Just as Things Look Up, They go Down Again.

Single Life.

Mum has recovered well from her tumour. I am newly single, still on the course. Tommy has moved out, promising me its just for a break, but he doesn't realise I know exactly what is going on.

The appointments and professional input has all but stopped for my oldest child. It seems that once he was finally diagnosed as being autistic, they all realised he couldn't be 'fixed', so just stopped trying. It was hard living with a child with autism, but the quirks and benefits actually outweighed any negativity surrounding the diagnosis and we got by.

I was continuing to live a life where I 'got by'. I had developed a phobia of driving on the dual carriageway or motorway following over two years of commuting on it daily, and experiencing near misses, seeing crazy driving, and travelling miles in terrible weather conditions. Every day I went to work, there seemed to be one event or another that would make me nervous or thankful to still be in one piece. I was managing driving around town, but wouldn't go any further than I needed to. I was managing to go to university, but again, only the bare minimum I needed to.

It was like high school all over again. Studying something I loved, yet letting my grades slip because of my anxiety and panic attacks.

 

Over the next few months, lots happened. Tommy and I reconciled, I graduated university with a 2:1, I applied for a job at my local hospital...I didn't get it. That was a bit of a kick in the teeth in all honesty. I loved working where I did. I know its rather big headed to say, but I thought I made a brilliant midwife, despite my anxiety, which didn't affect me at all on the job. The anxiety and panic left me when I was on the wards, I had no issues surrounding work, although the same cant be said for the commute to and from work.

There are other hospitals in the region. One about 40 minutes away on the bypass, a big maternity unit at the neuro hospital mum was in, one about 20 minutes along a motorway, and one about an hour away through A roads and some dual carriageway. But it was no good. I couldn't travel to any of those. I couldn't use the bypass at all. I couldn't drive on a motorway, and theres no way I could commute along A roads in the dark, snow, rain, fog etc after a 14 hour shift. I hedged all of my bets on getting a job at the local hospital. A lack of funding meant they just weren't able to take all of their own students on. There have been jobs advertised there since my original interview, but 4 years later, I haven't bothered applying for any of them. I fell out of love with midwifery, not the work, because I adored it. But the ethos and rules you have to work by, which sometimes clashed with my own ethos.

 

So, there I was. A stay at home mum. I didn't attend my graduation. I let the anxiety beat me. I was the first person in my family to ever have gone to university, and I think graduation is the climax, the part everyone looks forward to. But the thought of being in the town hall, being seated alphabetically, so I couldn't choose a seat near to the exit, and being 'stuck' in there for over an hour with hundreds of other students was something that was just too much for my anxiety to deal with.

I looked enviously at the pictures of my cohort that were posted to social media in the days following the graduation ceremony. They all looked so happy. Their parents and families were there and looked so proud. I was jealous that they were able to do that, with no hint of anxiety or panic. That they were able to be 'normal'. My degree certificate was sent out in the post to me as I wasn't there to receive it on graduation day. Great. What an anti-climax.

 

I tried to function at home as best as possible. I had generalised anxiety, the panic attacks were kept at bay by my safety behaviour and avoidance techniques. I thought I was able to carry on my life like that. I was wrong.

 

Thing with Tommy were so-so. He remained insecure. He remained jealous. He remained the sort of partner that went out to work, and expected me to have dinner on the table, and the house spotless on his return. He also expected that when I was also working fulltime and working terrible shifts. I remember working 36 hours straight with no sleep, when I was unexpectedly called out to a homebirth as I was driving home from a day working in the community at 17.30. I spent the entire night at the womans house, and helped her deliver her baby into the world at about 0330. It was an absolutely beautiful experience, and one I am so honoured and priviledged to have been a part of. By the time everything was cleaned up, the paperwork was complete, and she was tucked up in bed with her baby, it was nearly 07.00. I was due at the hospital for a shift at 07.30. I phoned the ward, and told them I had been up with a homebirth all night...yet they told me I still had to go in. I made my way to hospital, popped up to the theatre to grab some scrubs to change out of the clothes I had been in for 24 hours, and went to the ward where I worked almost a full shift. I was sent home an hour early at 20.30, as I just couldn't physically or mentally function anymore. I had left home expecting to work a regular community shift, then be home after 8 hours. I took a tiny bit of lunch for that day, no money, phone charger, medication etc, as I wasn't expecting to not see home again until the following night.

I cried all of the way home. I was so so tired. I had been in contact with Tommy via the ward phone throughout the time I was away, so he knew I was leaving off an hour early and would be home in about 40 minutes. I felt my eyes closing as I pulled up on the drive. I was exhausted. I hadn't eaten in over 30 hours, had no sleep, and barely had time to have any sort of a break even for a cup of tea. I walked through the door at home to find him sitting in the living room on his playstation. I asked if there was anything for dinner. He said no, he hadn't bothered doing me anything. He worked 9 hour shifts, and I ALWAYS had dinner for him the moment he walked through the door, yet there I was, without the energy to even stand up anymore, and he hadn't even bothered to chuck a couple of bits of bread in the toaster. He was playing online games with his friends, and said he would do me beans on toast after he had finished the game he had just started. I said not to bother, and literally crawled up the stairs to bed. I don't mean metaphorically crawled. I literally climbed the stairs on my hands and knees, as I simply didn't have it in me to walk up them normally. I climbed into bed, finally, but set my alarm for 06.00, no rest for the wicked, I was due on the ward again the next day. And, off I went the next day at 0600, for yet another 14 hour shift, despite still not having anything to eat since two days before. I was heading for a fall. I didn't see it at the time, but I was setting myself up to crash and burn in a spectacular way.

And that's exactly what I did.

 

 

A Panic Attack.

A Panic Attack in Action.

 I am taking a short break from writing, to post a link to a panic attack in action. This film was sent to me by Jessica, who suffers from anxiety, bi-polar disorder and depression. She still tries to function each day as normal, but stopped to film this panic attack, and describe its effects and what she was feeling, in order to give people who don't suffer from them an idea of what it is like to be stopped in your tracks by anxiety.
Click Here to see the video of Jessica battling her panic attack. The link is via Twitter, I hope you will all be able to see it even if you are not subscribed to Twitter.

Thank you Jessica for the video.

Take care of you,
Kirsty.x

My Mental Health...Broke Down.

Things Were Downhill From Here.

*Trigger Warning*

I woke up one morning, and I was broken.

I was sweaty, had hot flushes, palpitations, I felt sick, I was agitated. I didn't know where to put myself. I couldn't settle, I couldn't sit still, I felt as though I needed to get, to get away. But it didn't matter where I put myself, I could not escape from that feeling.

I visited my GP that day, who started me on another dose of SSRIs. But warned me that they would take six weeks to have an effect. Six weeks? How was I going to get through six weeks of feeling like I did?

I struggled through the day, anxiety through the roof, just not managing to bring myself down from the feeling of fear.

I fired off an email to university and my personal tutor, telling them that I would be stepping off the course, as I felt unable to carry on. I felt unable to even make it as far as uni, let alone stay there and study. I wish I still had access to the email. When I later spoke to my personal tutor, she said it read like a train crash had happened. It was like watching it in slow motion not knowing what to do. That she could tell from just that email, that I had just crashed and burned, and was broken. Very broken.

 

My community placement was still miles from home, despite me requesting several times to be moved closer to home as the journey was taking it out of me each day. I didn't know what was happening to me, it enveloped me, there was no escaping it. I was doomed.

The baby (now 7) had been discharged from hospital the day before after suffering a systemic infection following a case of tonsillitis. He was diagnosed with a heart murmur whilst there. That was the straw that finally broke the camels back I think.

 

The next few days and weeks passed in a bit of a blur. I visited occupational health through work, and had a meeting with my personal tutor. Occupational health and my GP offered to sign me off sick, to give me time to settle a little, and then decide where to go from there. My personal tutor advised taking the time off, and if I still felt like I couldn't continue the course in six weeks, then I could step off. But she advised me not to leave my studies whilst I was still feeling so raw, and I took that advice. The summer break was also coming up, so on top of my six weeks sick leave, I would have an additional five weeks summer break, giving me plenty of time to assess my options and make a decision.

