As a child I struggled with my mental health. It felt like I was living with a bully in my mind. I felt worthless, and often had thoughts that made me believe that the world would be a better place without me.
At first, I thought everybody had these thoughts, and that like me, everybody hated themselves. Until I started to learn more about mental health, or at least what I believed to be mental health... With so many stereotypes and misconceptions portrayed in the media, I became fearful of not only the thoughts I was having but also how others would treat me if they knew.
This fear grew and for many reasons, my mental health worsened. In my early teens, my anxieties, fears and negative thoughts developed into Anorexia. I was thirteen years old and I was experiencing what I can only describe as an overwhelming amount of negative thoughts and feelings.
Uneducated about mental health and being too afraid to talk left me feeling alone, and with no outlet. That was when I started to punish myself. Punishing myself was the only way I could find to numb the pain I felt — and it gave the negative thoughts I was experiencing a feeling of satisfaction. Only those thoughts continued to grow, and each time became louder and harsher to obey.
Anorexia was never a friend of mine, but rather a friend of the bully in my mind. The two together made it extremely difficult for me to be me. I soon became confused in what thoughts and feelings were my own, desperate for help — but still too afraid to talk.
I was eighteen years old, when my struggles with my mental health became too difficult to hide. My parents knew and no matter how hard Anorexia tried to push them away, they pushed harder. Aged nineteen, I was diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa and added to a number of waiting lists.
Referred to the community mental health services, I was told I would see a therapist once every week to talk. I remember thinking at the time that it would be like a film, that I would have to lie down on a sofa, whilst an old man asked me how I felt and took notes.
Of course, this thought was all wrong and in fact there was no sofa, nor an old man. I first saw a female therapist, who specialised in eating disorders. I attended once a week for almost a year, I spoke but I felt uneasy and most of the time I just told her what I knew she wanted to hear. Inevitably, none of this really helped but none-the-less it continued until my appointments went from fortnightly, to monthly, and then to six month reviews.
During this time, my recovery — or should I say lack of recovery — went from bad to very bad. As I became sicker and in more need of help, I began to try other forms of therapy. I attended another weekly appointment with a hypnotherapist which was a lot more like the film kind of therapy I had imagined. For the most part, it worked… It allowed me question my way of thinking, challenge certain thoughts and feelings I had, and begin working towards my recovery.
This was up and down, and again, a feeling of being in limbo appeared, so I decided to try art therapy. Whilst I enjoyed the creative process, I found it difficult to grasp how it would ever get to the root of the eating disorder.
In between the trials and errors of trying to find the right type of therapy and therapist, I experienced my worst relapse. Having tried so desperately to recover, I now felt exhausted, and just wanted it to end.
In the mist of this relapse, I was referred to another therapist, which I admit, I thought would be the same as the first, unhelpful and a waste of time. But with nothing to lose, I tried my best to keep an open mind.
I saw this therapist once a week for eight weeks, also incorporating the arts, group therapy and mindfulness into my life. This therapist made me feel completely comfortable and as our sessions deepened, the feeling of helplessness lifted. During this time, by talking and being open about my thoughts, feelings and behaviours, I began to learn a great deal about myself and my past. I honestly believe that the eight sessions we had together saved my life.
I still can’t believe the difference… Both the first therapist I saw and the last used a form of cognitive behavioural therapy but both experiences were completely different. Back then I didn’t realise how important it was to find the right therapist… I’d simply thought that all therapists were the same. For a while, I blamed myself for not trying hard enough at my recovery but I know now the importance of feeling a connection with your therapist.
This piece was written by Nicole Williams. Nicole is a Health and Social Care graduate, mental health campaigner and blogger of Nicole’s Journey. You can follow Nicole on Instagram and Twitter.
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