I'm Not Mental, Am I?

 
This is dedicated to all the fabulous people out there who have, at some point, been on happy pills or are still taking them.  You're awesome and you know you are, just wait and you'll soon see that for yourself :-)


I'm not mental.  Am I?

Well, apparently I am.

In July 2009, I moved to a new home, in a new part of town.

Just 7 months earlier, I was married and defrosting haggis for my husband's tea.

I was still married but no longer defrosting*.  I was now eating spaghetti out of the tin standing over the sink, drinking wine straight from the box.

I didn't really want to leave my new flat.  Ever.  I was quite happy being by myself.  However, I was starting to wheeze like an old man so I had no choice but to register with the doctor round the corner.  I needed my inhalers dammit!

Now, I'm not really a sick person.  Okay, I'm asthmatic, but what I mean is, I'm not often at the doctor.  I get by on Vic, Benylin and paracetamol when I'm feeling a bit pants.  Don't get me wrong, I've had my moments of proper 'been in the hospital' illness.  But not 'pop to the docs every 5 minutes' illness.  I just crack on with it when I'm not well.  I work from bed if I'm too achey to get up.  I'll do my emails whilst doing a menthol inhalation.  I'll take my iPhone into the loo if I'm being sick.  It's just the way I roll.


I just crack on.


I've been to the docs a few times since registering for the usual - 'anti-baby' jag in the arse, flu jag, repeat prescriptions, the occasional round of antibiotics for a nasty rash, the nazi inspired female inspection with the cold steel duck lips that once your feet are strapped up you feel like you could be in either a 'Jeremy Beadle sketch' or a 'SAW death trap' depending on your nurse - anyway, you get the whole 'visting the doctor' drift.

I don't go very often.  I just crack on.

I just crack on.

Then one day, quite by surprise, I cracked up.  At the doctors.

I didn't really see it coming.  Although the brolly in the fridge and the house keys in the shower caddy should have been a good indicator.

I was still working, still trying to keep the business afloat; the business that I started just a few months before IWADD (I Want a Divorce Day).  I was still cracking on.  Then my divorce decree came through.  But still, on I cracked!

A couple of months later I walked into the doctors office to get my usual 'jag' and she asked if I needed anything else.  She looked at me like I was mental when I asked for some Vic Vapourub and a shotgun.

"Helen, do you think you need help"

"No, don't be ridiculous, I was just kidding, I'm fine I can do it myself, I'll just crack on" I said, laughing off my stupid joke.  Then I made a sound not unlike Eeyore and cried till my face was so puffy I looked like a Moomin.

Only then did I tell her about the divorce.  And the start up of my new business.  And my house move.  And my office move.  And the court case against my ex-employers.

She listened.

She asked again:  "Helen, do you think you need help, that's a lot for anyone to have on their plate all at once?"

"I don't know.  I just can't be arsed with anything.  I just want to go away and never come back every again.  I just want to punch everyone in the face.  But sometimes I don't.  I don't really want anything.  I just want everything to fuck off."

She prescribed anti-depressants (I call them my happy pills) and I started taking them, that day, in June.  I was to see her every 4 weeks.  Great.  Now I'm spinster AND mental!

I didn't feel they were making a difference at all.  She told me to be patient and that I would have to be on them for at least 9 months.  9 twatting months!  Any need for that?   I thought I would be fine after a couple of weeks like when you take antibiotics or Lockets.

I persevered and I got worse before I got better.

My friends were really worried about me and thought I should come off them because I would often just sit and stare into space and not really join in.  Smiling was sometimes the hardest and most sick-inducing thing I had to do.  Don't get me wrong, I still did it in meetings and teaching my classes.  I am an actress after all.  No-one ever knew what was really going on underneath the 'fabulous, bouncy, mental, have a laugh' Raw exterior.

I had panic attacks and made excuses not to go places.  I would get faint in shops.  I stopped going to my acting group.  I stopped going to see friends in plays.  Sometimes, if I was on a bus, I would start sweating like a pig wishing I could just be at home in the bath, away from everything.

My 9 months is up next week.

I no longer feel numb.  I actually am getting excited about things.  I'm excited about my new business website.  I'm excited about the performances I have coming up this year.  I'm excited about the meetings I have set up for next week.  I'm actually WANTING to get out of bed in the mornings and crack on with work stuff and actually build my business rather than watch it 'tick over'.  I'm excited about going on safari with my mum and sis this year.  I'm no longer getting out of bed just because it's 'etiquette' to do so.


I'm due back at the doctors net week to review my 'happy pill' intake so we'll see what she says but I think I might get to come off them.

The Raw has been on a very slow simmer for quite a little while, but The Juggernaut is back.

I'm not mental.  I was just a little bit lost for a while.

People hear 'anti-depressants' and automatically think you are: a loon, a drunk, crying all the time or all of the above when the truth is, sometimes you're just dead inside.  If a little pill can help bring you back, crack on I say.

I'm still cracking on but in a different way.  I'm not doing it to cover up what's really going on inside.  I'm cracking on because I want to and, now I know the signs, I'll know if/when I start cracking up again and I'll know to ask for help.  Ha!  The Raw asking for help.  Wonders will never cease!

I'm not mental.

I'm totally fucking crazy.  And lovin' it!

*  mainly because I hadn't been back and nicked the fridge freezer out of the flat yet


"Depression is not sobbing and crying and giving vent, it is plain and simple a reduction of feeling.  People who keep stiff upper lips find it damn hard to smile" Judith Guest