbeing, but a chore to do only when I was ‘well’, which never happens, really when you consider my thoughts on normal (Link). I realised I need to see my therapeutic work as nourishment for my soul, to help keep it better when life’s obstacles hit you.
Worse than the perfectionism though, is that I feel I’ve failed. That the Steve I talked about in earlier blogs was just a lie. It’s taken me a few weeks to get my addled brain to agree that I have not failed. I’m ill and had simply suffered a set-back. The fact I have moved forward enough to have a set-back is a success in itself.
How am I recovering?
First, I have had to give time for the anxiety to subside. I have stopped treating it as the enemy and accepted it as what it is, a feeling. That really does sound easier than it is, but it does happen. The flight of flight response does subside – eventually. It doesn’t go quietly though…
Then, once I was able to think straight, I started to plan as I’ve already discussed. This helps me two-fold. First, it occupies my mind a little and gives some hope for a better future. Second, it gives me a direction.
First on the list is mindfulness, again. Then, exercise and diet. Mindfulness is easy, diet is hard. I use it as a crutch to dull the pain of depression.
What else, well, I’ve signed up for an Astronomy and Planetary science degree with the Open University in the UK. I’m kind of frightened as it involves lots of maths, and I struggle with maths. I’ll talk more about why I’ve done this in another blog – it’s about chasing my fears and facing them down.
Most of all, I am trying to reframe my reaction to the scum son next door. A grown man that lives in his dad’s outhouse, barely works, has no life other than gaming and puts smoking weed above my child’s health is not worth ruining my life over.
If he does start puffing in the house again, it’s only a temporary problem as the authorities will deal with him – and one day we’ll move.
I’m back on my journey of recovery, one small step at a time.