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‘Sharing Stories’ – Our Volatile Years After Bipolar Diagnosis; Raising a teenager with Bipolar, by Kat.

 

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“As I read and learn more and more about bipolar disorder, I realise that my daughter Jessie has been textbook. The volatile behaviour in children with bipolar is extreme and common. Physical violence and verbal abuse is not short lived as it is with ADHD. Whereas rages in ADHD children usually last 30-40 minutes, they can last for hours with bipolar kids.

Jessie was typical in that she experienced the rage and aggression, and rarely the euphoria or elation. Discipline was fought, and she couldn’t deal with disappointment at all. She would fly into violent rages, smashing my things. Foul language and screaming abuse at the top of her lungs became Jessie’s way of communicating. I used to wonder if she’d just become a spoilt brat. Her behaviour was so out of character, and so extreme. In fact, she was actually behaving as kids with bipolar do. And understandably so – kids don’t have the understanding or maturity to cope with emotions bigger than themselves. I was parenting the way I always had, but Jessie stood up to all discipline and raged at any disappointment. Life was incredibly tumultuous in our house, and at that time I felt like I was between a rock and a hard place. Any parts of me left exposed were being squished between other rocks and hard places!

The abuse and destruction were what I found the hardest to cope with. I don’t stay in abusive relationships. But, you can’t leave your child. And she was no more than a child – she was just triggering things in me. Therefore I was hearing her as if I was listening to an adult. I had no control though and there’s nowhere to escape to to get away. Jessie would relentlessly follow me around the house, wherever I went – literally! She’s be in a rage, calling me every name under the sun, throwing things, smashing things and damaging my things. She was a baby the last time she saw her father, but I couldn’t get over their behavioural similarities and ways of thinking.

Being on a first name basis with many of our local police was just how it was for a couple of years. Jessie’s experiences were undoubtedly traumatic for a 10-11 year old. Calling 000 became a necessary safety measure for us both. It came to the point where I’d ask for an ambulance and the police would turn up. Every time. I only just realised why as I’m writing this – maybe only the police can section someone under the Mental Health Act, not paramedics? Police drove Jessie to hospital a couple of times, but due to self harm or talk of suicide, she usually travelled by ambulance. This could happen up to 3 times a week.

On two of those occasions she went against her will – carried out by police with wrists and ankles cuffed with the plastic tie-like cuffs they sometimes use. I’ll never forget it. At 11 she was carried out this way after being put down on the lounge with a knee pinning her head down until she settled enough to cuff her. Jessie was spitting at the officer, trying to bite her, fighting to free herself and swearing at and abusing the officer. The officer tried to get Jessie to settle, but she was out of control. She had got to that point where the brain flips and reason can no longer be seen. It was so distressing, I was in tears. And by the end so was Jessie.

Police applied for an AVO (Apprehended Violence Order) for me against Jessie when she was just 11. She’d chased me with a big knife, but fortunately my bedroom door came between us. It still has 8-10 stab marks in it. Police would arrive to what looked like the aftermath of a cyclone! Jessie had destroyed so many of my things, and the unit was being damaged. With the strength that comes with such rage, Jessie was a danger to herself and to me. We had the Sergeant come a few times to say something had to change. Well no shit Sherlock, but an AVO wasn’t the answer! Thankfully the court agreed. Jessie needed help. Psychiatric care was what she needed, but her aggression and volatility along with her young age made her ineligible for any of the many programs we applied to.

It was such a horrible time, and there was no respite. Our caseworker, Stella, from The Benevolent Society was truly our saving grace. There were times when I said to her that I couldn’t do this anymore. I’d had enough, Jessie needed to go into care where she could have good parents. For so long I seemed to get more wrong than I did right with Jessie. Consequently my confidence in parenting plummeted. I didn’t know this young person. How to deal with her was something that actually felt impossible at times.

Stella would remain calm and talk to me. Not once did she accept my parenting resignation, neither did she ever actually refuse my request for a better home for Jessie. She didn’t need to. She listened, she heard me and acknowledged where I was at and why. During our conversation she would teach me about Jessie’s behaviour, and remind me that I’m a good mum. By the end she would ask me if I still wanted her to make some calls. Of course not! I always felt empowered and determined after these visits where my frame of mind was so defeatist at the start.