 

At home, I struggled. I developed severe agoraphobia. So severe in fact, that I couldn't even go into my own garden. I couldn't be left alone, I panicked if I didn't have either Tommy or my parents with me. I was incapable of anything and everything. Essentially a baby again that needed 24/7 looking after.

 

The heightened anxiety and panic eventually left me, for long enough to be able to function almost normally at home. I was still unable to be in the house alone, and the agoraphobia lingered. I started to feel strong enough to start fighting it. I would stand on the back doorstep and venture a few paces into the garden. The back garden was fully enclosed, and not overlooked, so I would just stand there for a while, maybe walking a few paces into the garden, then a few paces back, and repeat. I didn't push myself until I experienced a panic attack. Whilst I know that many sources will say that you should continue to induce panic, and then sit it out and allow the panic to naturally pass, I didn't feel strong enough for that. What worked for me, was taking a few paces then as soon as I felt the anxiety start to rise, stop, wait a second, then return to 'safety'.

I started to do the same out of the front door too. I lived on a very busy road that brought traffic off the motorway and into the centre of town, and the road was constantly busy. I lived on a little service road that was set back ever so slightly from the main road and run alongside, parallel to it.

 

Id stand outside the front door for a few seconds. Then go back in and potter about the house. Nothing scary happened when I stood on the front doorstep, so I did it again a few hours later. Again, nothing happened, so I did it again a little later on in day. Again, although I wasn't pushing myself to the limit of panic, I was doing more than I did the day before, and that was the important thing.

 

A few days later, I was able to walk into the front garden, and sit on the wall. Not actually go out of the garden, but just sit on the wall inside it, just watching the world go by. This was slightly more anxiety inducing, but not bringing me to the level of panic again.

 

A week or so down the line, I walked outside the front gate, unlocked my car which was parked directly outside it, and sat in it. Again, slowly slowly, I was doing slightly more than the week before. It was slow too. Painfully slow. It was an achievement to me that I was able to just unlock and sit in the car. I didn't stay there too long, again, the idea wasn't to bring myself to a state of panic, it was to do slightly more than I had done the day or week before.

At the weekend, I decided to give the car a clean. This was one of the highest anxiety inducing activities I had done since I started my slow recovery.

The anxiety was constant throughout. It never lowered, although it also never reached the point I felt like I needed to escape or run back into the house. I had put into place a few safety behaviours, such as leaving the front door open, so if I did need to get back inside, I wouldn't have to fumble for keys, or be held up by opening the front door.

 

This painfully slow recovery continued. Each morning, I would get up and try to get just that tiny bit further. I was literally the person who couldn't even put washing out in her own back garden, to someone who went out the front door, and walked 50 paces to the nearest lamppost. That is how my recovery was measured. In lampposts. Sometimes it would take me 10 minutes to walk to the nearest one as I kept hesitating and turning back, sometimes I could just stroll to it without a care in the world. It didn't matter how I got there though, the important thing is that I did it.

 

Within a little while, I was making it to the second lamppost, then the third. I then set my target at the park, where I used to walk my dog daily. It was a straight road to the park. I could see the entrance. I reckon if I shouted, someone standing at the entrance will have heard it, just to give an idea of the distance. It took me several days, getting one, maybe two paces closer to the park each time I went out.

Then...I was at the entrance! It was an ungated park, so just an opening in a fence, but it took me a couple more days to actually cross that threshold into the park. I stepped in. I stood for thirty seconds, I stepped out. That was enough for one day, and I went back home. The following day, I stepped in, walked forward on to the grass, stood for thirty seconds, then walked out and home. By the end of the week, I was feeling pleased with my achievements. I mean, it is pitiful. I had gone from a happy, confident person who could happily drive herself anywhere around the country, to someone who was celebrating the achievement of stepping onto the grass at the park less than 50 yards from her house. But hey, not long before that, I couldn't even step onto the grass in my own back garden.

That weekend, I made a couple of sandwiches and chucked a banana in my bag, and off I went for my daily walk, to the park, inside the park, onto the grass, and sat down and had a little picnic for one. It was a small victory.

 

This slow recovery continued, although the pace of it stepped up a bit when I gradually resumed driving, first with someone beside me, then alone.

 

By the end of the summer, I contacted my personal tutor, and told her I felt ready to return to work. I was given a phased return of half a day twice a week, increasing by half a day a week until I was back full time. As is often the case within the NHS, nothing works as it should, and after just one week, I was back working full time shifts.

 

I could function. I could get the kids to school, I could get to work. I was finally given a community placement closer to home. I still couldn't manage much more than that, but that didn't matter. As long as I could cover the very basics, that is all that mattered. I shopped online so I didn't have to go to the supermarket. We stopped going on weekends away as it was too much for me. Tommy and I had to give up our usual habit of heading out for lunch whenever the two of us had a day off. But the basics were covered, and life could continue. A different life, granted, but I was still slowing recovering. And I believed that I would one day 'get there'. Get back to the person I used to be. I was settling into the new routine of being me, and beginning to feel better in myself.

 

Then I discovered Tommy had been seeing someone else...

 

 

 

The Beginning of the End for my Mental Health.

It Was Downhill From Here.

 

I may split the next few years across a couple of posts, as there is a lot to go through and I am hoping to go into detail with a lot of the more pertinent parts, skimming over the rest of my back history.

 

I'm a first year student midwife. Things with Tommy are going well. We seem to get on really well. I am travelling all over the country, driving alone to midwifery conferences, meet ups, and day trips. We still spend several weekends away. I appear to have no issues.

 

Looking back now, there are a few little things that I think played a part into what happened next. Tommy was quite insecure. He would accuse me of cheating or seeing someone else if I did my makeup before uni or work, and I had to work hard to keep him reassured.  It wasn't long before I loved him. His insecurities appeared minor at the time, he was just a naturally jealous person. Something which I thought I could bring him out of eventually. Looking back, its as though I had to prove myself constantly to him. I was very conscious about having to ease his concerns. I stopped wearing make up, and would just scrape my hair back into a scruffy bun before work or going to university each day. This wasn't an issue to me at the time. Tommy would say I didn't need makeup, I didn't need to cover my face, it was perfect as it was. That is the thing. He could definitely talk the talk, but that talk was aimed at benefitting him. I didn't see that at the time. I would go off looking like a hobo, thinking it was fine because he assured me time and time again that I was beautiful as I was. I now see it was more a case of him wanting me to dull down, to make me less attractive to anyone else. Don't get me wrong, I am not saying I am Gods gift, or drop dead gorgeous. I am very much a plain Jane.

 

Studying midwifery was hard. I was one of the only drivers on the course, so I was given a placement about 50 miles from home. It was a community placement. Some days I would be covering up to 300 miles per day, and would leave home early in the morning, and return late at night. My eating went to pot, and my weight plummeted, although I was still a healthy weight.

Hospital placements were just as difficult, with one occasion in the first year where I worked 10 days straight. Which seems manageable, but when its dark when you get up early in the morning to go to work, you spend an entire day on your feet without time for a break, and its dark again by the time you get home, it soon takes it out of you.

 

Despite all of this, during the first year with Tommy, and my first year at university, my mental health was good. I was enjoying life. I was very happy with Tommy, and I was loving being a student midwife. I had also developed some wonderful new friendships as a result of being on the course.

 

Enter year two at university, and things started to change. There were only 18 of us in my cohort, so it was a small, intimate group. Cliques had started to develop though, and just like at highschool, I didn't fit into any of those cliques. I became a bit of a Lone Ranger again.

 

My oldest child was now 8. Since about the age of two, it was evident there was something not quite right with him.

My parents would have the kids whilst I was at university or work. The baby was now old enough to start nursery, and he was enrolled and off he went.

 

My mother appeared to be struggling. I wondered whether it was stress through now having three kids to look after whilst Tommy and I worked. She was in her mid 50's, I considered whether she was developing dementia. Just like with my oldest child, there was something wrong, I couldn't put my finger on what.

 

Things with Tommy and I were continuing in the same way. I felt like I had started to walk on eggshells. He was never violent or aggressive, but would sit and sulk in silence for days on end if something didn't go his way, or he wasn't happy with something.

