Lockdown: Saving Lives In More Ways Than One

On 6th March 2020, I decided I didn’t want to live anymore.

(Sorry mum)

Cliche and cinematic as it sounds, I realised my fate, curled up in the foetal position on a bathroom floor in a hotel room half way across on the world. It was the night before I was due to embark on an Island Conservation programme in the Seychelles. A month-long getaway to an idyllic East African island, inhabited solely by wildlife, living on a beach with no responsibilities other than cracking coconuts and frolicking around in the sea with a bunch of turtles. Aesthetically- every bit as paradisal as it sounds. Yet, there I was, eyes puffy, face swollen, clavicles and ribcage protruding thanks to my non existent appetite (this I secretly liked), a throbbing pain behind my eyes from the marathon of tears I’d been crying over the last few weeks, teetering on the edge of a yet another nervous breakdown.

Despite the thirty degree heat, I lay on the ground rocking backwards and forwards, shivering profusely- this I’d come to expect as a sort of appetiser before a panic attack was about to hit. I granted my fourth panic attack in twenty four hours permission to attack and let the adrenalin flood through my body like a burst dam. The paradoxical nature of panic attacks, is that they can be so cripplingly debilitating (to the point where simply getting up off the floor is unthinkable), whilst simultaneously fuelling you with what feels like enough adrenaline to run ten marathons in a row without stopping for breath. A genuine thought that crossed my mind whilst I lay on that floor was, ‘with any luck my brain might explode and I can leave the Earth in a slightly more dignified fashion than I intend to’. Nothing was certain in my world at this point, other than that the answer to all of my ‘problems’, was to end it.

I think what’re all dying to know here, is how does a middle class girl from a nuclear family with a healthy BMI and questionably healthy social life, wind up suicidal at twenty three? In a very over simplified and condensed nutshell, eight years of suffering a venomous cocktail of mental illness: Generalised Anxiety Disorder (GAD), Panic Disorder (reoccurring panic attacks, often triggered by the fear of a panic attack itself), severe hypochondria, a little bit of PTSD, several eating disorders and ultimately a clinically depressive state so intense, it became impossible to see a future.

Despite dancing with my fair share of demons throughout the past eight years, I’d never actually allowed myself to contemplate suicide until a couple of months ago. It just wasn’t an avenue of thought I’d made available to myself. It was as if the healthy functioning part of my brain had completely blocked off that pathway and put up road closure signs- usually in the form of my mothers face or the sound of my best friends voice. Not an option. Can’t go there. Won’t go there. End of. In retrospect, I probably didn’t trust myself to think about it. I had so little faith in my ability to maintain my own sanity. Maybe part of me knew deep down that one day I would end up exactly where I did, curled up in the foetal position begging God to take me with fatal heart attack so I wouldn’t have to do it myself. I was merely prolonging the inevitable.

A couple of years ago, I was on a… fourth(?? I think)… date with a man who, of course, I’m now thoroughly repulsed by. We were at that transitioning phase where the flanter and small talk had begun to die down and we were veering towards more philosophical territory. He asked me what my biggest fear was. I went with spiders (nice and mainstream- letting him know I am a NORMAL girl with NORMAL fears) and men who wear brown leather jackets. The truth was that what I actually feared most in the world, was losing my mind. The lack of control I felt I had over my thoughts and subsequently my actions, was infinitely terrifying to me. Spiders? Heights? Small spaces? Childs play. Losing my grip on reality? Losing the ability to feel? Losing sight of how many people care for me? That’s the stuff that kept me up at night. I never thought logistically about suicide, but I always feared that one day I would want to.

Naturally I assumed that if/when I did eventually find myself suicidal, it would be in the context of a mental asylum. I visualised myself rocking backwards and forwards, pulling clumps of hair out of my head with my bare hands until a team of five men in white lab coats wrestled me down and strapped me to a table. I never imagined I’d be still free to roam the Earth, interacting with other human beings, working, driving, socialising, pretending to function. I became obsessed and slightly fascinated at how oblivious the world was to my state of mind. Were all of my friends and family actually that blind? Or were they subconsciously choosing to look the other way? Maybe I’d just been pursuing the wrong career path for the last five years and my true destiny awaited me in Hollywood along with my Oscar nomination for best leading lady.

