Harry Potter, caramel cardigans, tumeric, and stigma

My morning routine is pretty standard; I wake up to the sound of my alarm ‘flow’ and try to figure out why I’m still so tired, despite using my sleep aids. I listen out for the creaks and squeaks of the stairs and door hinges and wait for the shower to free up, I do my make up, sometimes attempting a cat eye, which often looks like I’ve framed my eyes using a Sharpie instead of with the intended subtle flick, and then I do my hair.

Until a few months ago I only wore my hair parted to the side, this was in part due to style trends but also due to two insecurities. The first being a squint in my left eye, which has since been surgically corrected, and the second, a scar in the middle of my forehead at the start of my hairline.

My forehead scar unlike Harry Potter’s doesn’t have a cool backstory about battling ‘he who shall not be named’ as a infant and bringing about a whole epic saga involving trolls and magical goblets; for starters my scar is sort of an oval shape, as opposed to a lightning bolt, and I didn’t get it from sacrificial motherly shield love, I got it running on wet cobblestones on the way to school.

Like many of my memories I remember moments of it in vivid detail but have trouble recalling other parts, often drifting between interpreted memories and real ones.

This is what I remember: I was on my way to primary school with my mum, it was Spring and raining heavily, I was running ahead of her (perhaps with excitement as school was a place I enjoyed in my early childhood), I came to the cobblestone path near the green space on our route and slipped forward, unable to break my fall I smashed headfirst onto the path.

My mum screamed to the heavens and held my caramel cardigan to head in an attempt to subdue the bleeding, I began to cry once I noticed I was bleeding and my mum attempted to comfort me. She took me to my school, where my headteacher, Ms Peacock, advised that the nearby doctors surgery may be able to help, unfortunately because this was not my registered surgery we were turned away. My mum took me home, and after explaining to my dad what had happened, he placed tumeric on my cut in order to heal it.

Growing up, in a British Indian household, it was commonplace to favour natural remedies to treat ailments; echinacea and homemade masala chai were often used to treat cold or flu, seeking help from an actual doctor was often a last resort, and was often discouraged if the treatment could be replaced by a herbal alternative in order to keep sanctity in the community.

For a wide variety of ailments natural remedies do have their benefits, to this day I still make masala chai every time I have a congested cold, but some ailments require a bit more than tea and spices to fix.

Speaking from personal experience, my elders held particularly damaging views of mental health. Often if someone was mentally unwell, the supernatural and superstition were often cited as the causation for it. Growing up I often heard stories about relatives in India who been possessed by a ‘djinn’ as cautionary tales, their mental instability tarring them with the derogatory term of ‘pagal’. A chemical imbalance in the brain or trauma was often complete devoid from any reason as to why the person was suffering, and instead they were often ostracised by the community because of it.

I was 13 when my mum first took me to the doctor for my mental health, she had found and read my diary which described my first documented thoughts of suicidal ideation and depression, at the time I was being bullied at school to the point where I was told by one person to “go die in a fire” after I revealed I had a crush on them, and added to that my home life was particularly turbulent due to my parents’ divorce. Sitting in the doctor’s office with my mum, I felt ashamed, embarrassed and betrayed, as my mum explained to the doctor that she didn’t know what to do and that most Indian families wouldn’t come to the doctor for help, but we weren’t like most Indian families and she didn’t know what to do. This was her last resort.

No constructive help came from that appointment, the doctor said due to my age it was most likely hormone related, and my mum declared that the end of it. I stopped keeping a diary, fearful it may be found, and I buried my emotions, bottling up my sadness until it erupted.

I was 15 when I made my first attempt on my life, I was in an abusive relationship at the time and I saw it as an escape. I made my second and third attempt when I was 20 and 21, again I saw these as a means of escape from the situation I was in at the time.

Following a doctor’s appointment after my second attempt, I found out this was in part due to my previously undiagnosed PTSD, depression and anxiety. My doctor commented that she was surprised no one had diagnosed me sooner, and also that many BAME people suffer from mental illness in the UK due to lack of sunlight. I was given a prescription of antidepressants. referred to a therapist, and put under the watchful eye of the mental health care team.

I was finally receiving the help I sought out almost a decade earlier. I often think back to sitting in that doctor’s office with my mum at 13. If there wasn’t such a damaging stigma of mental health in my community, would I have received the help I desperately needed sooner?

The stigma surrounding mental illness as something shameful or insignificant is incredibly damaging and is one that needs to go.


If you’re experiencing similar thoughts or feelings to those expressed in this post, it’s okay to reach out for help. You can find information about what mental health crisis services are available, how they can help and their times of operation here: https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/guides-to-support-and-services/crisis-services/useful-contacts/


Rumpelstiltskin

Last week I found myself at the edge point of a depressive episode.

I had received a message two weeks prior from my estranged father, who I hadn’t heard from in seven years. Instead of dealing with it rationally, I tried to drink it into submission, and bury it inside of me. This resulted in a bubbling of emotions, which eventually erupted in a cortisol fueled break in my stability. In summary: I cracked.

I rapidly spun into a depressive state, marred by the feelings of despair, loneliness, anxiety, and suicidal ideation. My previous post ‘Hold me like sand’ was written whilst in this state, it was a ‘cry for help’. I had fallen into a well of negative emotion, bought on by suppressing an unexpected occurrence, that had dragged up an armoury of feelings all targeted at my wellbeing.

I didn’t want this to occur but it was happening anyway. It was a cataclysm of external factors which didn’t fit neatly into my preexisting microclimates of things I knew how to cope with. I was out of my comfort zone.

