Hellooo you. Today I wanted to share my mental health story, not only to act as a reference and sort of backbone for my other mental health posts, but also to hopefully help you guys in some way so you can realise you are not alone in whatever you are facing. 1 in 4 people will experience a mental health problem of some kind each year in England (source: mind.org.uk) and I’ve been that one in four for many years now.
Just before we start, I want to say a quick trigger warning that there will be talk of anxiety, depression, intrusive thoughts and suicidal thoughts, a very mild mention of self-harm, the mention of emetophobia and what caused it, cancer and losing my mum. If any of these trigger you, please consider not reading on and looking after your mental health ♥
So, get ready for a bit of a storytime. My mental health first became a bit of an issue for me after I was sick on a rollercoaster when I was around fifteen. I still have horrible flashbacks about it now and even though some might think this experience is a common thing (which it is), for me it was utterly humiliating and started my emetophobia. Emetophobia is the fear of being sick or being around it and for so long it overtook my everyday life and ultimately was the initial cause of my anxiety.
Another thing you should know is at the time of this incident, my mum had advanced cancer. She was diagnosed when I was around thirteen (in Year 8 at school), and at the time my Mum and Dad only told my sister and I that she had breast cancer in order to protect us as much as possible, as I was quite young and Steph was just going through her GCSE’s. What Steph and I were unaware of is that not only did mum have breast cancer, but it was Stage 2, and had also spread to her bones. As many of you will know, bone cancer is incurable, and stage 2 cancer is particularly bad news, as it is most likely that the patient won’t be healed, and their life will probably be shortened drastically. Once Steph had finished her GCSE’s and I was a little older, mum and dad sat us down again, telling us the full story this time. We were of course devastated, yet I could still see that mum was faithful, strong, and determined to fight as well as she could, which made me feel a little more hopeful. However, it was around this time that my anxiety really started.
During Mum’s treatment of chemo, Mum and Dad would usually go early to the hospital in the morning and then be back for when Steph and I got home from school. I remember on those days I just felt so sick and overwhelmingly worried that something would go wrong, which I now know was anxiety. As the years went on, Mum’s condition didn’t seem to be getting any better and even if it did one week, the next week we would receive more bad news. This obviously put a massive strain on the family and meant Steph and I had to be independent, help a lot more around the house and perhaps grow up faster than we had expected to. Mental health-wise, I experienced anxiety more frequently and I developed severe OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) and thought that somehow Mum getting better was down to how many times I did a certain thing. It sounds so ridiculous I know, but I honestly thought that Mum would die because of me if I didn’t listen to a song an even amount of times, for example.
The development of OCD obviously didn’t help my anxiety. I was putting a lot of strain on myself every day and I would worry uncontrollably daily. I would experience these weird episodes where I just sat there in my room and couldn’t do anything but worry, but, being young and never really having heard of any mental health issues, I just thought I was being dramatic so didn’t mention anything to anyone to make anything worse for the family.
By the beginning of 2014, mum’s cancer had gotten so bad that it was obvious things weren’t likely to improve. Being a naïve naive sixteen-year-old and knowing mum was the kindest, strongest, most compassionate, woman I knew, I still thought that Mum could have a shot at becoming well. However, one day Dad sat me down and explained honestly what was going on. It was the Easter break from school, and I was studying for my GCSE’s, but Mum and Dad decided that I needed to know then in case things got worse quicker than expected. Mum’s cancer had now spread to her brain and liver, and I just remember feeling like my whole world had fallen apart. My mum was my best friend, I would tell her everything and anything, and she was the most gracious woman you could ever wish to meet. Yet she had become terminally ill and I was going to lose her.
It soon became clear to us all that mum wasn’t going to live past the next few months. Just as I had begun to sit my GCSE’s, mum had a consultation with the oncologist, and mum and dad got told that mum only had a few weeks to live. The cancer had become severely aggressive and was starting to seriously damage mum’s liver and weaken her bones. She was given the option of chemo, and the brutality that comes with it, yet by this point it had only a very small chance of working, so mum opted for no treatment and to pass away at a natural rate. She was bed-ridden for the last couple of weeks of her life (it sounds really selfish to talk about myself now, but just a mental health update- at this point I was anxious daily, but as I have mentioned, I didn’t really know what anxiety was and so I still kept quiet).