My fleeting career as a saleswoman back in 2017 made it all too easy to sell the concept of suicide to myself. I lapped up my own fucked-up, twisted narrative like an addict trying crack for the first time. I told myself that my friends, my family, they’re all bored of this ‘mental health stuff’ now. They’ve given up on me. I’m nothing but a burden to them. I’m clinically insane beyond the point of help and everyone I meet is going to be able to see that. The psychedelics I took in Amsterdam aged eighteen permanently changed the chemical makeup of my brain and now it’s ‘broken’ forever. I’ve done irreversible damage to my mind and the rest of my life will be an uphill struggle because of this. I will never have a normal life. I’ll never be able to hold down a job. I’ll never be able to raise a child. I will never be able to coexist in a functioning romantic relationship.

I mean…when you look at the facts, why wouldn’t I kill myself?!

In the run up to the night in question, the anxiety was manifesting physiologically in ways it hadn’t before. Throbbing pain took up permanent residency in my head, my short term memory function pretty much disintegrated overnight, and my emotional spectrum was superseded by an infinite indifference to everyone and everything. Granted this wasn’t the first time I’d experienced such incapacitating levels of anxiety, but never before had it been accompanied by such undiluted hopelessness and apathy. I’d exhausted all avenues and had lost the will to fight back.

I was burnt out.

I was numb.

I was ready to go.

Ok. *exhale*. That was hard and a little bit heartbreaking to write. Now let’s fast forward four weeks to the present.

Its 2.00pm, 8th April. It’s twenty degrees outside. I’ve got an hour of cardio, a healthy breakfast and nine hours of quality sleep under my belt. In a (probably fruitless) effort to get a tan, I’m lying in my garden, sipping peppermint tea, debating whether rewatching the entire Sex and The City boxset for the fifth time is a worthwhile investment for the remainder of isolation. Mum’s breaking up the afternoon with a nice slice of normality, asking me for the third time in half an hour if I ‘have any whites for the wash’. I didn’t the first time. Nor the second. And it might come as a shock to find out- I still don’t.

Yesterday I had my first session (video call of course) with my new therapist, Josh. Josh specialises in Health Anxiety and Panic Disorder. After having experienced and successfully overcome both conditions, he wrote two incredibly helpful books on the subject. This is both how I found him and why I trust him. Regretfully I’ve developed a certain level of skepticism when it comes to CBT, counselling etc, having worked with three different therapists within six years, all of whom never quite managed to ‘figure me out’. But within the first ten minutes of my session with Josh, I thought (and genuinely believed), this man might actually be able help. Trust me I’m just as shocked as you are. And as I sit here alone in the midst of a global pandemic, unable to work, or see my friends, or leave the house for any purpose other than exercise, I feel calm and content and grateful for all of the blessings in my life. Notice my reluctance to use the ‘H’ word. I’m not the type of girl to run before she can walk. But even I’ve got to admit, this feels pretty close to happy.

Ok. So now for the how’s, the why’s and the wherefores. How does one’s google search history go from ‘how much Escitalopram do you have to take to overdose’ to ‘low calorie recipe for lemon drizzle cake’ within the space of three weeks?

To be completely honest, the decision to hang on initially boiled down to curiosity more than anything else. Was it possible to come back from a place this dark? To feel normal again? I thought back to the suicide recovery stories I’d force-fed myself during the blurry hysteria of the plane journey over. If Jane from Leicester beat it then surely I’d have a shot if I could just hang on for a few more days? No. What am I thinking. Jane was probably nowhere as crazy as me. I can’t keep doing this for the rest of my life. If I end it now, I can save myself years of panic and trauma and my family can get on with their lives without having to deal with this insanity anymore.

So this is the part where I give myself credit and admit there was a certain element of fight to it. The concept of staying alive contradicted my every instinct at that point. Every fibre of my being believed that suicide was the solution. The only solution. And believe me, silencing that warped inner monologue was far from easy. But it turns out there’s a silver lining to be found in hitting the infamous rock bottom- the only way is up. It could not get any worse than this. And if it was possible for me to get through this, surely any curveball that life threw at me from this point on would seem trivial, a piece of cake? If I could beat this, maybe there’s a chance I’d come out a stronger person, like a female Russell Brand minus the charisma and sex appeal. Clinging to this logic, like Rose clung to that plank of wood at the end of Titanic, I convinced myself to hold on for a day and wait to see if anything would change. One day. That’s all I had to get through. I found pacification solely in the knowledge that at the end of those twenty four hours I was free to do as I pleased. No one was stopping me. Sayonara motherfuckers. (In retrospect, this was definitely one of my more disturbing rationales, but that’s depression goggles for you.)

