Seeking Help

So here I am, sitting at Gloria Jeans again, having their delicious Seafood Aglio Olio Spaghetti and yes, to answer your question, I've sat up residence here. The view is great, the food is delicious, the toilet's clean and friends drop by often. Ahah. Ah, man I wish. I just love it here, having a drink or some food, content with my solitude. The occasional company of a good book or a good friend is nice too.

I wanted to talk about therapy and relay my experience of what its like talking to a professional about my demons and dysfunctions. I began therapy with much skepticism. I spent the beginning of my first session sitting in the chair listening to her talk with this wry smile on my face. At least until she switched to asking me questions.

Before I knew it, I was spilling it all. Cunning, how they get you to talk without you realising that your inhibitions or defensive mechanisms are no longer a steel wall constructed high around you. I left the session, drained. I went home, hugged my sister and cried until I was numb. And that's what you should expect at first. The initial sessions are brutal, but only if you allow your therapist to get the answers she/he desires.

I suppose it takes a while to get used to having your brain picked. Having to face your demons and learn how to deal with them knocks the wind right out of you. The beginning was impossible. Especially without the medication to sustain me. But I kept going.

The hardest part was learning to deal with CPTSD, which is usually accompanied by sleep paralysis. Back then I wasn't able to sleep like I do now. (I'll get into that later.) I rarely slept back then. So it was me and my thoughts all through the night, until dawn, when I finally dosed off, exhausted... and managed to get a few hours of restless sleep.

Therapy teaches you how to cope. It teaches you tricks that would  interrupt and deviate destructive thoughts and behaviour. It teaches you how to coexist with your demons. Because your demons will always be in you. So what we can do is learn how to deal with them.

Three months after I started therapy, I finally managed to get an appointment with a Psychiatrist. Anti depressants and anti anxiety pills and therapy combined helped CPTSD greatly. I am no longer consumed by those thoughts. They do haunt me. But they don't consume me anymore.

In my earlier post, I mentioned that my therapy sessions were suspended. Unfortunate turn of events where last October my therapist had to move abroad. It hasn't been easy and I have been erratic for a while. But the year of consistent therapy had taught me skills that come in handy now. And I've just started seeing a new therapist at the Mental Health Center at IGMH. Fingers crossed.

So, those of you who are skeptical about shrinks, I hope I've convinced you or at least motivated you to seek therapy. As far as I know, the therapists at Institute for Mental Wellbeing are quite good. Yes. The fee is a huge factor. Therapy isn't exactly affordable. So I'll let you know about IGMH later. I hope this helps.

Simple Pleasures

Sitting at my usual cafe, staring at the view outside; a crispy clear sky and a whimsical ocean. Little speedboats zoom past, turning ripples into froth, while larger ships loom dormant in the blue horizon.

Sun beams make the ocean shimmer and the light bounces off the windows, casting the shine onto my spectacles and I am momentarily distracted by the snorkelers that surface and dive right back again into the expanse of the reef and I wonder when I'll ever muster up the courage to tackle my biggest fear. Maybe someday.

I have music in my ears and a book in my hands but I take pleasure in simply sitting there, enjoying the scenery... like I enjoy my own company. There is an inexplicable contentment one can derive from enjoying one's own company. A sense of peace, of independence.

A hearty breakfast is set before me and I indulge, putting aside the book for the time being. Potatoes wedges, sausage, grilled mushrooms and a tomato topped with pesto sauce decorate the plate while three plump slices of bread sit lavishly at the centre. I savour every bite.

I pick up my book, sit back and start reading... and all is right with the world. For now.

Mad World

The heat makes it unbearable. My scalp leaks and trails down my neck, my back and between my breasts. I loathe this heat and this brightness.

I saw a post on Twitter that said that people who suffer from depression experience lower retinal activity, making the world appear more dull, more monochrome.

To me, the colours are too vivid. The world around me is bleeding and brimming over with bright hues...and my eyes cant take it. I need the comforting blanket of grey skies and the occasional chill to stay sane.

The sky is too blue. The sun, too bright.  And the noise is deafening. The world isn't dull. It is overwhelmingly vicious.

And my mind cannot take it.

Therapy

A few weeks ago, I was having dinner at Gloria Jeans Cafe. They have the most delicious Penne Arrabiata, it's insane. The sauce has just the right amount of flavour, tad spicy but tolerable, and there are these juicy cherry tomatoes on the side and greens sprinkled over the top and damn...

Anyway, as I was leaving, I overheard a conversation that made me want to turn around, step in and throw in my unsolicited two cents.

Three millennials sat conversing over some drinks and the subject of their discussion was dum dum dummmmm... Depression. I didn't catch most of it but the one part I did manage to grasp was one of them stating that if you have Depression, what you need is just one person who understands you and accepts you as you are, to be there for you. Which is true. As someone who has a wonderful support system, I can vouch for it.