 

I noticed at uni, that I had started subconsciously choosing the seat nearest the door during lectures. Sometimes we would have lectures with the student nurses. There were about 120 of them, so we would be in a larger room. I would always get to the lecture room early, to be able to choose a seat at the end of a row, and near the exit.

 

The second year consisted of short placements. Every two weeks, I was rotated to somewhere else in the hospital or community. Every two weeks was like starting a new job. Then just as you find your feet and settle, you are moved somewhere else.

 

Towards the end of the second year, my oldest child was finally diagnosed with autistic spectrum disorder. It took a long time to get a diagnosis, involving literally hundreds of appointments over the proceeding years with speech therapists, hospital consultants, educational psychologists, mental health teams, school nurses...the list is endless.

A week or so later, I took my mother to the doctors. It was evident that she was not right. She was forgetful, struggled with holding conversations, starting tripping and falling, and was just cognitively 'wrong'.

 

I was sat in a lecture room. It was just after lunch, and I still had my phone on me, probably checking social media, when I got a call from my sister. My mum had been to the hospital for a CT scan following the doctors appointment. I answered the phone just as the lecturer walked in. She said 'You need to come to hospital, they have found something'.

 

I stood up and walked out. A friend who was sat next to me knew that my mum was due at the hospital that day. I turned to her and just said 'She has a brain tumour', then made for the door. My dear friend apologised to the lecturer on my behalf, then came running out of the room to find me. I couldn't drive, I was shaking, I was pacing, I was anxious. Tommy was off work that day, and my friend phoned him and asked him to come and collect me and take me to the hospital, as she wouldn't let me drive myself.

 

I got to the hospital. My brother and sister, mum and dad were there. We were taken into a side room, which I knew from my placements throughout the course, that that was never good news. My mother had never ever been unwell before. She was a matriarch. Strong willed, confident, previously healthy. Yet there we were sat there, listening to a doctor tell us that she had a massive brain tumour.

It was all a blur really. I didn't take anything in. It seemed impossible. Not my mother?? I watched everyone else in the hospital, going about their daily lives. I wanted to yell at them. I wanted the normal world to stop. I wanted strangers to stop having the audacity to go about their lives as if nothing was wrong. Something WAS wrong!

 

Tommy was supportive. He was great infact. I was able to lean on him. He did all he could to make things as easy as possible for me. The next few days were a bit of a blur, as she was kept in hospital and started on medication. A referral had been sent to the neurological specialist hospital, which was about 100 miles away. I took several days off university. My lovely cohort sent a big bouquet of flowers, they were there for me too.

 

 

Mums Tumour. The size of a grapefruit, yet we had no idea she had it.

 

 

The next few days were a mix of returning to uni and placement, and travelling to the neuro hospital. She had an appointment for a consultation, and we all went together as a family. It was heartbreaking, sitting there listening to the surgeon telling her that she needed surgery, and she needed it ASAP. Risk factors included blood clots, a stroke, speech deficits, serious infection, and death.

I sat with my dad, telling him that we couldn't let her go through with this operation. The risks were too high. The tumour itself wouldn't kill her, but the side effects of it would. Things such a seizures, poor balance leading to falls, forgetfulness and a severe deficit in her motor skills.

I spoke to mum, and said I didn't want her to have the operation. I was scared for her. We could look after her as she was. She just sat there and said she had no choice. She had to have it done. She felt so unwell, she was suffering so much from the effects of the tumour. Now she knew the reasons behind why she had been feeling and behaving like she was, she didn't want to carry on as she was, and she had to take the chance to feel better again.

 

An eight and a half hour operation ensued the following week. My mum. In hospital miles from home. Having her head cut into. Having brain surgery. She looked terrible following the surgery, with half of her head shaved, and a big bandage encircling her entire head.

 

I was juggling visiting her at the neuro hospital, with placements and uni, plus the implications of my sons diagnosis and trying to juggle family life and childcare whilst Tommy and I worked full time.

 

On a day off, I went to see my mother after she had been discharged from hospital. Her surgery had been successful, the tumour was gone. She was on epilepsy medications for a very small shake in her arm. Although she was weak down one side of her body, she seemed to be much better in herself. She was about ten days past her operation. She complained that she was still feeling unwell, but we assumed it was just as a result of the operation she had undergone.

He hair was still matted from blood following the op and she had dozens of stitches running through her head. She hadn't been able to wash it, as she couldn't get the scar wet. But on day 10, she was allowed to have a proper hair wash.

My dad was at work. It was just me and mum. I helped her to the bathroom, and she held her head over the bath as I washed her hair.

 

Coming down the stairs afterwards, she complained of feeing very unwell. I helped her to a seat as I noticed her speech become more and more slurred. Within minutes, she was unable to talk, she had lost the use of one side of her body, and just stared at me. Eyes wide and fearful, but empty. It was as if she didn't recognise me. I called for an ambulance, telling the operator that I thought she had suffered a stroke. Soon two paramedics were on scene. She was unable to speak, unable to follow instructions, she was vacant.

 

As she had had her surgery at the neuro hospital, our local hospital didn't want to take her, and advised the paramedics to transfer her straight back to the neuro hospital.

We were loaded into the back of an ambulance. I phoned my sister and brother and Tommy, who was at work. My dad is one of those people who refuse to have a mobile phone on him. Tommy left work immediately, he worked about 20 miles from home, and on his way back he passed where my dad was working, so went in to get him.

 

Mum was on a gurney, I was strapped into a seat sideways. The paramedic in the back was completing lots of observations and tests. This is where training in health care was a disadvantage. I could see the tests he was doing, I could see the results. The ambulance seemed to be swerving all over the place. Sirens were blaring, I could see us passing cars on the motor way at such a speed, it seemed as if they were still.

I wanted to get out. I asked the paramedic to ask the driver to slow down just a little bit. I wanted he to pull over so I could get out of the back. I planned to sit on the embankment of the motorway, and just sit there and wait until my dad passed at some point over the next hour or so.

I tried to divert my mind. I was speaking to mum. She was unable to answer me back, she was still just vacant. But I believed she could hear me. I reassured her, told her dad was on his way, told her she would be just fine.

 

We arrived at the neuro hospital, and I got out of the back of the ambulance. I wanted to drop to the ground and kiss it. I joked with the driver that she should consider rally driving if being a paramedic didn't work out for her. She seemed rather proud as she told me that she hit 110mph on the road, despite the gales that were blowing the ambulance all over the place.

 

I sat in A&E resus next to mum, as tests, examinations, scans and doctors came and went. I was praying for dad to hurry up. I needed him there! I couldn't do this on my own.

The relief when he arrived was immense. I accompanied mum to CT for a brain scan. She had an empyema. A serious infection, never seen at that hospital before. Less than one in a million chance. She had pus filling the space in her head where the tumour had been. It was serious. More serious than the original tumour. She would need another operation, and immediately.

 

It was getting late. Approximately 8pm by now. It was over 6 hours since I phoned for the ambulance, and she was deteriorating all of the time. At 1am, she was taken off to theatre. Me, dad, my brother and sister walked the hospital wards. The neuro hospital is an interesting place where there is a lot of research centres. Its grounds cover several square miles, and I think we paced every one of those miles. At 5am we were sat in the café with a vending machine coffee, when we saw mums surgeon walk in looking bedraggled. She went to the coffee vending machine and I darted over, asking how everything went. We weren't allowed back onto the ward as mum was recovering. She said it had gone fine, but it was a serious infection.

At 7.30 am, knowing that she was settled back on the ward and the surgery was complete, we set off on the 100 mile trip home. Right in time to catch rush hour.

 

My sister and I were in the back of the car, with my brother up front and dad driving. It was a scary drive home. I could feel my anxiety levels rising as the car gently swerved into the next lane, with dad falling asleep behind the wheel. Everyone seemed to be late for work, and were in a rush, driving like idiots. I opened the windows and put some music on loud, to help dad stay awake and try and distract myself from the panic that was rising.

 

Mum spent over 6 weeks in the neuro hospital, on various antibiotics to try and clear up the rest of her empyema. I went to uni and one of my tutors saw me in the foyer. She asked how mum was getting on, and I burst into tears.