So with one and a half hours sleep in the bag and my mental health hanging on by a thread, I rocked up at the meeting point for the expedition that next morning with a smile on my face, albeit a fake one. Funnily enough, in and amongst all of the life versus death excitement, the fact that I was due to be meeting and living with twenty complete strangers on a deserted island, with zero wifi access and extremely limited plumbing facilities, somehow managed to slip my mind. This is where eight years of practise in the art of fake smiles/small talk/general concealment of mental illness comes in handy. Growing up with depression and/or anxiety, the ability to morph into character on demand becomes an essential skill for survival- like flicking a switch. So with zero expectations and nothing to lose, I channelled my best ‘healthy happy carefree twenty three year old in the prime of her life’ and commenced the mingling process. That’s when I met Amelia.

Now please believe me when I say I mean this with zero prejudice intended, but my ears instantly pricked up at the sound of another British accent. What can I say? I was five thousand miles away from home, evidently not in my right mind, and in desperate need of some home comforts. Hence the wave of pure elation I experienced when the words ‘Percy Pig’ cropped up within the first five minutes of conversation with Amelia. That was that. She’d qualified. We were now friends. By the end of the ferry ride to the island, we’d uncovered a borderline-creepy amount of similarities that went beyond a love of farm animal themed confectionary. We’re around the same height (5”8 for any interested parties) and have the same box-dyed almost-ginger-but-not-quite hair colour. We learned that we live within a half hour drive from each other when I used the word ‘peng’ to describe the weather and didn’t have to translate. Yes- ‘peng’. Guilty as charged. (Started out as a bit of playful irony and accidentally became a staple part of my vocabulary and now I can’t stop (not proud)). It turned out we also share a mutual appreciation for the hymn ‘Here I Am Lord’ (a product of attending an all girls Catholic school) and have a joint affliction for throwing Inbetweener’s quotes into casual conversation. But the cherry on the cake was the matching tattoo on our right hip, both acquired in our late teens as a means of self expression ie. to prove to our peers that we were ‘hard’. Even in my most hopeless state, I had to admit, this friendship had potential, and it was enough to press the pause button on my plans- for now.

We spent the entirety of the trip joint at the (tattooed) hip, indulging in -what can only be described as- quality bants. So when it came to the weekly Thursday barbecue, (nothing too extravagant, a few chicken wings, bit of salad, a couple drinks for the hardcore ravers- all very PG) Amelia and I decided to spice things up with a spot of evening entertainment and choreograph a dance routine. During the performance of said dance routine, a certain wardrobe malfunction resulted in me laughing harder than my bladder could handle. And as I stood there, with warm urine slowly trickling down my inner thigh, for the first time in a long time, I relaxed. No racing thoughts. No throbbing pain in the back of my skull. In that moment, I wasn’t the girl with the broken brain. I wasn’t the girl who wanted to die. I wasn’t obsessing about the array of undiagnosed illnesses that could explain my lifelong mental deficits. I was just a girl who’d laughed so hard, she’d wet herself for the first time since infancy.

Despite the promising tones of that heart-warming anecdote, I still snuck off at regular two hour intervals to cry in the toilets. I still woke up multiple times a night, hyperventilating and dripping in sweat. It still took five full days for me to eat a meal that didn’t involve a gummy worm or Haribo loveheart. But the difference now, was that I realised I was wrong. It was possible for me to feel like myself again, even if only for few seconds. And it was that little flicker of hope that fuelled me with the strength I needed to keep my head above the water for a little while longer.

Unbeknownst to me (no wifi remember), whilst I was in paradise wrestling with my own sanity, coronavirus was busy grabbing the world by its’ balls. With borders threatening to close, the programme ended prematurely, sending us packing after only two and a half weeks. Needless to say the world I was due to return home to was not the one I left. And I was scared. Just as I was starting to feel better I was being thrust back into a country where toilet roll is now a symbol of wealth and we can no longer leave the house for more than one hour per day due to a virus that’s taken the lives of hundred thousand people across the planet. If I couldn’t handle the world at full functioning capacity, how on earth would I cope in this new alternate universe where going for two jogs a day is a prosecutable offence?

