Mice and Pumpkins

I am a writer, a musician, a mother and a creator. Here I share my writings, thoughts, music and other creations.

[miceandpumkins]

This is an original song written, played and sung by myself, Crystal Hall.

This was written around 2011 and recorded and produced by Jared Harding in January of 2016.

[miceandpumkins]

[miceandpumkins]

My Mental Health and Me

Disclosure: I am not a doctor or a psychiatrist. Hell, I failed AS psychology (twice). Some of the things I write may be incorrect but I am simply detailing my experience in the hope someone might understand or relate.

So a bit of backstory on my mental health…

In 2012, at age 17 I found out I was depressed. That’s not to say that that was when my depression started, but that was when I was hit with the sudden realisation that I wasn’t just a sad teenager who listened to “emo” music a bit too much. I was absolutely, indisputably depressed. A close friend of mine pointed it out to me and it was like he was shaking me awake from an awful nightmare I didn’t know I was having. He helped me realise that I was deeply depressed, extremely suicidal and in an emotionally abusive relationship that I promptly left soon after.

Fast forward to 2015, I was nearly 3 years deep into a physically, emotionally and sexually abusive relationship and gave birth to my son. I had postnatal depression. This affects more than 1 in 10 women and unsurprisingly, you are at a higher risk of PND if you have suffered from depression in the past. The thing was, I was living with my abusive partner and his abusive mother and was terrified that if I admitted my problems, that they would take my son away from me. So I suffered in silence.

It wasn’t until 2016 when I separated from my partner after I was seriously assaulted, that I finally saw my GP and got referred for help. I was diagnosed with depression and general anxiety disorder at the end of 2016 and in 2017, was prescribed sertraline (an anti-depression and anti-anxiety medication more commonly known in the US as Zoloft) and finally got on my way to getting my mental health under control.

I am aware that mental health issues run in my family and that my problems are not caused by my traumatic life experiences, but rather they are triggered and/or exacerbated by them. My body doesn't produce enough serotonin which is a neurotransmitter thought to be a contributor to feelings of well-being and happiness. So I am biologically predisposed to be depressed. Take that and throw in a rough childhood, multiple abusive relationships, sexual assault, rape and an incident I feel was a near death experience, and you have my mental health… sounds great, right?

So where are we now?

Since having received my diagnosis and prescription, I have had my dose of my medication doubled, I have experienced going days without my medication and the results of that, I have experienced going months without my medication (due to moving house and GP) and the results of that. From those experiences, having read John Green’s book Turtles All The Way Down and learning more from people who suffer with mental illnesses too, I would say I’ve learned a lot (albeit, a drop in the ocean of what there is to learn).

Today as I am writing this, I am experiencing the effect of having gone 72 hours without my medication. For the second weekend in a row I left my packet of pills in my drawer at work, leaving me with no medication for Saturday and Sunday. The routine of working Monday to Friday helps me remember to take my medication as I often take it in the morning when I get to work. This however, often leads me to forget to take my medicine on the weekends.

You will often hear about people who stop taking their medication because they feel “better”. The thing with mental health issues like mine, which are down to a predisposed biological problem, is that it’s not like finishing a course of antibiotics when you have an infection but rather like a diabetic taking insulin daily. So while this experience sucks, it’s a good reminder of why I take my medication. When I take it properly, most of the time I don’t feel ill. I feel “normal”. This can often lead you into a false sense of security and can often make people think that they are better. But as with the example of antibiotics vs insulin, there often isn’t a “better” to be had. Your body is simply missing something it requires and you are giving it that thing to resume a healthy balance.

So how does it feel to be off my medication for the weekend?

In the past 24 hours I have told my partner and my best friend that I don’t feel human and honestly, that’s exactly it. I experience what I have recently learned (courtesy of the ever wonderful Dodie Clarke) is called depersonalisation and derealisation.

Depersonalization can consist of a detachment within the self regarding one's mind or body, or being a detached observer of oneself. Subjects feel they have changed and that the world has become vague, dreamlike, less real, or lacking in significance. It can be a disturbing experience. Derealization is an alteration in the perception or experience of the external world so that it seems unreal. Other symptoms include feeling as though one's environment is lacking in spontaneity, emotional colouring, and depth.