 

The next day, I broke.

A Slice of Normality.

The Following Years.

I am now proud mama to three children. Me and Lew are getting on well. Money is tight, although we had enough to get by.

Following the birth, I settled back into a life without panic attacks or anxiety. Nothing above normal levels anyway. I enrolled in a few Open University courses, and attended tutorials, meeting new people and getting out of the house.

 

As I mentioned in a previous blog, I had always dreamt of being a midwife. I had done a stint as a health care assistant, I had my GCSEs, and a new university had opened in my home town. I had no excuse not to go for it.

 

Looking online I saw that I fit the eligibility criteria, and I submit an application. I really wasn't expecting to hear back. Midwifery was a notoriously difficult course to get on to, and I expected to be rejected, but use any feedback to make a proper application the following year. The baby was still only a baby at the time, but to my shock, they were crazy enough to invite me to an interview.

Again, there was no anxiety about the interview selection day above what would be considered normal.

The day consisted of group interviews, individual interviews, maths and English tests, role play, tours of the hospital and maternity wards, and group projects.

The interview day finished at 5pm, and I jumped straight into the car and drove off to Centerparcs for the weekend, just me and Lew. We used to go away a lot, both with and without the kids. I would go no more than about a month without having at least one weekend away somewhere.

 

Lew had proposed to me a little bit before having the baby. We started to talk more seriously about getting married, and eventually booked it up. The venue, honeymoon, dresses, suits and caterers were all booked/bought and paid for. Invites went out.

But... It was to be a small wedding. Just our immediate families. So about 15 people altogether. Whilst I tried to convince myself that this is what I wanted, I know deep down that it was really because I was too worried about having to stand up in front of a crowd of people and speak. The thought of doing it in front of just our parents and siblings was bad enough, but I couldn't face the thought of doing it in front of any more than necessary.

 

Well. Less than a month before the wedding, and when the baby was still only 11months old, totally out of the blue, Lew left me. He got up one morning, and simply said he had met someone else whilst at work. Nothing had happened between them, but he wanted to pursue a relationship with her, and he was leaving. Well, this knocked me for six. I had totally taken for granted the fact that we were going to be together forever. We had known each other and been best friends for almost 10 years, we had been through so much together. I genuinely thought we were soul mates and would grow old and wrinkly together.

 

Although it was easily the worst time of my life, somehow I muddled through each day. I don't recall any anxiety at the time. Just a deep dark depression that lasted almost a year. Lew and the girl he left me for were now in a relationship, and I just struggled to function.

 

The day Lew left me, I received a letter through the door. I'd only been offered a position at university to study midwifery. They only went and chose me!! I cried I was so happy! And made several phonecalls telling people I had been offered a position, which was a shock to my family, who didn't even know I had applied.

 

Soon, I was ready to start meeting people, and after a brief, unsuitable relationship, I met Tommy. I was weeks away from starting university, I was confident, I was happy, I had the ability to do anything.

 

This was all soon to change...

The Return of my Demons.

Hormones and Stress. A Lethal Combination.

I am working away, merrily enjoying my time working on the stroke rehab ward. During this time we would go on little holidays within the UK, I was a confident and competent driver, and I could do anything without a second thought about anxiety or panic attacks. You could almost say I was cured, aside from a few minor 'quirks', as mentioned in the previous instalment.

Lew and I had been living together as a couple for almost two years, when we decided to try for a baby. After two successful and problem-free pregnancies, I had no fears about falling pregnant again.
Lew was also now working, although in all honesty, I am surprised he managed to keep employment, he was as reliable as a car with no battery.

Soon after Easter, I drove to collect him from work. He hopped in the front seat, and I watched his chest puff up with pride as I told him I was pregnant. It was a lovely moment. Unlike with my two previous babies, I was actually finally having a planned pregnancy, with someone I loved and wanted to spend my life with.
I was 23, and I had spent a blissful few years with minimal to no anxiety, and no panic attacks. I could do anything. It was brilliant.

The baby's due date was Christmas Day. What were the chances! I believed myself at the time, to be a birthing goddess. I was born to have babies. My body was a temple, and it was perfect at safely carrying and delivering my babies.

I had my booking in appointment with the midwife. This is the first appointment, where you go through all of your medical history and previous births, and discuss your care for the current pregnancy. I was healthy,  I had had two normal, healthy pregnancies, labours and babies. I wanted a home birth. Not just any old home birth. A home birth on Christmas Day of course. With my family around me to welcome the newest member of the family. In front of the Christmas tree, with the lights twinkling, carol songs playing, and two excited children who would be getting a new brother or sister as an extra Christmas present.

Obviously I didn't tell the midwife all of that. I simply told her that I would like to have a home birth, and I didn't need booking in at the hospital. At the same visit, I requested no scans, no blood tests, and no screening tests. It didn't matter what life had to throw at me or this baby.  had confidence that my body could look after me, and the baby it was nurturing.

The midwife looking at me unapprovingly. She immediately refused to consider to allow me to have a homebirth. Despite homebirths being statistically safer for women undergoing a normal pregnancy, she still put the fear of God into me. It was 10 years ago now, but I remember her clear as day saying to me 'You can't have a homebirth at Christmas. If anything goes wrong, there will be no ambulances available as they will all be dealing with drunken family fights. How would you feel if you or the baby died because of that?'.

I'll be honest, I hadn't actually considered me or the baby dying during labour and birth. I mean, I know it happens. I know there is a possibility. But that is a minuscule possibility. A fraction of 1%. Not something that anyone should really worry about following two normal deliveries and a third normal pregnancy.

I also ended up having scans, screening tests and blood tests too, again after I was terrified into it by horror stories of bleeding to death, babies born with no heads, and dying a painful death simply because I refused a few tests.

I was attempting to use my autonomy and informed, educated choices for the pregnancy. I was beat down with horror stories and the fear of God, by someone who should have been my care giver and advocate. Although I spent the few months following this feeling absolutely fine, I still had her words bouncing around in my head throughout the pregnancy.

I stopped working at around six months pregnant. I found the heavy lifting and carrying that was needed on the stroke rehabilitation ward was too much for me to continue with, and as I was only working on the bank, I was entitled to no maternity leave, and no alternative positions within the hospital whilst I was heavily pregnant and unable to continue with the heavy patient contact work.

Lew had lost his job unsurprisingly. He always arrived late, spent the day doing as little as possible, and generally just didn't want to work. Looking back, I amaze myself that I actually stayed with him. Not only that, that I actively wanted to be with him, and loved him more than anything.

I was no longer working, although was able to return to do the occasional bank shift just to keep registered with them. Lew wasn't working, and spent most of his time on the xbox again. He did eventually get another job, working for a family member, but again, he was unreliable and didn't seem to care whether he kept the job or not.

My pregnancy progressed with minimal problems, until one night, whilst I was 6 months pregnant, my daughter woke up in the night, projective vomiting everywhere. She had the norovirus. For three full days and nights, she didn't sleep, eat, drink, she just vomited. During those same three days, I rarely had chance to sleep, eat or drink either. Just as she seemed to settle down a little bit with it, my son suddenly vomited everywhere. She seemed to get over the virus just as he got it. He seemed to have it worse than her, and it was about five days and nights I was up with him. He was vomiting several times throughout the night. I reckon I got about 6 hours total sleep over the nights that week. He started to get better and then...yep, the inevitable happened. I got it.

I don't think I have ever been so ill in all my life. It was approaching two weeks, where I was barely sleeping, barely eating, barely looking after myself at all.

I got up one morning, towards the end of the virus' hold on the household, and suddenly felt very very unwell. I was dizzy. I was faint. I felt sick. I had palpitations, cold sweats, tunnel vision, the shakes and generally just felt like something was seriously wrong.

I dialled 999 for an ambulance. I then phoned my mum and Lew, and they were both at the house rapidly.

The paramedics arrived and asked me to explain what was wrong. I didn't know what to say. There was no one thing I could pinpoint. I explained that I 'Just didn't feel well'.