But then, he announced, like it was set in stone, that relying on medication will only make one develop an addiction, worsening one's plight.

Ok. I know what you're thinking. At that point, I wasn't just "overhearing" the conversation. Clearly, I was eavesdropping. I wasn't proud of myself. But it's Depression. And I've been a Depressive for as long as I can remember and the bold statement he made, triggered a primitive defensive tendency inside me.

I don't claim to have all the answers. Far from it, actually. But here's my experience, and I hope it helps to change the perception of taking medication for Depression.

I was a wreck before I started meds. A complete wreck. I had a rabid creature with frantic wings flapping inside my chest ALL THE TIME. I had no control over my emotions. Panic attacks were my default response to anything that was remotely stressful. It got to the point where I found myself in an ICU clogged up to machines and two years later, on a ledge. Clearly, I survived both.

I started going to therapy. And soon after that, I started taking pills. I am fortunate to have people who care enough to urge me to get the required treatment, some even footing the bill for some of my sessions. They have my gratitude forever.

I have to take pills in the morning. I started nodding off at work. I could barely keep my eyes open. The pills made me so drowsy I found it terribly hard to concentrate on anything. By the fourth month, my body had learned to adapt to the condition it was in. I would steal in a few winks at work or I would go home during break just to take a nap.

I felt less hysterical. I could breathe again. My mind was clearer. I wasn't making irrational decisions the way I used to. Sometimes my thoughts did drag me down into my pit but the pills helped to calm me down and the therapy taught me to deal with things I wasn't able to, before. I was feeling better than I'd felt in a long long time.

I haven’t been feeling my best lately, owing to lack of therapy but that's a story for another day. But my point is, medication isn't a big bad monster. Depression is an illness. It needs to be treated. Just like any other illness needs to be treated. A support system or even one person who stands by you is great but part of the treatment might be taking medication. Granted, it comes with certain undesirable side effects but it helps you sleep and calms the chaos within you. Couple that with therapy and you can actually function quite well.

Shit happens in life. That is unavoidable. And yes, it does derail you. Despite the medication and despite the therapy. But getting treatment for Depression when I did is probably the reason why I am alive today. Just my two cents. I hope it helps. 

OCD

I think it started when I saw this documentary on TV. I remember that feeling of abject horror I was stricken with, my skin crawling from my jaw to my skull. The unseen world of bacteria, germs and microbes. In our carpets, in our sheets and in our food. Even on our eyelids.

The fact that these minute creatures live in my surroundings and even in my own body created an all consuming awareness within me that progressed to full blown Germaphobia, which became the dominant part of my existing Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. 

Initially, it wasn't so bad. I felt a reasonable amount of disgust at the thought of multi legged infection carrying abnormal little beings inhabiting my body and my surroundings. However, over the past decade, my disgust evolved into revulsion and the inability to tolerate the thought of making physical contact, not with just the objects around me. But also with people. 

I avoided shaking hands, I had a decontamination ritual of washing my hands compulsively after them making contact with any surface. When I was 28 I got my own room. Finally. I made it into a cozy space, with a seating area for people... but then, the idea of people occupying that area in their outside clothes made my skin crawl. 

I feel it at its full intensity when someone sits at the head of my bed and I urge everyone to sit at the foot of the bed every time anyone visits my room. The thought of a person carrying germs they contract out on the street and smearing it on my pillows where I lay my head, it drives me crazy.

Every time anyone stepped in my room and left, I needed to wipe any possible surface they may have touched with a wet tissue and mop the floor before I lay down to sleep. Every. Single. Night. I suppose my obsession with cleaning my immediate vicinity was the result of me knowing that my life was beyond my control. So I tackled the one thing i could control. Keeping my surroundings clean. It was a compulsion brought on by feelings of helplessness with regard to the events that unfolded in my life.

Once I started treatment for Depression and Anxiety, the compulsions lessened. I can tolerate contact now and I force myself to be ok with not cleaning my floors every night. I still can't take the of anyone occupying the head of my bed and i doubt i ever will.

I still carry wet tissues wherever I go. And wipe my phone with it a few times every day. Taking it slow and being easy on myself. So yeah, that compulsive need you have to do something, that becomes easier too, once you start treating it. At least it did in my case.

The undeniable need to count tiles, panels and shapes still exist within me but it has gradually become an impulse that soothes me. The need to keep things in their designated spots and being unable to tolerate a thing being out of place are compulsions that i have gotten used to. And the fear of not locking doors, turning off stoves and etc, its manageable.

My point being that you are not beyond help. You can try and live a somewhat "normal" life. You just need to get the proper treatment for the disorder. And what is normal really? We all have our own version of what is normal. And that is perfectly fine as long as is doesn't make your life harder.