I completed the Circle of Security parenting course with Stella. Doing one on one I was able to do that one in a lot of depth, relating it to specific situations I encountered. It’s a BRILLIANT course that every expectant parent would benefit from. It gives parents the opportunity to learn what babies need emotionally to grow into confident, resilient, well balanced people. The principles apply to children of all ages though, and I found it invaluable. It is all about positive, calm engagement and recognising, understanding and attending to children’s emotional needs and behaviours. This is the parents’ manual we all wish we had!! It should be way more widely promoted! Another brilliant course is the Triple P Positive Parenting course for parents of teens. The principles are very similar as Circle of Security, but you learn about the teenage brain and what changes it is going through. Positive communication skills are also taught along with practical example responses.

It’s now been 3 years since I’ve needed to call 000 and home life is very different now. We have other challenges we are currently faced with, but the highly volatile days are in the past. These days Jessie apologises to me if speaks to me in an angry tone, or storms off slamming her bedroom door. She’ll then talk to me about what upset her and why. Our bond is strong and has proven to be enduring which I really love.”

 – By Kat. 

More of Kat’s stories can be found at her blog FamilyFurore, where she shares her personal experiences with raising her teenage daughter who has been diagnosed with Bipolar disorder.

 

Stories are still needed!

Do you have a mental health/recovery story of your own that you’d like to reach out and share to others? Whether it be overcoming depression to addiction to eating disorders… no matter what your area, there will be a chance that your experience will touch someone elses life.

Send your story with your name to themanicyears@gmail.com and i’d be happy to publish on The Manic Years.

Sharing saves lives –

M x

Tonight, I swam.

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Tonight I stepped out, placed my toes in the sea
Felt the waves on my skin, how cold they might be
Looked out past the shore, past the river than ran
Tonight I went swimming, the night that I swam.

I plunged in the deep, to the dark and the blue
And swam in the water, the ocean anew
No light was I leading, for only the sky
Was lit up with stars, the only light by
The waters I swam through, no current aflow
Could have swept me up with no direction to go

But tonight I went swimming, this night that I swam
I swam through the rivers, I swam through the damn
I swam through the mountains, I swam through the sky
For even the songbirds, the birds I swam by!

Still the waters so deep, could not swallow me whole
I swam all my might no direction to go
Until all my shackles, my shackles were free
Tonight I went swimming, I did it for me

The Bad Week – A prime example of how external influences can affect my mood swings.

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It all started when I woke up one morning and it hurt to pee.

Many females are familiar with the uncomfortable sensation, especially if you are one of the lucky ladies such as myself with UTI’s frequently occurring a few times a year (ouch), even more so, if you find them problematic to shift.

Hence, I gave a vocal sigh, started working out in my head the impossibility of how I could fit myself in to see the doctor around my busy schedule, and carried on with my day, little of knowing there was more displeasing incidents to follow. After a busy morning and afternoon running back and fourth from my desk to the Loo’s at work, 6pm finally came around and I kept up out of my seat eager to get in to my car and get home to rest. Silly me decided – that in the circumstance of which I longed to be in my bed – to make the practical decision to also run down the stairs, which the day in the midst of my decending gallop was made more entertaining by my iPhone –  item not insured – joining in with the fun and also leaping out of my hand, landing a rather impressive bellyflop on the marble steps below me.

I knew I had caused some significant damage to the screen before my eyes could dare to take a look at the wreckage, by the audible echo it produced up the stairwell. If anyone has damaged their iPhone screen before, they could easily draw up the mathematics here that I would at least be £50 out of pocket this month.

Hence, I gave another vocal sigh, started working out in my head the impossibility of how I could fit myself in to see the phone doctor around my busy schedule, and carried on with my day, little of knowing there was more displeasing incidents to follow.

I soon shrugged off the incidence as ‘Oh well, such is life,’ and finally got to my car to drive home. I popped my earphones in, and welcomed a voice of one of my many companions for my journey (this week it was a dramatic reading of Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park), and got settled in to the story.

At this point I must defend myself here – yes, I am fully aware of the dangers of the distraction brought along with not only fully engaging in an audiobook rather than what I am doing on the road, but also using my earphones to drown out all sounds around me – but I do drive for three hours a day for work, what else is a girl to do in rush hour traffic?