My pulse was through the roof, and blood pressure was sky high. Blood sugar was slightly low, but what do you expect when you haven't eaten in days. The paramedics suspected an infection of some sort, or possibly a complication of the pregnancy, and so I was taken in to hospital to the maternity department to be checked over. Of course, we all know what I am going to say. There was no infection. There was no pregnancy complication. I had had a panic attack. Out of nowhere.

Well, I saw out of nowhere, it was off the back of two weeks of no sleep and minimal food.

I was sent home feeling shaken and delicate. I had a few early nights where I tried to catch up with some sleep. But with being pregnant and having two kids under three, it wasn't an easy task. Over the next few days, and the next few weeks, I noticed my anxiety increase further and further. I noticed me panic more often. I noticed I was struggling to sleep, and struggling to eat. I lost 20kg of weight, and felt absolutely terrible. I was feeling more and more stressed, and more and more worried about everything.

I found myself sitting up in the bathroom at 3am every morning, crying and panicking about being pregnant and worrying that something was going to go wrong. My daughters birth played on my mind constantly. The speed of it. The lack of control I felt, the fear as I didn't know what was happening to me as I till tried to decide whether or not I was actually in labour.

I began to fear going out. What if I went into labour when I was out, and delivered this baby quickly, in public. What if I went into labour and didn't make it to hospital in time. I began to dread that moment where I go into labour, and feel that panic and loss of control that came with labour and childbirth.

I went back and forward to my GP, who prescribed a low dose of anti depressant medication, which did nothing at all to take the edge off my anxiety. I felt constantly unwell, tired, scared, overwhelmed. I was just struggling with life.

One night, at 4am, I phoned the maternity ward at the hospital. Crying down the phone, I told the midwife at the end of the line 'I am pregnant, but I can't give birth, I don't want this baby'. Dee (not her real name), the midwife on the other end of the line worked hard to reassure me. I explained that I was suffering panic attacks, terrible anxiety, I had developed agoraphobia, and I just couldn't go on any more. I told her I couldn't have this baby, and needed help.

Dee gently told me about her history of panic attacks. And how I needed to breathe and relax my shoulders, and that she would help me, there was help for me, I had options available. I was becoming more relaxed as the panic I was experiencing wore off with the help of Dees comforting and reassuring voice. She asked me a few questions about myself, such as my name and date of birth, and then asked 'How many weeks pregnant do you think you are?'.

She didn't know what to say when I told her I was 32 weeks. She gasped, explaining that there was no way I could have an abortion. There was only one way this baby was going to be coming out. Obviously, I knew that. I didn't want an abortion. Not at all. But I was absolutely petrified. Terrified of the thought of having to give birth.

Dee arranged for me to go to the hospital the following day, and she would arrange for a doctor to come and see me and make an assessment.

The following day, my mother took me up to the maternity ward as arranged. It took me ages building up the courage to leave the house just to get to the hospital, and I panicked the entire way there.

A lovely obstetrician visited me, although he confessed that I was perfectly well from a physical point of view, and the baby was absolutely fine too. He asked if I would like an evaluation from a psychiatrist. I agreed, perhaps they could help me?

A few hours later, I was taken into a side room for a psych evaluation. I cried, I shook, I panicked. My mother sat there as I described about how I just didn't want to live anymore. I was petrified of giving birth. I had a completely irrational overwhelming phobia. It was taking over my life, and I knew there was no way to escape it. The only way to be free of that fear now, according to my dysfunctional brain, was to not be here anymore. To be dead. I would be free.

The two psychiatric doctors wrote lots. They filled several pages with scribbles, as I sat and just poured everything out to them. They asked when I last slept, and when I last ate. I didn't know. I couldn't tell them. They spoke quietly between themselves for a little while, whilst  sat awkwardly twiddling my thumbs whilst my mother just sat there in silence. They eventually turned back to me, and had made a plan. They suggested speaking to the obstetricians, and seeing if it was possible to book me in to have a caesarean section. If my problems stemmed around my phobia of giving birth, then perhaps the problems would go once I realised I didn't have to give birth. Well, of course, the weight that I had been carrying around on my shoulders was instantly lifted. An alternative!! The relief when they returned to the room after speaking to the obstetrician, and saying he had agreed to me having an elective caesarean section, even under general anaesthetic if  wanted, was immense. I felt my rigid uptight body just melt as it relaxed.

I was kept in hospital that night, and given a sleeping tablet that night at about 8pm. Well, I didn't get to see 8.15pm, I was out like a light. I was in a four bedded bay, but was the only one in there. The next thing I remember, I was being woken up by one of the midwives, it was 9am. I had slept! A whole night! And my word, I felt amazing. I felt like an entirely new person. I was kept in for a few more hours until I had eaten and spoken to the obstetricians again as they booked my elective caesarean in. I went home, and spent a few days feeing absolutely fine. I felt great. I started to enjoy the pregnancy again.

Now, looking back, again, how things could have been different. Whilst I look at that offer of a caesarean section as something that rescued me from my fear and would keep me safe, in fact, it was simply another way for me to avoid facing those fears. It confirmed to my brain that it was right to panic and worry.

Sure enough, after a week or so, it returned. Now, I was panicking because the scheduled date of my operation was six days before my actual due date. Well, what if I went into labour? I labour so quickly that there wouldn't be chance for me to get to theatre for a caesarean. The agoraphobia returned, and I spent weeks doing nothing but laying down. I had follow up home visits from the psych team, but there was little else they could do for me other than support and reassure.

I figured, if I just lay down for the rest of the pregnancy, then the fetus wouldn't be putting much pressure on my cervix, making it unlikely that I would go into labour. Obviously, the rational side of me knew it didn't work like that, but the irrational side of me was winning this fight yet again.

Rapidly, I was suffering from constant panic attacks. I was tiring of life. I just wanted to be away from that awful feeling. I had an appointment with he consultant obstetrician at the hospital when I was 36 weeks pregnant, where an ultrasound scan also discovered that my baby was in the breech position. He was bum down. He would need to be born by caesarean section whether I had requested it or not! I cried and cried in front of the obstetrician, and explained to him how I felt. I told him that I was struggling massively, and I was terrified that I wasn't going to be here for much longer, as my irrational side was completely taking over and I felt as though I was losing total control.

He agreed to bring my caesarean section forward to 37 weeks and 6 days of pregnancy. I could have kissed him. I did hug him. And cry on his shirt. A lot.

So there I am. 37 weeks and 5 days pregnant. I had one more day to go. My anxiety was through the roof as I went into hospital that night ready for the operation the following morning. Lew stayed with me until visiting was over at 9pm. At midnight I was still awake as one of the midwives snuck into my bay to take my water away as I was now 'nil by mouth. She noticed I was still awake and asked if I was OK. I explained that I couldn't sleep, and soon she was back with a sleeping tablet and a little sip of water. The next thing I knew, it was 7am and I was being woken up to begin prepping for theatre. I was due to go down at 8.30am. I sent Lew a message. I heard no reply.

I pottered about on the ward, getting myself ready. At 8am, I still hadn't heard from Lew, so I tried phoning him. His phone was off, so I phoned his sister. It transpired that he had gone round to hers last night after leaving me at the hospital, and had drunk an entire bottle of champagne that his parents had given us to celebrate the birth of our baby. He was still in bed asleep. I was fuming. There I was, petrified, alone, and finally preparing to have this baby. Something I had been fearing and panicking over for the past few months. If there was any time I needed him, it was right there. Yet there he was, sleeping off a hangover.

Lew arrived just as I was leaving the ward to go to theatre. He walked into the hospital foyer just as the midwife and I were making our way to the elevators to go to theatre.

I don't know if she will ever read this, but my midwife, Franky (not her real name) was absolutely amazing. She had delivered both of my previous babies, and although she didn't work clinically much anymore, she wanted to be there as I completed my family. I trusted her implicitly, she knew what I had been going through, I could talk to her openly and freely and she was amazing at calming my fears and keeping me as relaxed as possible.

I had never had an operation before. I had never been in a theatre before. I felt like I was walking into doom as I made my way towards the theatre. I wanted to turn around and run as the elevator doors opened. Franky held them open as I stood in front of the elevator, my mind racing, wanting to just run out of the hospital and leave it all behind.

