Breaking Point

The irony of the last piece I wrote was that shortly after writing it, the anxiety I felt took such a hold that I no longer found any enjoyment in anything. I struggled to motivate myself to even leave the house, so my plan to find new hobbies and interests was swept away by my inner turbulence along with my formerly sunny self. I completely and utterly crumbled. I stopped going to work, became irritable and snappy, and felt inexplicably sad one moment and just numbingly empty the next. I cried every day for weeks at a time and was convinced something bad was going to happen to me, or worse to my family. At that point my husband urged me to seek help and I went to the GP three times in as many weeks and just sat in the surgery and cried. Big, ugly, uncontrollable tears rolled down my face but I couldn’t give them any clear explanation for why. I refused anti-depressants because I wouldn’t accept that I needed them to treat my ‘anxiety’, and felt so embarrassed every time I left the surgery at the mere mention of the word Depression. I referred to the Talking Therapies programme and became even more agitated every time I missed a deadline for completing the online modules, and was convinced I was just going a bit mad. I was so alone in my head and felt there was nowhere to turn. I was convinced my husband felt they would be better off without me, no matter how many times he came rushing home to give me cuddles on my really ‘bad’ days. Then one day, the hubs took control of the situation and came home from work with news that I could be referred for a proper mental health assessment under his private insurance. And I can say now that agreeing to go along with that despite all of my reservations was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made, and I feel so incredibly lucky to have had that privilege.

S x