On this occasion, I am ashamed to admit that it must have took me at least 50 minutes to realise the screeching, no – god awful grinding noise – that  was coming from my brakes. The absolute panic arose in me, followed by a frantic effort to type ‘WHY IS MY CAR MAKING A HORRIBLE NOISE’ in to a search engine on my phone and squinting through it’s shattered screen to find that the majority of advice concluded by Yahoo answers was; Stop driving.

Fortunately I made it home, gave a vocal sigh, started working out in my head the impossibility of how I could fit myself in to see the car doctor around my busy schedule, and carried on with my night, little of knowing there was more displeasing incidents the next day to follow.

By 8pm I was tucked up safe in my bed, and whether it was the infection or the build up of stressful events of the day – or both – made the conscious decision to take some time off work, and settled down for the night.

The following day, after many half-arsed attempts from The Boy to get me out of bed, I finally woke. It was 1pm. And I was absolutely exhausted, in pain and felt utter rotten. Yep, my water infection had succeeded in invading my system even further, and I could barely wake myself up. I had a painful day of recurrent fevers, sweating, nausea, and a headache from hell that a small handful of painkillers failed to shift. If I can recall correctly through my fog of a memory of that horrendous afternoon, there was even an episode of tears. The only good fate of the day, being that I had predicted my relentless state and decided to take action and notify work that for that one Wednesday at least; I was done for.

Of course, when you work in clinical research, the heavy workload demands you back on your feet when you get knocked down. With this requirement, having a fuzzy head and a car booked in at the local mechanics, I was driven in to work by The Boy the following day.

My only ever sickness day of the year and of course, shit went down. The emails were piled up, recent developments erupted on studies which had otherwise been laying dormant the past few months, people were panicked. I felt like shit and my kidneys were hurting. Whilst I was juggling three things at once, running to the toilet to throw my coffees up, and multiple people stopping me to politely tell me that I ‘looked at shit as I probably felt’ – I got a phone call of the mechanic.

‘Your brakes are sorted, we’ve also tightened up some jiggly bits [insert car related lingo here as appropriate]. That will be £160 please.’

Fuck.

Mother of actual fucks for this to happen on the month I was skint anyway -the very month of my Daughter’s birthday, the month my washing machine brakes down, the month where the floor deliberately decided to shatter my phone screen, the month where I also had to pay an unexpected £20 prescription charge for I’d realised my NHS exemption had expired. Fucketty, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

With my ever so pounding head, I ran to the toilet to chuck again after that, and kicked myself in the shin for not taking that additional time off to stay in bed.

The Boy picked me up after what seemed to be the longest 8 hours a person could ever endure, and I let out the biggest rant of life is not fair and why is it always me! that could be expected after the unfortunate past few days. We sat a typical two hours in traffic together, no audiobooks in tow, and played childish games of One or the Other. He made me smile, the first smiles of the week. We talked, told jokes, made plans. It was the best I’d felt for what felt like mini eternity, and I even forgot about the headache that had seemed to have settled in and made a cosy home in my temples.

And then; he pissed me off.

For his God defying sake, I will not go in to the details of his selfish stupidity – but all in one I felt the wrath of the hellish week that had bestowed on me – much to his disadvantage. I cried. I just broke down and I sobbed. The boy had realised then, how much of a toll this week and him not making it any better and sat beside me (who was on the bed curled up in a foetal position, clutching at my knees like a child).

This is a scene that is expected of anyone, regardless of their mental health status, after such events. What is not expected, is the following…

Me; Stalling in my sobs and staring across the room startled.

The Boy; ‘Are you okay?’

Me; continues to distantly stare across the room, embarrassing display of emotion still on hold. 

The Boy; ‘Megan, what is it?’

He looks at the wall. Then turns back around to me. I break my gaze and catch his eye. Then, startling him in the most unexpected and freakish way, I burst out uncontrollably in the biggest fit of laughter.

I laughed. I laughed so fucking hard, that even more tears ran down my face. My body scrunched up even further; unable to breath through my uncomprehendable outburst of emotion, my body shaking violently next to him.

The Boy just looked at me in silence. He just sat there, bewildered at the manic mess that was myself, wondering why the hell I was in the state that I was when a few blinks before I was a blubbering baby.

A minute passed by, before I was even able to manage to compose myself enough to communicate with him.

Why the fuck are you laughing?’ He asked, a look of concern and confusion across his face.