A few deep breaths and I entered the elevator and walked out of the doors as they pinged open onto the floor of the theatres.

It was clinical. It was scary. It was alien. There were people walking around in scrubs and caps, appearing to be distant, unusual, alien.

Lew had to go and get changed into theatre scrubs whilst Franky took me through to meet the anaesthetist and receive a spinal block to numb me from the waist down.

I sat on the bed as the anaesthetist poked around on my spine. I knew that once that spinal was in, I would have no control of my legs, I would lose the ability to leave, I would be trapped there for hours until I was able to move again.

Franky spoke to me, She held my hand, she talked about my older two children, and we laughed about what they were up to nowadays. The last time she saw them, they were hours old and she had just helped me bring them into the world.

I was lay down on the theatre bed, screens went up. The anaesthetist stood beside my head and joked and worked to keep me calm. The operation couldn't commence as my blood pressure was too high, but I said that was because I was so anxious. So the next 10 minutes was spent with the theatre team working to calm me down. Although they worked solely in obstetrics and gynaecology, and had very limited experience of mental health problems, they were brilliant. The entire team. They were perfect.

The operation commenced, and eventually a skinny and angry looking baby boy was held up over the screen. Lew was green, because he decided to be clever and look over the screen to see my  abdomen cut open from hip to hip.

I looked at the baby and I screamed. I don't know where it came from. It was a scream of elation. It was pure, unbridled joy. I burst into tears. I grabbed Lews hand, and was just yelling over and over again, 'We done it!!'. That was it. He was born. I survived the pregnancy, and more importantly, the baby survived the pregnancy. We done it. We were survivors. I had been so close to suicide throughout the last few weeks, and I looked after myself so poorly, I was elated that we were both there, and we were fine.

The baby was taken and dried, and bought back to be tucked up into bed with me for us to start breastfeeding, whilst the surgeons finished off putting me back together.

I was transferred onto a clean bed, and wheeled into recovery, still on a massive high, and so in love with this little person, who I felt I had already been through so much with, despite the fact he was only minutes old.

I looked behind me as I was wheeled into recovery, and was taken aback. The theatre floor was covered in blood. There were footprints of my blood all over the theatre. It was everywhere and covered everything. I remember thinking as I was wheeled out 'crikey, I didn't realise I even had that much blood'. I thought no more of it. I was too much in love. I was too relieved. I was too elated.

Back on the ward, and I felt amazing. I didn't want to stop holding my baby, and I kept him tucked up in bed with me. The day went on, and I began to feel slightly unwell. they

Everytime I tried to sit up, I appeared to faint. I couldn't even lift my head off the pillow without fainting. Visiting time was approaching, and I asked Lew to tell our parents not to visit as I just didn't feel well enough. I was struggling to stay awake, I was so so tired.

The visitors came anyway, as they had already left by the time I said I wasn't well enough to see them.

I can remember Lews parents turning up, but I don't remember much more of that. I remember sleeping and waking up intermittently to see them sitting there, before falling immediately back to sleep again. My mother turned up with my older two children. I introduced them to Franky, and told the children that she was the midwife that helped bring them into the world, and was also the person my daughter was named after.

I told Franky I wasn't feeling well. She suggested it may have been due to the spinal anaesthetic, and said she would call a doctor to come and check me over. My mother didn't stay long with the children as she could see I was unwell.

I vaguely remember Franky coming back and taking my pulse. I remember waking up as she held my wrist, smiling at her, then my eyes just closing and I was gone again.

The doctors came round, they checked me over and said I was fine, and then left again. I knew something wasn't quite right. But I just didn't know what. The other mums in the same bay as me, and who had had their caesarean sections after me were up and about, they were sitting up and chatting. They seemed to be fine. Why wasn't I fine?

Lew left, I slept. I had the baby tucked in with me, much to the dismay of the night shift midwives. But I was physically unable to lift him in and out of the bedside cot. I was weak, I'd get light headed and faint whenever I sat up to move him. I was terrified of dropping him.

The following morning, I woke up to see Franky standing over me. She explained that she had gone home the previous night, and was worried about me. She said she had been speaking to a few people to try and work out what was wrong with me, and asked if she could take a blood test. I agreed. Within an hour, she came back to me, and told me that I was severely anaemic. My haemoglobin was 5.2, whereas it should have been 11-13. She explained that she looked through my notes the night before to see what my recorded blood loss was, and it was written as 600mls. She said she knew, and even I knew, looking at that floor, there was a lot more than 600mls there.

A blood transfusion of three units of blood later, and I felt amazing. I could finally sit up without fainting. I could hold my baby. I had energy.

I had no panic. I had no anxiety. Four days later I was discharged home, where I was completely back to 'normal'. The very thing that was triggering my panic was now gone, and so was the panic. I felt amazing.

Now. I know this is just a boring 'life story' of mine. But I have added it, as I think this was the turning point in my life. The pregnancy was the start of my panic and anxiety in adulthood. Although it was now over and I felt fine, I think the entire episode is pertinent towards the issues I developed later through adulthood.

Looking back, I can see. Yet again, I avoided the very thing that was causing me anxiety. I managed to escape giving birth. I had a 'get out'. This get out reinforced to my brain, that I was right to panic. I was right to be scared. There was a potential danger, and I 'saved myself' from it. Whilst outwardly I thought I had been successful in dodging the panic and anxiety, subconsciously, it was a massive fail, and a backwards step.

I was scared of the entire process of giving birth, and I also still had the original midwife's comments in my head 'What if you die, what if your baby dies?'

There is an irony in the fact that I felt that in avoiding giving birth normally, I avoided the potential of me dying or the baby dying. Yet the caesarean section, the very thing that was supposed to 'save me' nearly resulted in me dying. The huge blood loss I suffered bought me close to death.

It is common knowledge that although it is still very safe, a caesarean section is higher risk than a normal delivery. Yet somehow, my brain couldn't process that fact.

That is the nature of the beast that is anxiety and panic disorder. You think that in avoiding a certain situation, you are 'safer'. However, that is not always the case. Sometimes your alternative choice IS more risky. It is more dangerous. But you don't care. There is no logic. It is completely irrational. You reach the point where you don't care about the level of risk when you have choices. Your choice tends to focus solely on what will cause you the least anxiety. What will hopefully prevent a panic attack. What you feel most comfortable with. That is what makes this disorder dangerous. Your decisions are skewed. You don't consider risk vs benefit. You consider least panic vs most panic. And that is how I began to live my life...

Thank you for reading if you got this far.

I am just setting the scene, providing a backdrop to bring us bang up to date. If you are enjoying reading so far, please feel free to subscribe, and/or share to others who may benefit from reading.

A few more instalments whilst I finish setting the scene, and then I will start concentrating on current issues, treatments, legislations and difficulties that I, and fellow sufferers are battling with.

Take care of you.

Kirsty.x

The Teenage Years.

First Job.

Off I went with my GCSEs under my belt, and applied for a few jobs. At this point I had emetophobia. A fear of being sick. I was afraid to apply for jobs where I would be 'stuck' somewhere. I was receiving counselling via the GP surgery, and remember saying to the counsellor that I was afraid to work and commit to something, incase I was sick. An example I gave, was of working at a till in a supermarket, and needing to be sick, but not being able to leave my till. The counsellor, as helpful as ever, said it didn't matter. Just be sick into a carrier bag, and not to worry about what people thought.

For someone suffering totally irrational fears, such as the miniscule probability of being sick in front of someone and being 'trapped' by my till, that was as helpful as shovelling the snow whilst its still snowing. Needless to say, I ended the 6 weeks counselling session no better than I was before I started it.

I applied for, and got a job working in a sports wear outlet. It was a warehouse type place, that was only open to the public who had a membership card at weekends. During the week, the shop floor was closed, and we worked collecting deliveries and arranging the stock. There were four of us who worked full time during the week, and about 12 at the weekend. We were all of a similar age. All school leavers or college students.

My anxiety and panic seemed to reduce to almost nothing at this point. I was made supervisor, paid £4.10 an hour, which made me think I was mega rich, and I just plodded on through life.

