Help

I have a friend who is very similar to me. I've known her for a long time, and she also struggles with depression. We take the same medication. The problem I have is that she experiences some symptoms of depression that I struggled with for some time (and to some extent, I still do). I think most depressed people would agree that one of the hardest things to achieve is social interaction. It's genuinely hard to answer that text or that Facebook message or get one's thoughts coherent enough to be able to make plans. It's not that you're ignoring those interactions; the depression won't let you do anything else. I found this for a long time.

My question, fellow depressed people, is this: what would you like a friend to do for you that would help with these symptoms? So far I've been inviting her out for lunches/dinners/drinks - I don't always get a reply but that's the depression, not her - and I sent her a personalised Christmas card with old photos of us and a lengthy quote from Great Expectations, a book that means a lot to us despite neither of us having read it because reasons I won't go into here. I hope she received it but I don't know.

I feel like as a friend I can always do more. I will not give up on trying to be consistent through this depression thing, I just need a bit of help figuring out what I can do for her that would actually be useful and not annoying or misguided or just plain unhelpful. If anyone has any suggestions I would greatly appreciate it if you would share them with me in the comments. Thanks in advance Internet people :)

Miggy Has Left The Building

I dont know why I'm writing this. I just had an experience that I feel the need to share so I'm sharing.

Mum and I took the cat to the vet this morning. Routine senior check up and booster jabs. She's fine ("very bright for 15"). That's not the point of the story; or maybe it is, I don't know. We sat with her in the waiting room as she meowed gently in her pet carrier - she's never liked it - and I thought back to the last time I'd been to that particular vet's surgery, and sat in that waiting room outside consultation room 1. We went in with a frail, senile, elderly tabby with gorgeous green eyes and a piercing meow. We came out with an empty box. Maybe this experience explains what happened next.

Sitting next to Lolly, listening to her sweet little meows, I experienced something I'd previously only ever heard about from other mental health patients. I came out of myself and left the room. Suddenly, on the uncomfortable wooden bench in the sterile waiting room under the harsh strip lights on the ceiling, I didn't recognise the place. I went with it for a while, and that's something I'll be keeping to myself; I can't really explain where I went because I don't actually know, but I do know it was my experience alone. The next thing I needed to do was come back to the room. Grounding techniques. Feet on the floor. Where am I? In the waiting room, outside the vet's consultation room, in the back of the pet shop, in the retail park, five minutes up the A47 from the house where I live. My mum and my cat are with me. It's 11:54am. It's December. I think I'm back now.

I went in with the cat to have her jabs, we got in the car and we came home. I had some soup for lunch and now I'm trying to interpret the experience I had earlier. If anyone's experienced anything like this and wouldn't mind sharing, I'd appreciate that. I could use a second opinion.

Pills

For a almost a year now, I've been taking medication to manage my mood disorder. I have gained a lot of weight since I've been on these pills. I'm getting frequent migraines for which most painkillers won't do anything, and I have to sleep them off. I'm also finding I'm so lethargic that I can barely concentrate on anything, especially when I'm depressive. I have to question whether the benefits of the pills are actually worth what I'm going through. Maybe I should be on different medication. Maybe I shouldn't be on it. Choosing an SSRI/anti-psychotic/mood stabiliser is not simple, because making the right decision (or not) affects my life in so many ways. I have to consider the potential side effects as well as the potential benefits in order to make an informed decision about the chemicals I want to put into my body, based on how they might affect my brain and therefore my daily level of ability to function (or "tolerability" as my therapist calls it). When you think about it, that's quite a substantial task considering the whole problem is that my mood disorder leaves me barely able to look after myself.

And don't get me started on the stigma. I call them my "crazy pills" to make it less heavy, if that's the right word. People hear mental illness and they get uncomfortable. Then they hear medication and they start behaving differently. The thing is, it doesn't have to be scary, we just need more education. I know a lot of people who take anti-depressants, beta blockers or similar medication. They all appear 'normal' (whatever that supposedly is) on the outside. Not dangerous or any of the other ludicrous stereotypes. I'm just taking medication to manage a problem like anyone would with any illness; I'm still me.

Self-Help And The Paw Prints To Recovery

My cat, Bubbles, has dementia. It is heartbreaking to watch. He was a frightened little tabby kitten when we first met; I was a 7-year-old child, overjoyed to have another cat for Lolly (my 1 year old black cat) and I to play with. Over the last 13 years we've developed the kind of bond only pets and their mummies (or owners as they're often wrongly called) can have. Until about 3 years ago, when I came back from holiday to find Bubbles was a bit different. He was becoming withdrawn and spending much more time away from home. We later discovered he'd befriended an elderly neighbour who had lost her husband, and his visits had been a great comfort to her. I'd never been more proud of him. 