For I was not laughing for the unfortunate events that had contributed  to my disastrous week, no. I was laughing because in that moment, the light switch which was on my wall across the room, looked like Pingu the Penguin’s younger Brother. 

And in my heightened state, I’d lost all control of my emotion. That guys, is a glimmer of Bipolar mania in all it’s glory. To conclude the night, I later realised that I accidentally had skipped a few of my meds the week before.

Here’s to hoping – for my sake and the sake’s of those around me – that next week bring better days.

The Power of Hypnosis – and how it plays a huge part in my recovery.

 

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I remember the first time one of my therapists in my early days of my recovery, gave me a disk to use for my homework to tide me over until we were to meet again during the following weeks appointment. The disk contained a series of hypnosis tracks, which were bestowed on me to encourage this phenomenon they called ‘mindfulness’.

My first thought?

What a load of bullshit.

There I was truly believing this guy was trying to pawn me off with some notion that deep breathing exercises can promote spiritual awareness and other flibbergabber, and in all it’s mighty enforce it’s healing powers, click it’s fairy dust fingers and fix me on the spot.

There was no quick fix for me, I was fully aware of this, which probably lead to me dismissing the hypnotherapy and meditation so instantaneously. I was too far-past-fucked-up for any alternate therapies to turn me in to the normal human being I was striving to be. But desperate as I was, I half heartedly gave it a go.

The first time I tried and tested this unusual exercise, I found myself laid on my bed, earphones in and compact disk whizzing away in my walkman, chuckling away at the guy on the tape’s creepy ass voice which was no relaxing than a failed attempt to be seductively chatted up by some drunken Smooth-Steve in a jazz bar.

 

‘Now close your eyes, and take a deeeeeepppp breattthhhhh in….’

 

How on earth was I supposed to relax when I had the feeling that someone was going to jump out at me and startle me in my trance? There was something so unnatural about lying there with my eyes closed without the intention of taking a nap, and even more uncomfortable with my earphones blocking the sound and therefore my awareness of my actual surroundings.

Despite my ignorance, I kept at it, and with a bit of practice managed to see past the giggle fits and the nonsensical nature of it. By habit, it became a valued piece of my nightly routine, and one that I comforted for when the day had ended.

A few years ago, I had long gotten over the CD and it was a forgotten practice, along with my CBT training and group therapy. At this point in my life, I had just been struck down with my Bipolar diagnosis alongside a very difficult split with my Daughter’s Father. I had lost my home and my sanity along with it, and I felt like my life had struck head first in to a brick wall; an obstacle I could not forsee any possibility of getting over. In a desperate attempt to grasp on to something to steady myself in that crazy time, I turned again to hypnosis. I found a hypnotist and life coach – Joseph Clough – downloaded his podcasts and away I tried to plod on with my days. I listened day and night, his voice was the only soothing sound which cradled my mind to sleep in the evenings, and the voice that pulled me out of my bed when the sun and my responsibilities rose up to start the day the next morning.

It was a difficult time, one that is hard to remember even a couple of years down the line, but those podcasts saved me. They were the motivator that adjusted my mind to start thinking anew – eventually leading to all the possibilities which were open to me – the opportunities I decided to take which lead to this point in my life today.

Joseph Clough’s work was to become friend to me for the next couple of months, as I carried on with his words of wisdom whilst pulling myself upright and slowly stitching my life back together.

As people with Bipolar disorder and other mental health issues probably know, insomnia can be an issue that marks a huge impact on our lives. Whilst the newly prescribed Quetiapine; the antipsychotic that was knocking me out cold when I first began to take it; was enough to settle me in to slumber in the evenings, the effect eventually wore off. I found myself tossing and turning a frustrated insomniac, relentlessly fighting for at least an hour or two before I was to face the day that was approaching. I turned again to hypnosis.

This time, I found an app of sleep hypnosis tracks by Darren Marks, and found my usual busy chatty mind drifting away to the sound of his powerful words in no time. Sleep that was once a battle, was now something that came automatically to me, and my listenings of sleep hypnosis tracks has chisled it’s permanent mark in to my nightly routine.

I have practiced the art of hypnosis every single evening for almost three years now, and it has never failed me. Whether it presents it’s purpose to reset my system after a long hard day, or to take a few quiet moments with the Headspace app in the middle of my lunch break at work  – it is one of the little luxuries I am sure to indulge in without fail; and thus, has aided a great deal towards my long term recovery.