After I had been working there for about three months, there was a new employee. I walked down the steps from the stockroom, and saw my line manager showing a scrawny looking kid around. He was cocky. He was over confident. He was everything I hate about someone.

Within a couple of weeks, we were best friends. He only worked at weekends, but after work every day, we would hit the pub, and spend all of our wages in one hit. We'd walk the streets together for hours, we'd sneak in to each others houses and sleep on the floor of each others rooms, we'd chat on the phone for hours. At work, we were always split up because we talked too much and the line managers wanted us to work, not talk to each other. We did everything together as the very best of friends. At this point, my anxiety was non existent. It seemed to just diminish into nothing. I put it down to leaving the stress of school behind. I was now in an adult environment, with autonomy and responsibility. I wasn't under strict school rules, and I didn't have to face assemblies or sports halls.

After a little while of working, I met someone who was totally inappropriate for me. I see that now. I now feel that I was taken advantage of. I still had low self esteem and self confidence, and as soon as someone showed me a bit of attention, I fell for it like a sucker. He was 23 years older than me. Not attractive in the slightest. And as I soon found out, was controlling, manipulative and obsessive.

My parents disapproved highly of the relationship, as any parent would. But I defied them, stupidly, and soon I had to leave home.

He took me about 150 miles away, to the south coast of England where he had family, and surprise surprise, before I knew it, I was pregnant. I hated my life down south. He would go out every day and take the door key, so I couldn't go out because if I did, I would be locked out. I lived in a damp, mouldy, dingy basement flat on Hastings sea front.

The anxiety slowly started to creep back. I started to struggle going in to supermarkets. If I did have to go in, I was unable to go towards the back of the store. I would dash in, grab what I needed, then dash out.

I didn't speak to my parents or family for six months, which was difficult as we had always been a very close family before that. I didn't have their phone numbers, and missed them terribly.

One night, after an argument, I locked myself in the bathroom, and contacted a relative and asked for my sisters phone number. He was banging on the door, trying to break it down to get in I phoned my sister, who was 15 at the time, but she didn't answer. My mum eventually rang back, and promptly phoned the police when she heard what was going on.

That was the start of rebuilding the relationship with my family. I confessed my pregnancy to my mum, and arrangements were soon made to get me moved back to my hometown.

I was still with 'inappropriate guy', and he came with me. I trained and tubed my way back to my hometown, with no issues whatsoever. I even drove back down to Hastings via London, to collect my things. The anxiety surrounded supermarkets and cinemas at this point. That was all.

I lived in a homeless hostel for six months. Relationships between my parents built back up slowly but surely, and after a very long, very difficult labour, I had a baby boy. I was 18.

I moved into a top floor flat, and then on to a house about five minutes from my parents. Being a parent myself was difficult, but it seemed to keep my anxiety at bay, as it was completely off radar for well over a year.

Now I was back in my hometown, I realised that I started to miss Lew, my best friend from work. He was devastated when I left. He begged me not to go. As I was leaving, he professed his love for me. But at the time, he had left it too late. My parents wanted me out of the house, and I didn't see him as anything more than a best friend.

I wrote him a letter, enclosing my phone number, and I soon received a text asking 'what do you want?'. It was awkward chatting at first, but soon we were back talking like we used to over text messages.

Things with 'inappropriate guy' were going from bad to worse. Within 6 months of having the boychild, I was pregnant again. Following an argument, he took a knife to the house and destroyed everything. Slashing through the beds, sofas, the baby's toys and pram, he smashed everything that was breakable, shredded my maternity notes, and generally ruined the entire house.

That was it. The end of that.

I went on to have a little girl after an incredibly quick labour.  I mention this, as it is pertinent to issues I had in future years. At 7pm I couldn't quite decide if I was in labour or not. Despite already having one child, I was still only young and naïve, and didn't really have much of a clue about anything. At 7.30pm I called the midwife, who I knew well, and asked her to pop over. She only lived around the corner, so instead of going up to hospital, she came to the house. She confirmed, yes, I was in labour, and we had to get to the hospital. She said she will follow us up in her car, but if I felt I needed to push, to pull over and she would stop too. I phoned my mum who was to be with me for the birth, and she literally ran from her house to mine in record time.

I got to the hospital at 8pm, I had a baby in my arms at 8.15pm. I didn't know what hit me at the time. The pain, the fear, the panic, the speed of it all knocked me sideways a little bit. Everyone was commenting on how pleased I must have been, to have had such a quick labour. But I didn't feel pleased. I didn't know what hit me.

I went off home with my baby girl, and there I was. A mother of two at 19.

Again, thinking back, there wasn't much in the way of panic or anxiety at this point. No more than normal when you have two babies on your hands anyway. I think I was kept so busy, I didn't have time to panic about anything.

The months passed. Lew and I were still in text contact. One evening, my best friend suggested that I ask him if he fancied meeting up. He was at a little pub in the next town, with some friends at a birthday party, and asked if we fancied going there. So, with my parents babysitting, we jumped in her crappy little Peugeot 205, and off we went.

And it was just like old times. We got on brilliantly. It was so strange meeting up again. Not much had changed for him. He was still scrawny, he was still cocky.

We arranged a 'date night'. He'd come round with a movie, we'd order a takeaway, and just have a great evening.

Soon, he moved in. We were a couple. We were still best friends, and now in a relationship. It wasn't perfect, not by a long shot, but I was happy.

I got a job as a health care assistant at the hospital. He stayed at home playing the xbox all day with the kids. He smoked marijuana. A lot. And seemed to be spending money quicker than I could earn it.

I worked on the 'bank' at the hospital as an HCA. Id put down my availability and where I would like to work, and they'd phone when shifts were available, which was virtually every day.

Again, anxiety was minimal, but I noticed some little traits that made me realise I wasn't 'cured' from it.

If I'd arranged the day before to go into work and be on a certain ward, and I got there and was sent to another ward due to shortages, I became anxious. I couldn't deal with it. I was suspended briefly when I arrived on my scheduled ward, only to be told I was being sent somewhere else. It was to a ward I had only ever worked on once, and didn't like it for whatever reason. Instead of going to that ward, I left the hospital and went home.

I explained what had happened when the manager of the 'bank' nurses phoned, and my suspension was lifted, but I was told not to do it again. If I was told to go to a different ward, I was to go.

I found my niche on the stroke rehabilitation ward. It was somewhere I never thought I would like, but I was booked to work on my regular elderly care ward, when the stroke rehab ward was short staffed and I was sent there. I walked as slowly as possible to the ward, really not wanting to go there. I thought of feigning illness, or finding an excuse I could give them so that I could go home, instead of working on a ward I had no interest or experience of working on.

Well, I'm glad I didn't. I loved the stroke rehab ward. And that was me. I booked to work on there everyday, and didn't go back to elderly care, which I thought I enjoyed.

I don't know what it was about the rehab ward that I enjoyed so much. There were patients of all ages on there, all in varying degrees of health and fitness following having a stroke. I loved it.

Yet...everytime  I went to, or from work, I would pass the maternity department. I had been in there when I had the kids obviously. But I used to walk past thinking 'one day, I am going to work there'.

It had been my ambition since school to become a midwife. But I was held back, by the fact that there were no midwifery courses that were run near to home, and I couldn't travel to go to university. Despite living a pretty much normal life as far as the panic and anxiety goes, I was still holding myself back in some areas, such as not feeling able to go to university, and still struggling if I rocked up at work and they'd changed my regular ward.

Soon, I was pregnant. That pregnancy led to a whole host of problems and issues that can only really be described in the next blog, as I think it needs an entire page dedicated to it. It was a turning point in my mental health, and one which I will discuss in detail in the next post.

This post doesn't talk much about my panic and anxiety problems, but I wanted to cover my late teenage and early adulthood years, as I think there are little snippets that I will eventually delve into in more detail in future posts. Its just a bit of background, and I hope it will set the scene for future posts.

Take care of you.
Kirsty.

From the Start.

A Bit of History.

So. There I was. Sitting in assembly aged 13. I was sat in the middle of a massive hallway. With rows and rows of classmates beside, behind, and in front of me. Up until this point, I was fine. I was normal.