On June 11th, 2014, Mum passed away. The next few weeks were unbearable and even though I had encouragement from my family, friends, and my church community, I still found every day really tough. From around this time onwards, I seemed to have this permanent fake positivity act on and would always tell people I was completely fine even though I was struggling so much inside. the time. I wouldn’t really cry, but I also refused to talk about Mum and I just focused on being as positive as I could- mainly for my Dad and Steph.
In September 2014 I started Sixth Form and still carried on this ‘positivity’ act, but by around Christmas the act started to slip, and it was then that I really started to experience anxiety. I would have mini panic attacks in class and not know how to act or who to talk to about it and just sort of muddled through it by myself. During these panic attacks, I would experience shortness of breath, an overwhelming sense of panic, and feel really sick, triggering my emetophobia. In class, I would scratch any part of my body that was really discreet (such as my tummy under my shirt) really hard so the pain from that would distract the intense sickness feeling I would feel in the middle of a lesson. This led to me having a lot of scratches all over my body by the end of a school day.
On top of this, the anxiety also manifested into other parts of my life. Travel was a big one for me and after a particularly hard two-and-a-bit hour journey when I was scratching all the way home and resulted in a lot of pain and very light bleeding, I finally went up to my sister’s room and cried as I told her what I was feeling, thinking she must think I was mad. She came downstairs with me and we told Dad together what I had been feeling for so long and I can’t tell you how much of a relief this was. He was super supportive, as he always is, and booked me an emergency doctor’s appointment. It was in this appointment that I got diagnosed with severe anxiety and it was finally explained to me what anxiety was. Even though I was absolutely terrified, it felt comforting to know I wasn’t alone and that there was an explanation for what I had been feeling.
Over the next year, I went through CBT (cognitive behavioural therapy) and kept on trying my best to deal with the anxiety as well as I could. However, I slipped into the positivity act again pretty quickly, covering up the anxiety and pain I was feeling, and convincing everyone (and even myself a little bit) that I was fine and the lady I was seeing for CBT was really helping. Again, the act slipped and by the end of 2015, my anxiety had got worse again. By now I was in my second year of Sixth Form, and it got to the point where I couldn’t cope again, and I told my loved ones what I was really feeling. Dad supported me each and every day as well as he could and helped me talk to the teachers at school. They were really supportive and one particular teacher really helped me through this tough time. Although I didn’t have to hide my anxiety anymore, my panic attacks started to get worse and I would experience a severe one in class around 3-4 times a week. I would enter a catatonic-like state, not be able to eat anything, and just be so emotionally exhausted. Not all teachers were sympathetic (I got told by one that I wasn’t smart enough or strong enough to get into my first choice Uni but just you wait and see…) but whenever I would have an episode, I would go and see that supportive teacher and she’d help me work things out. My anxiety meant that I would have more days off school than most people, and I had to go home during the day around once a week which made studying for my A levels super hard. When it finally got around to taking the exams my anxiety got super bad, but I carried on as well as I could (it sounds like I’m giving myself a gold star- I’m not, just saying it how it is!).
Although it wasn’t all bad. It was around this time, in Summer 2016, when Will and I finally started to ‘see’ each other after knowing each other for a couple of years and putting our friend Rachel through third-wheel hell for a few months (love you Rach!). Exams were finally over and I enjoyed summer getting to know Will and having my anxiety being the most manageable it had ever been, mostly because Will lit up my life. August rolled around and I found out that I had got into the University of York (take that teacher-who-must-not-be-named!) and the anxiety started to come on, but at a controllable level (i.e. no bad panic attacks).
However, predictably, once I started Uni the anxiety started to get a lot worse, to the point in fresher’s week I ended up going out about twice in total- the other times I shut myself in my room after pres due to the anxiety and emetophobia being so bad. During the Christmas holidays of my first year, my anxiety started to get a lot worse and I would be having anxiety attacks pretty much every day. When I returned to uni to sit my exams after the Christmas break, my anxiety completely consumed me every morning of the exam and I would be sobbing, gasping for breath, and just completely overcome with doubt and worry. I would call dad and (now-boyfriend) Will every morning and they helped calm me down enough so I could do the exams, but we all knew something really wasn’t right. I got through the exams, however, by the Easter holidays, things got really bad.