You can find some of my top hypnosis artists and tracks in the links below.

 

Darren Marks: http://www.learnoutloud.com/Results/Author/Darren-Marks/19978

Joseph Clough: http://podbay.fm/show/369607516

Headspace: https://www.headspace.com

Speak. Louder.

The Manic Years

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Recently, The Manic Years has had many of you emailing in your first hand experiences of what it is like to live with difficulties from a variety of backgrounds reguarding mental health. So far, the stories in the feature has inspired people, reached out to many and succeeded on expressing a multitude of inner turmoil that is so often hard to explain for some.

It is clear that attitudes towards mental health is changing, thanks to all the hard work of so many people have advocated for mental health, and the rights of those who struggle. Admitting you have a problem, and even asking for help is getting easier for some as having depression – and many more illnesses – is becoming more normalised.

However, we are still lacking in how information about mental health disorders is delivered, and many thousands, millions out there are still struggling to recognise what exactly they are suffering with;

“I can’t be…

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A huge THANK YOU – Sharing Stories.

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Last month, The Manic Years started a “Sharing Stories” feature, where I encouraged people to share their own personal experiences with Mental Health to be published on the blog. The aim of the feature was to provide a wider scope of  ‘true to life’ emotional experiences reguarding mental health, in aid of attempting to reach out to readers on a more personal level; providing words that other people who are experiencing similar can really relate to.

The feature has been great so far – with each story being helpful to someone, somewhere, in it’s own way.

I want to take a minute to say a huge thank you to all the brave people who has approached me over the past few weeks, who took the time to offer their story to share. You are the gems of this project, and by voicing your experiences you really have helped people – Sharing can save lives.

I also want to thank the readers, and the followers of the blog who have supported the posts. I have had nothing but positivity and gratitude towards the writers of these stories, words of encouragement, lovely comments and shares.

I am still looking for people to share their stories, the scope of the different areas of mental health keeps growing ; and I can only hope it continues to do so.

If you would like to help out and have your story featured on The Manic Years, please drop me an email on themanicyears@gmail.com.

 

Thanks again,

 

M 🙂

 

“Sharing Stories” – Music and Blogging, by Scott Hamilton.

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My name is Scott. I live in the North East of England and was originally diagnosed with depression and anxiety over twenty five years ago.

I was a quiet kid, kept very much to myself as I was growing up. My family appeared pretty normal at first but cracks have shown with all of us at some point. My first major episode came in my late teens. I started developing signs of depression and anxiety whilst studying for my A-Levels. I went to the doctors serval where I was told any combination of these things:

 

“It’s your hormones.”

“It’s common for someone your age.”

“You’ll grow out of it.!”

 

Mental health as we know it didn’t exist in the late eighties and early nineties. You were kind of told to get on with it, buck your ideas up.
I started getting worse. By the end of my studies I’d become a mess. The strict rules of sixth form led to some metaphorical butting of heads. I was alienating people. I was slipping into a pretty bleak struggle with myself and I was pretty damn intent on breaking me.I started self-harming as a way to manifest the white noise and shit in my head. If I could make it real it would exist. If it existed I could try to deal with it. I would punch walls until my knuckles bled. Even now I can’t flex my hands without the knuckle joints of my little fingers popping. I started isolating myself even more, growing more and more despondent every day. That was until I took my overdose.

Even now I know it wasn’t premeditated. I didn’t think that I wanted to kill myself. I just wanted everything to end. I wanted an absence from existence. I just wanted the journey I was on to just stop. I took a lot of pills and washed them down with some beers. After I few hours I let my family know what I’d done and was rushed to hospital where I ended up vomiting for hours, puking the poison and parts of my stomach out of my system.

I saw some counsellors but knew I wasn’t quite right afterwards. I kind of rode the waves of my life, battling the ensuing panic attacks and depression whilst trying to find some purpose to my being here.

 

Something saved me.

 

As corny as it sounds I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for music. It literally saved my life and connected with my soul. It became something that would inform and influence me. I ended up singing in a kind of arty punk cabaret band, influenced by performance art as much as music. It provided me with a much needed outlet for the trapped white noise in my head – it gave a voice to my plague of fears and doubts. Onstage I’d writhe, contort and throw myself into the moment I’m an attempt to exorcise the negativity. If I didn’t come off stage cut, bruised, marked or bleeding it had been a bad gig.