It was a large assembly, with about 500 of us all sat there on the floor. All of a sudden, I came over feeling unwell. The head teacher was stood up on the stage. I felt a cold sweat come over me. I looked towards the exit. I would have to stand up, pick my way through a row of classmates, and walk right across the front of the stage in order to get to the exit.

I was frozen with fear. I sat there. Thoughts racing. Do I get up and try and walk out, looking like an idiot in front of half the school, or do I sit there and pray I feel better and don't throw up in front of everyone, making me look an even bigger idiot.

 

To my relief, the assembly ended. A classmate looked at me and asked whether I was alright. I lied and said yes, I was. But I felt traumatised.

 

I muddled through the rest of the day, not knowing that what I suffered was a panic attack. To me, it was a very scary and traumatising event.

 

The next day in school was assembly day again. And, I did it. That thing that we all know we shouldn't do, but at my age, I knew no better. I skipped assembly. I went to the library instead.

 

The following week, I did the same. Id go to registration, then slip away when no one was looking, and went and hid in the library, where I hoped I wouldn't get caught for and sent into the assembly.

 

This continued. Me stressing on assembly days, worrying that I'd get caught for bunking assembly and get myself in trouble, or get sent in there midway through. The stress from this was immense. Twice a week, fretting over getting in trouble or getting caught sneaking off at assembly time. And it went on for months.

 

Before I knew it, I was worrying about classes. We had five lessons throughout the day. Some of those lessons allowed me to sit near the door if needed. Some, I was sat on the opposite side of the room, meaning I'd have to cross the classroom if I needed to 'escape'. I began worrying about these lessons. It was on my mind all day, and all night. I started sneaking off and hiding up in the library for the lessons that involved me sitting across the other side of the room to the door.

 

I didn't know at the time that I was only fuelling the fear. To me, it was a solution to my stress. The worry about having to cross the classroom and look an idiot if I panicked, was gone when I skipped the lessons and sat in the safety of the library.

 

Of course, this led on to me worrying about the other lessons. And situations outside of school. Everywhere I went, I had to sit on the end of a row, and near a door. My parents didn't understand what was wrong with me. They didn't really know or understand about panic attacks. They just saw me demanding that we sit near a toilet, exit, or an easy escape route when we went out. If for whatever reason we didn't, I would have a bit of a meltdown, which involved lots of crying and very low mood.

 

As the months progressed, so did my anxiety. I went from avoiding assembly, to avoiding certain lessons, to avoiding all lessons, to avoiding school altogether.

 

 Before all of this, I loved school. I was what you'd call, 'a geek'. I'd rather read a book or do a puzzle over going out. I'd sit up at night doing crosswords and maths puzzles. I had a small, intimate group of friends. I didn't fit any of the cliques in school. I was more of a lone ranger.

 

Soon, GCSE season was upon us. I had been skipping a lot of classes and missing a lot of school. I was on Prozac, after my  mother took me along to the doctors to try and 'fix me'. The pills didn't work. I felt no different.

I cried every day. Every.Single.Day. Because it seemed endless. As soon as I got through one day, it was bedtime, as like some cruel joke, I'd just have to get up the next day and do it all again.

 

Stress at home was high. I have an older brother and a younger sister. They didn't suffer with any issues like what I did. My parents struggled to understand it. I was terrified of my GCSEs. It would involve being sat in a sports hall, with 300 of my peers. I couldn't choose to sit near the door. I would be sat in a specific seat, and I had no choice over it.

 

I decided I wasn't going to take my GCSEs. I couldn't face sitting in that sports hall. I'd just skip the GCSEs, just so I didn't run the risk of feeling like I did sitting in that assembly. Ironically, I hadn't had another episode like I did in assembly. Of course, I attributed that to the fact that I'd spent the previous few years protecting myself, by avoiding the situations that may trigger that feeling. I spent the years being scared. Scared of being scared. I had a fear of the fear. But I felt I had control over it, because through my avoidance tactics, I was winning the fight against it.

As panic attack suffers know. I wasn't beating the fear. I was winning nothing. All I was doing, was fuelling that fear. Avoiding those situations simply reinforced the thought that those situations were scary and/or dangerous. Avoiding the situations simply confirmed to my brain that it was right. Those situations needed avoiding. They were dangerous.

 

A phonecall from my mother to the school, and it was arranged for me to do my GCSEs in a classroom out of the main sports hall. The relief I felt was immense. I felt I'd beaten the fear again. I'd won again. I hadn't.

 

I entered the class room in which it was arranged I would do my GCSEs in. There were half a dozen or so other kids in there. I knew them all, but didn't know why they were there. On the second or third day, one of the boys came up and sat on my table for a chat before the invigilators arrived for the start of the exam. He was a 'cool kid'. He fit all of the cliques. He was popular, good looking, confident.

He asked why I was taking my GCSEs in the class room, instead of the sports hall with everyone else.

I didn't know what to say. I felt stupid to tell the truth, so I answered simply by throwing the question back at him.

"Why are YOU doing YOURS here?"

He replied with virtually no hesitation. He simply said 'Because I couldn't sit in the big sports hall with all them people, so I was put here...'

Shocked, I replied 'Same!!'.

A cool kid? One from the cool kid clique? From the boys football squad. A high achieving, popular, outwardly confident boy. Yet he appeared to be suffering with exactly the same as me. I wasn't alone! It wasn't just me! It was like a revelation.

 

I wonder what happened to that boy. I wonder if twenty years later, he is still suffering like I am, or whether he managed to get over his.

 

I passed 12 GCSEs with B and C grades. Despite missing most of the last two years of school, I'd passed my GCSEs. School was over. No more classes, no more sports halls, no more assemblies.

 

This meant I could leave those fears and anxieties behind as I left the school gate for the last time right? Wrong!!

I shall continue with more history soon.

Take care of you.
Kirsty.

Welcome to my Blog.

About me.

I'm Kirsty. A perfectly normal 30-something. I have three kids, two dogs, graduated university with a degree in midwifery, struggle to maintain a long term relationship. Basically, I am just a normal kinda gal. There's nothing special about me, nothing that makes me stand out from a crowd (apart from some rather loud hair colours when the urge takes me), I just blend into the crowd.

 

So what makes me think I am special enough to write a blog that people may be interested in reading?

 

Well, that's a fair question. And somehow you have found yourself here through a link, google search, or just bad luck!

 

See, I suffer from panic disorder and agoraphobia. And not mild panic disorder either. But full blown, public meltdown style panic disorder. I was encouraged to start writing this by a few people. Its not something I have done before, so bear with me whilst I get that hang of it.

 

I put a post up on Facebook last night. This was following a very public panic attack, that saw me walking around B&Q, with tears streaming down my face. Not caring remotely about what any one there may have thought. You can view that post here.

Off the back of this post, I had numerous private messages from friends, and acquaintances on my friends list, with them telling me their own stories, tales of what helped them, or words of encouragement.

But it disheartened me slightly that the people didn't comment on my post. They didn't share their stores in public. In some cases, it was friends who I speak to very regularly, who admitted their husband/wife/son/daughter were the ones suffering and receiving or seeking help. Yet I didn't know.

 

There is, of course a stigma attached to mental health disorders. No one wants to admit that they have problems with their mental health. There may be many and varied reasons for this, but mental health illness seems to be something that we still do not want to talk about.

 

So I am opening it up. I have suffered for the past twenty years, since the age of 13 with panic attacks and on/off depression. I used to hide it as best I could. I lost friends throughout the years through cancelling dates and making excuses as to why I couldn't go out. Relationships broke down through my inability to go out as a family or for meals, or to go on holiday. Family members have struggled, wanting, but not knowing how they can help, or why I cant just 'snap out of it' or 'pull myself together'. If only it was that easy, I wouldn't be where I am today. A single parent (albeit with a budding relationship on the horizon), jobless and living off savings because I can't leave the house to go to work, and with three kiddos who would love to have the sort of childhood that other children take for granted.

 

So welcome. Stick around, I will try to cover my own personal journey in trying to finally kick this, in addition to the trials and tribulations I face along the way, and hopefully share stories from others, with permission, and look into the help (or lack of) that is available along the way.

 

Look after you,

Kirsty.