I tried to ignore it but it was still there, and it was causing a rift of cognitive dissonance in my mind – I hadn’t spoken to my father in seven years, his neglect and failure to nurture me as a child caused me to show a great disdain towards him; when asked about him and I’d often respond with the rhetoric that ‘I don’t need him’ and ‘I’m better off without him in my life.’

However, this occurrence drudged up two questions from my childhood ‘why don’t they love me?’ and ‘why wasn’t I good enough?’

These questions are harboured in the foundations of who I am as a person, and are the likely causation of my attachment anxiety, which particularly manifest with romantic partners (something I hadn’t realised until a few days ago).

In the past I have reacted irrationally to the breakdown of a relationship, using targeted words and actions to cause the maximum amount of damage; because ‘I don’t need him’ and ‘I’m better off without him in my life.’ I feel rejected by that person so my brain uses its learned behaviour from my formative years in an attempt to protect itself.

I had thought if I continued to achieve in other areas of my life, than these questions would simply dissipate and cease to exist.

However, ignoring a problem doesn’t make it go away, identifying it as a problem and tackling it does – a bit like Rumpelstiltskin, if you can identify something you can solve it.


If you’re experiencing similar thoughts or feelings to those expressed in this post, it’s okay to reach out for help. You can find information about what mental health crisis services are available, how they can help and their times of operation here: https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/guides-to-support-and-services/crisis-services/useful-contacts/ 


 

Hold me like sand

Some days are not ideal in the timeline of our lives.

For the last couple of weeks I’ve been struggling to stay positive due to a mixture of internal and external factors. I have tried to combat these dark feelings through positive thought, medication, exercise, and seeking support from people who I thought could offer it.

Unfortunately, people can be unreliable and support is not always available. I have had one friend reach out to me and offer some support, and I am grateful for them. However, many others have ignored my pleas for help, or perhaps they have not seen them. I have felt like I’m drowning but no one else can see the water.

I have previously written about how we are not entitled to other people in life, and how each person in your life has made a conscious choice to be a part of it, but I will admit that feeling unwanted or shunned away is devastating.

My mind often drifts to lonely plains where the silence is so loud it’s deafening, and I struggle to sleep. I’m often jolted awake by unpleasant memories that have resurfaced. Sometimes the tiredness is so consuming that is reduces me to tears. I hope most nights that the salty droplets will ease my silence and bring slumber, but this rarely comes to fruition.

Some of you may see this as a complaining. You may argue that if I had an internal locus of control than I could control my emotions better, and I wouldn’t be feeling this way. To those of you who think this, I would like you to understand that complaining can often be a cry for help, please don’t dismiss it so callously.

Life is a mixture of external and internal things, parts can be controlled in a microclimate, but others are beyond your being. The external events that have befallen me are not ones I have sought out, but they have befallen me, and they have affected me.

I try to appreciate what I have. I am lucky to have a heartbeat and to have been given a chance at life, although not always ideal. I try to be sunny and happy in my demeanor, and mould my life with positive attributes and qualities, but some days in spite of this there are rain clouds in my sunshine.

I can be a roaring giant that brings warmth, but I can also be a faint flicker that is barely seen. My experiences have given me strength, but that strength has grown from the remnants of my battles, some of these battles are ongoing.

I implore you to be patient with one another and cherish those that come into your life, for they are on loan – hold them like they are sand even though they may slip through your fingertips.


If you’re experiencing similar thoughts or feelings to those expressed in this post, it’s okay to reach out for help. You can find information about what mental health crisis services are available, how they can help and their times of operation here: https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/guides-to-support-and-services/crisis-services/useful-contacts/


 

My motivation

I started my fitness journey in August 2017, after already ‘slimming down’ by 13.2 kg since December 2015.

My motivation was not the desire to lose weight, but instead a means of coping with my first experience of grief.

The summer 2017 will be always be a summer filled with tragedy, and a summer I will always remember. At the time I was working in news; where my job was to watch, listen and edit incoming and outgoing video/audio content – which was often unfiltered and graphic in nature.

I loved my job, but soon the constant barrage of material from each tragedy began to chip away at my mind, chunks of my sanity were breaking away and I was becoming increasingly more depressed.

Prior to the summer I has experienced multiple points of sadness and pain, spanning from 2016 to the early part of 2017, but they were staggered and sporadic, which made them manageable. I would hurt but I would heal.

However, that summer was not like that – there was no time to heal. Each tragedy hit me harder than the last, until the one which broke me. I can’t bring myself to type the name, but most of you will know it. Its memory is slow and vivid, and it resulted in the abrupt death of someone I cared for, and I knew.

It was a raw pain, that was unfamiliar. Manifesting in fits of hysteria, uncontrollable sobbing and screaming, along with suicidal thoughts. I needed help.

I didn’t know how to cope, and I didn’t know how to grieve.

I tried my best to bury it and to pretend I was okay but I was falling apart. I didn’t want to lean on anyone else, because I thought it would burden them.

Eventually the cracks in my mind started to show, and I was lucky enough that people started to notice as well. I’ve now realised that it’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay to need people, and I am thankful that I have an amazing support network of friends and family who helped me.

I was able to get help.

In July 2017, I was referred to an occupational doctor after what can best be describe as an emotional breakdown. That referral most likely saved my life, the doctor provided me with the means to grieve, along with suggested mechanisms to cope.

One of these mechanisms was to join a gym.


If you’re experiencing similar thoughts or feelings to those expressed in this post, it’s okay to reach out for help. You can find information about what mental health crisis services are available, how they can help and their times of operation here: https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/guides-to-support-and-services/crisis-services/useful-contacts/