Eventually I started on medication. I was first prescribed Prozac in the late nineties. I always felt it worked for me when I needed, and would spend time on and off it. Sometimes it would leave me dazed and confused, other times I could function like a normal member of society. Since then I tried, and occasionally had success, with several different meds. At the moment Venlafaxine is doing a great job of keeping me relatively on an even keel. Some days are better than others but I much prefer that than being too numb to care.

My last major spell with anxiety and depression started five months ago and was the result of me not being able to process some things properly. The anxiety robbed me of my ability to go outside and enjoy my life for a while. Counselling and the afore mentioned meds pulled me back to a point where I could go back to work and try to live my life the best I can.

One of the things that I found really helpful was starting to write a blog, The Order Of The Dog. Within a few hours of my first post I’d had messages of support and compassion. I even had people email me to tell me their stories and what had happened to them. This spurred me on. I ended up creating a small closed support group on Facebook, also called The Order Of The Dog, after someone messaged me to say that my blog had helped her understand her daughter’s suicide attempt. I knew then that things had become more than just about me, I’d been able to strike a chord with others too. I try to post my blogs a couple of times a week, here on WordPress but also on Blogger too. I mainly talk about my issues but I’ve also starting telling the story of other people too which I’ve found incredibly rewarding.
The whole thing of being able to talk openly in such a way has been incredibly therapeutic and I know it’s really helping me as well as other people. Not only that but I’m also helping create an awareness at my workplace around mental health issues and support. I’m finding I can be a tool for change rather than let everything change me. I like who I am (most of the time) and I can help create an acceptance and understanding of what I’ve gone and continue to go through.

-By Scott Hamilton.

 

You can find Scott’s Wordpress blog at TheOrderOfTheDog , and find his facebook Support group here.

 

Themanicyears is still looking for people to share their stories! If you have an experience with Mental Health you would like to share on here, please do not hesitate to drop me an email on themanicyears@gmail.com, and get your story published on our “Sharing Stories” feature. – M.

THE BAD ENERGY – What it really feels like to suffer with Anxiety.

Anxiety is a feeling that has it’s hold over me so often these days, I can honestly hold my  hands up and say that it is one of the only ‘feelings’ I harvester that makes me scared out of my wit.

I have, many times, described the feeling I hold as a feeling of ‘Doom’. Just that single noun, as there is no other assortment of letters I can extract from my mind that has given it as much justice. That saying, it is not a feeling that can be described in just a single word. How do you describe such a powerful surge of emotion in something so static?

When my anxiety decides to knock on my door and uninvitingly barge it’s way in to my confort zone, from my inner bubble of family and friends I always get the conventional;

 

  1. What are you thinking about?
  2. Why are you worrying?
  3. Just shrug it off!

 

The three of them, taken in to account, has lead to a passing conclusion many times in my mind, that my Bipolar anxiety might not actually be what is eugenically known as the term ‘Anxiety’ in general. Maybe it is something else altogether, seperate from what others – my family, my friends, my many many therapists see as Anxiety.

And from the ashes of these paranoid indiffering thoughts, I started coming up with the term ‘The Bad Energy’. The Bad Energy, is in face not anxiety, and cannot be explained in terms of anxiety, but is something else altogether.

Crazy thought, right?

If I look up the word anxiety in the Oxford dictionary I get this as a first term;

  1. A feeling of worry, nervousness or unease about something with an uncertain outcome: ‘he felt a surge of anxiety.

Let’s take a moment to analyse this.

A feeling of worry.

Definately not. This is not the horrible ‘doom’ defying feeling I feel – at all – as my anxiety is illogical. I usually carry out my days (if not sunken down by depression) more on the optimistic side of life. I am not worrying about anything, and if there was one answer to put a halt to this dreadful feeling, and the solution to it was to simply stop worrying about the topic at manner then trust me; i’d fucking stop worrying.

Does my ‘bad energy’ come up when I sit there with my bills in front of me wondering whether i’m going to make this month’s rent up? A sickly feeling yes, but not ‘anxiety’.

Does my ‘bad energy’ arise when I have a job interview, an exam, a test of some sort? A niggly nervousness (see quote) yes, but not the anxiety I am accustom to.