Now he's losing his memory, we have to try a little harder to remind him that he is Bubbles and we are his family and this is his home, but it's ok. We're friendly with the neighbours and discuss Bubbles regularly so we know he's safe, healthy and being fed. Sometimes when he comes home, I watch him while he tries to settle down to sleep - he never quite manages to achieve that contented look of a peaceful, sleeping cat. I'm never quite sure how happy he is. He cries for us at bedtime - little feline moans of confusion and sadness - and I cry for him because it's all just so unfair. I know that because he's just like me. Bubbles can't tell anyone how he feels because he knows one word and that is "meow"; I can't do it because I'm not brave enough. He can't cry for his own suffering, someone ought to.

Now I've researched his condition, I know what kind of food may help him and what to do when he gets confused and scared. I'll get up in the night when he starts calling for us, to reassure him that his family haven't left him. I don't mind spending some time with him every time he comes home to let him gradually try to remember who I am, and then maybe he'll let me play with him. Then I realised something: if I am so willing to do everything I can to help my cat cope with the mental health problems he's facing, why do I assume other people won't be willing to do it for me? It is ok to admit when I'm struggling and ask for the help I need; I'm learning to do this more regularly and with confidence. I look after Bubbles, and in his own way he looks after me, and between us we cope one day at a time.

(this was taken shortly after the symptoms began. It was the first time he'd allowed me to approach him in weeks.)

Remembering

I think everyone has a trigger, some tiny little thing that can bring back a powerful memory and set everything off. It could be a song, or a film, or anything really. For me, on this occasion, it was a photo of a face. An Instagram photo of a completely unchanged face, which was so startlingly relaxed and healthy, that it seemed almost wrong that it could send me spiralling into deep depression. Unlike a memory - which is subject to interference and decay and all the mechanisms we use to give ourselves a fighting chance of survival - it was clear. Every colour and line was as it was. Then the panic set in: I don't do endings, or change, or goodbyes. I especially don't think too hard. I'd collapse under the weight of it all. Easier to just stop feeling, right? No it isn't. Not with a mood disorder - you don't get a choice.

At the time, long before my diagnosis, I could protect myself very effectively. I think it was shock, or maybe denial, that put me into a state of mind whereby I was outside of myself and therefore the situation - that's the only way I can think of to describe it. Like being asleep yet fully conscious at the same time. The interesting thing about this (at least I think it's interesting), is that sometimes it's nice to go back to that. To dig something out that triggers the memories and go back, crying and wailing in despair, to where I was. In retrospect it was clear I'd gone perfectly mad but it was a wholly different breed of madness to the one I'm battling now. It may have hurt more but it was a simpler time.

You can never win.

Depressive

Being depressive is like being separated from the world. Like everything in it is just a movie that I'm watching from the outside. Reaching into that movie and trying to interact with it can be very challenging; I seem to lose the power of speech. I can eat (just about), sleep and watch the world. That's more or less it. I'm often told that other people find it much harder to tell when I'm depressive than when I'm hypomanic or 'normal', and maybe that's partly my fault. It's the nature of depression - it hides itself away, it doesn't want to be seen. But it could be so easy to say one little sentence: "I'm having a bad day." If I could bring myself to say it. But I can't tell people how I feel, ever. It's just the way I am.

I think of all the symptoms I have to deal with, the hardest one to cope with is the loss of interest in daily activities and hobbies. I genuinely love the ukulele, and I find it painful when I have a day when I can barely pick it up, let alone play it to an acceptable standard. It doesn't help when people try to remind me how much I love it or how good I am; I still struggle to feel it. It's difficult to feel anything.

What people don't seem to understand is that when I'm like this I mostly just want to be left to wallow in it. I want to have a cup of tea and be quietly contemplative for a while. This is generally perceived as an unhealthy behaviour, but if withdrawing myself for a bit helps me to process my emotional instability and get through it, surely this makes it a healthy behaviour? It's my coping mechanism and I'm comfortable with it. The main problem is, when I'm hypomanic or 'normal', I'm generally fairly ok with people, but when I'm depressive it's difficult to maintain a conversation or say anything meaningful, which makes me appear antisocial and I hate it. I hope one day the meds will stop this happening, but for now I just have to wait for it to pass.

Cyclothymia, One Day At A Time

I recently asked my boyfriend "can you tell when I'm neither manic nor depressive?" He jokingly replied "yes, you're asleep." It was said affectionately with a smile and a kiss, and I liked it. Because this illness is me. It doesn't define me as such, but It's in every moment of my life, whether I'm up, down or neither. It's a weird thought, but a strangely agreeable one. I once read that Thich Nhat Hanh said we should go to our pain as a mother goes to her baby. I didn't understand at the time, but that was before my diagnosis. Learning to go to each mood or symptom as I experience it has changed everything. It involved learning not to berate myself for not being able to cope sometimes, managing my unstable behaviour as best I can and most importantly, listening to what my disorder is doing. Looking after myself. It may not be ideal but it's how it is. I can take my medication to try to manage the symptoms. I can sleep when I need to, eat healthily and try to face the world instead of hiding. Accepting me means accepting my disorder; for now, at least, that is how I live.