For the holidays, my Dad had planned for us all to go to Disneyworld Florida/Universal Studios for two weeks. I feel so awful typing this, but it was honestly hell on earth for me. I knew that Disneyworld was supposed to be the happiest place on earth, filled with things that I have loved and treasured since I was a little kid. Some days, when my anxiety wasn’t as bad, were amazing and I’ll treasure them forever, but the bad days were awful. Being waltzed around a busy park, pushing yourself to go on rides when you feel sick from the anxiety (not great for the emetophobia), and being in a strange place I didn’t know made my anxiety spiral out of control. After the two weeks in Florida we set off to Virginia to go and visit some family friends, and it was whilst staying here I had my ‘big anxiety breakdown’. One night, my anxiety got so bad that I had to go downstairs, sit at the dining room table and just sob so much I thought I was going to be sick or pass out, and not being able to think of anything but hurting myself. I was thinking desperately of ways I could easily end my life, not to actively commit suicide, but just to make the pain stop. Thankfully, I had the strength to find my sister before I did anything I would regret, and dad and Steph stayed with me all night. The next day, Dad went to the emergency department with our family friends but the emergency service said that if I wanted help in the States, I would need to be admitted to an asylum-type place and be watched 24/7 which was obviously a no-go. We got home to England as fast as we could and that’s when my second ‘round’ of help started.
Firstly, we went to the doctors who once again diagnosed me with severe anxiety, but also severe depression this time, which I started medication for. I began taking Citalopram (20mg/day) and the side effects at first were horrendous, but after the first week started to feel more stable and started to reap the benefits of the meds. The doctors also referred me to the Warwickshire Crisis Team, and I was under the care of them until I saw a lady who crushed all the confidence I had at this point. She told me I shouldn’t scratch myself when I have panic attacks because then I ‘wouldn’t look pretty in a summer dress’. She said I couldn’t hurt myself or end my life because I needed to think of how sad that would make Will feel, and that for my night terrors I should have a dreamcatcher above my bed (this one is now a running joke in the family). So, I left there pretty swiftly and then started seeing a Cognitive Behavioural Therapist almost straight away which I was really lucky to be able to do (because of dad’s private health insurance given by the company he works for). The lady I saw was so lovely and really helped me. I had decided I wasn’t strong enough to do the Summer exams at York, and so had to drop out of year one, but thankfully I was given a second chance because of exceptional circumstances.
After spending all summer recovering and getting stronger, I started Uni again in September 2017. Uni was really great at the start of term and I made some friends who were so supportive, but in October things took a turn for the worse and while visiting Will in Aberystwyth I had an anxiety breakdown. On the train back to York I had a bad panic attack and had to get off the train in the middle of nowhere. I was sobbing on the platform and all I could think was ‘jump onto the tracks’. I was so close to ending my life but somehow found the strength to call Dad who drove to Aberystwyth to pick me up and take me all the way to York. This was probably the lowest I’ve ever been and the few weeks that followed were some of the hardest I’ve had to go through. The number of suicidal thoughts I had increased because of the severe anxiety and depression I was experiencing and although I sought help from the Doctors at Uni who increased my Citalopram dose, my anxiety and depression just didn’t seem to get any better and I decided to drop out of university in January 2019.
From here, I tried to become a bit more stable at home over the coming weeks, but my anxiety and depression were still so bad. I would have hour-long breakdowns and self-harm on my inner wrists when it got really bad (only very slightly) because I just needed a release in some way. I was desperate and so I finally accepted, through many long talks with dad, that I needed to deal with my grief. Dad contacted the Shakespeare Hospice for me and (luckily) after hearing about my situation they offered me grief counselling, despite us being past the usual cut-off time to have access to it. I started seeing this wonderful lady every week who never pushed me to say anything I didn’t want to, but asked me questions in such a way that I just spoke about everything to do with mum’s death that I had been holding in for so long. It was also around this time that I was diagnosed with my chronic illnesses, but I’ll leave that for another blog post.
So, from around February 2019 until July 2019 I had grief counselling and it changed my life. It was definitely a process that made my mental health worse before it made it better (due to the sheer amount of sad and traumatic events I was coming to terms with), but from 2019 my mental health has been the best it ever has been. I still get down days, I still have periods where I feel depressed or anxious, but overall I’ve learned that I could have gone through as much CBT as I like, but without dealing with the traumatic source of it all, I would have never got to where I am today.
Thank you so SO much if you got to the end. I know it’s a hefty story, but it’s one I wanted to post on here, so it is always here for reference if people wonder what my story is.
Remember you are all amazing, whether you struggle with your mental health or not. Every story is different, and every feeling is valid- we are human, and we need to start being kinder to ourselves! I’m still learning that recovery is not a linear process and that some days will still be crappy, but it’s all about learning to look after number one (i.e. your wonderful self!)
Keep safe everyone, try and see the immense amount of goodness around you, and keep smiling!
With all my love and hugs,
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