I’m pleased to confirm that, yet again, I was wrong (notice the common denominator here). Sure, lockdown life isn’t ideal. As one of the many forgotten freelancers of the entertainment industry, my income is now non-existent. The concept of popping round to the shop for a tub of Ben & Jerrys is a thing of the past, along with sex and the ability to pay my phone bill. It’s been over a month since I’ve seen my best friend (in the flesh) or walked past someone in the street without them recoiling to the other side of the road for fear of being infected. Every social interaction I have now takes place through a screen. In my darkest hour I even succumbed to the travesty that is video dating- NOT an endeavour I’m particularly eager to repeat. But I’m healthy. My family is healthy. We’re together. I’m living rent-free with mum still doing my washing for me like the privileged white girl I am. With no nine-to-five sucking the life out of my soul, I’ve spent the last few weeks doing things I actually want to do. I know- complete foreign concept for me too. I’ve been exercising every day. Alright fine- every other day. The fruits of my sunbathing labour are beginning to show and a month of wearing no makeup has left my skin resembling that of a newborn baby’s bum. I think I might be having a glow up. Either way, when this leopard gets let out of her cage, the boys aren’t going to know what’s hit ’em. Reow. I’ve also resumed hobbies I abandoned (audition tape for Great British Bake Off pending), picked up some new ones (hit me up for your custom knitted scarves), and am deriving a surprising amount of purpose and validation from my role as Executive Question Writer and Quizmaster for the weekly family quiz. Who knew it’s possible to have fun with your family if you actually speak to them?!

For the longest time I’ve felt like the world is turning at a faster pace than I can keep up with. There’s people my age out there getting mortgages and having babies and making apps and living their lives, and I’m here trying to convince my mother and GP to give me another MRI on the NHS because ‘I’ve definitely got a brain tumour this time’, all the while trying to lose weight, find love, progress professionally in a male dominated industry, pay off an overdraft, exercise my creative juices, maintain a social life and hide from the world that I’m clinically insane. (Trust me that last one isn’t easy.) So in more ways than one, lockdown feels like I’ve been thrown a lifeline. It’s as if the world has been put on pause, and everything’s slowed down to a pace that now feels manageable, liveable. Like I’ve been given this chance to ‘catch up’ on all the exercise and sleep and vegetables and therapy I was lacking in my latest episode of self destruction. Without getting all ‘live, laugh, love’ on you- it’s giving me the opportunity to heal. And I am! Every day that goes by, I wake up feeling the slightest bit more ‘normal’ than the day before, like the anxiety is gradually trickling out of my system. Slowly but surely, I’m witnessing myself return to the girl I was before anxiety hijacked my life. And it turns out, she’s not so bad.

In the words of Johnny Nash, ‘I can see clearly now the rain has gone’, and wherever I look, all I see are reasons to be thankful for the cards I’ve been dealt. Because while I’m at home knitting scarves, sunning myself in the back garden, there’s a woman on a ventilator fighting for her life, there’s a victim of domestic violence trapped in a house with their abuser, a healthcare worker afraid to go to work because they haven’t been provided with adequate protection, an elderly man alone in his home, traumatised from hearing the words ‘don’t worry, only the elderly will die from it’ repeated day in day out. If I use this time for nothing else, I’ll use it to count my blessings, and remember that my time on Earth is precious and worth so much more than depression tricks me into believing it is.

Today I sit here, infinitely grateful to my past self for finding the strength to hold on, in awe of my own resilience and proud of the woman I’m becoming, excited to see what the future holds (hopefully lots more percy pigs and urince-inducing banter). I am not naive in thinking that this is the last I’ll see of my old pal anxiety, but I venture into new and unknown territory with optimism, knowing I’m willing and capable of overcoming any obstacles that come my way.

MY TOP TEN TIPS FOR SOMEONE THINKING ABOUT TAKING THEIR OWN LIFE:

1. First and foremost- don’t.
2. Accept that it’s possible for our brains to lie and trick us. This one can be a hard pill to swallow, especially if you’re anything like me and like to be right ALL of the time. Everything that the little voice inside your head is telling you at the moment is a distorted symptom of this sickness. It’s called cognitive constriction- look it up. Think of it like getting a common cold. You get a blocked nose and suddenly you can’t remember what it feels like to breathe properly. But with a bit of patience and a few snotty tissues, it passes. And once it’s gone, you go straight back to taking your airways for granted without a second thought.
3. Never underestimate the power of the passing of time or overestimate the lifespan of emotions. No matter how concrete they feel, they are temporary.
4. Remember that the fear is always worse than the reality.
5. Give yourself a bit of credit. You are going through one of THE hardest period of your life. Cut yourself some slack. You’ve got this.
6. If ever you feel your mind drifting into the past or future, gently bring it back to the present. There’s no point crying over spilt milk, or milk that has not yet been spilled.
7. Watch your favourite comedy. Listen to your favourite song. Make your favourite meal. Call your favourite person. Masturbate. (They don’t call it self-love for nothing)
8. Seek professional help.
9. Champion any progress you make, no matter how small. Getting out of bed for the first time in a week *round of applause*. Going outside for a walk *standing ovation*. Recovery is gradual. Trust that you’ll get there in your own time.
10. Believe me when I tell you that you are capable of overcoming this and when you do you will emerge a stronger, more empathetic and braver person.