Now, has my ‘bad energy’ come up when I have been shopping at my local pondering over what sort of milk top to put in my basket? It has. Had my ‘bad energy’ come about when I have been driving in my car, windows down, singing along to a playlist on a nice sunny day? It has, quite frequently. Has my ‘bad energy’ come about having  a lighthearted random conversation over a coffee with a close friend? It most certainly has.

To call it a feeling derived from ‘worrying’ is incomprehensively flawed in my case. This is the reason I get so worked up when people ask me what I am thinking about and/or why I am worrying. I am not. It just is. You don’t blame the presence of a stone on ‘being’ there because of the person next to it worrying about it or because you thought the stone up in your mind now do you? It’s just there.

Nervousness.

Yeah, I get this one. There are a few butterflies flapping about (-although, I have described it once upon a time to my therapist as it more like being black heavy moths of lead flapping about viciously; with little tiny razor blades on their wings), maybe but we come back to the ultimate question again; what are you nervous about? Absolutely nothing.

Unease.

Okay this is more like it. That might be where the ‘Doom’ description came from. Unease, I do feel. If you count feeling uneasy as feeling like you have been repeatedly been whacked with a sack of bricks.

I suppose there is some sort of truth in the unease about something with a certain outcome. But people don’t even consider that when it comes to the term anxiety do they?

 

“What are you worrying about?”

 

So here is my shot at attempting to make up my own definition of what this anxiety/bad energy/razor moth doom feels like, in a hope to shed some light in to people who can’t seem to grasp the concept…

 

Imagine you are skipping along happily on a great sunny day. Let’s make it better than great, maybe it began on an unexpected Monday morning where you got a phonecall from your boss and he randomly gives you a day off. You are free in life enjoying yourself, with no where to go, no responsibilities to take care of, indulging in the sweet notes of upbeat music playing in the air and minding your own business when –

Darkness engulfs you. There is empty space all around you, and you cannot see a thing. It is pitch black, empty and cold. You don’t even know if you are standing upright, or which direction you are facing, because all you can feel is the space of the unknown around you in the blackness. Your instinct is screaming at you to run, but you are stuck there with no sense of direction. Your skin starts to crawl, and you get a creeping feeling that something is about to happen. Something is going to jump out at you. But you can’t see, or feel or hear any sounds. Yet you know something is there, waiting for you in the shadows. Then, ever so slowly – so slow that is is barely noticable at first – you feel a faint breeze on the back of your neck. You are hit with a sudden shock of terror when you come to the realisation that something sinister, your worst fear, is breathing its hot sticky breath beneath your hairline.

Now take that fear of yours, and materialise it.. It can be anything, from a pit full of sharp needles you are about to fall in to, from a ledge off the tallest building you can imagine. From the darkness, you abruptly see that slap bang in front of you – your breath pauses from the shock of it appearing right there in your face. Then you realise you are at that pivital point of no return, the point where the weight of your body tipples over the balance off the edge of the ledge, the one where your brain says ‘NO’ and your heart stops beating. Keep that fear. Imagine it. That very moment of terror that makes time stop. Freeze it.

Now with that that fear, that horrible electrically charged surge of emotion, turn it dark. Turn it sour, almost to the point it is painful and sharp. More. Even more. Realy fight to make it as nasty and as vicious as you can.

Now compress it. Compress that fear, and squeeze all that evergy in to the tightest space you can. Feel it increase in weight, feel how heavy it feels in your hands, like a big hot ballbearing. All that dense black energy all tight in one space, ready to explode.

Now put that nasty ball of compressed energy in to your heart. Feel your back bend over and your muscles in your body squeeze and tense up with the weight, your heart still stuck in time paused on one beat, aching with the pain. There are no thoughts, no way out of it, your mind can’t even possibly register an explaination of why this is happening – your brain is still paralysed in that singular moment with the fear of the shock, remember? Your breath still held on that one last breath.

Now carry that around all day.

And then, you sense someone who is still in that distant parallel universe where the sun is still shining, and the music is still playing, and they look over at you and ask;

 

“What are you worrying about?”

 

Maybe i’m not the crazy one after all. Maybe I am not the one who is indifferent. And maybe, more people in this world need to look up what Anxiety actually means, rather than this globally passive term of ‘worrying’ that people assume it is.