So basically, I don’t feel real. I feel foggy and confused and just not at all grounded in where or who I am. My face and my hands don’t feel like they are mine, nor do my actions. I also don’t feel like the world is real. It’s confusing and doesn’t look or feel right. I feel like I’m dreaming, where you just can’t focus. Like that moment where you realise you might be dreaming and you start to notice how everything is blurry and doesn’t make sense and you can’t read because the words aren’t real. That’s how I start to feel by the time 48 hours have passed without my medication.

Twice yesterday I felt myself having minor panic attacks but oddly, I also didn’t feel like I was having them. I was aware of my heart rate suddenly spiking, the feeling of paralyzation and panic, the tightening feeling I get around my throat and the inability to breathe but in both instances, it felt like I was watching it happen from outside my body rather than it actually happening to me. I just felt dazed and a little confused like having just woken from a nap you didn’t realise you were taking and not knowing what day or time it is or what is going on. On both occasions, I had no idea what triggered the panic attacks though in hindsight, I was enclosed in tight spaces I couldn’t immediately remove myself from if I had wanted. 

Dodie Clarke suffers from depersonalization/derealization disorder (DPD) and has spoken openly about it in the media, which is how I came to learn about depersonalization and derealization. It took her many years to find out what it was she suffered from and get diagnosed and she is still struggling with finding a treatment that works for her. Personally, I do not know if I can add DPD to my list of mental health issues or whether depersonalization and derealization are merely symptoms of my depression and/or anxiety disorder, but since my medication (when I take it properly) seems to control the issue, I see no reason to press it further for the time being. However, having learned about it helps tremendously with understanding why I feel and act the way I do. Knowing what it happening validates how I am feeling and ironically provides a small anchor of reality. 

Even if I don’t feel real, I know what I am feeling is real and has a name and that is a great comfort.

[miceandpumkins]

12th December 2012

Please be aware that this story is very personal and can be upsetting to read, especially if you know me personally. Please be respectful.

Facebook "On This Day” memories are a blessing and a curse. I get to look back and see my son as a baby and wonder where the past few years have gone and how I’ve managed to turn a smushy little baby into a beautiful cheeky little toddler, almost all on my own. I also get to see the cringy things I posted when I was 15 and “cool” (SPOILER ALERT: I was never cool). I think this is the case for most people. 

Sometimes, however, I see a seemingly innocuous memory that makes my chest tighten, my eyes sting and my breath catch in my throat. Today I saw one of those. 

Trigger Warning: Abuse

Innocent, right? 

Now to be clear, the following story is long and contains strong language and a detailed account of abuse. It’s not nice to read and really, I don’t expect anyone to. I’m writing it because today it is all I can think about.

That night me, my boyfriend of the time (henceforth referred to as Ex) and his cousin ( henceforth referred to as Cousin) went to see Ex and Cousin’s favourite band. Since this story involves alcohol, I’ll give you the added information that I was 18, Ex was 17 (it was his 17th Birthday) and Cousin was roughly 23) and that the month prior, the band had released their own label beer “Sssnakepit” which was being sold at the venue. 

When we arrived at the gig, we stuck together. Rather naively, we didn’t make a plan of where to meet if we got separated. During the support act Ex quickly darted through the crowd when it parted to do a wall of death so he could get to the front. Cousin grabbed me and moved me out of the way of harm (which I later found to be insanely ironic) then set off to find Ex. 

I didn’t see either of them for most of the concert and after realising the crowd was FAR too rowdy for me, I went to the bar to get a drink and got a Sssnakepit beer to try (I was 18, after all). 

So the concert ended and I enjoyed it for the most part, watching from the balcony instead of from within the crowd. I then set out to find Ex and Cousin. It was a nightmare because the place was small and crowded but I eventually found them outside. Ex was upset that the band were heading into the nightclub next door to socialise with fans but we couldn’t go in because he was 17.

Cousin mentions to Ex that he got a Sssnakepit beer and Ex is impressed and reacts positively. I mention I also got one and actually liked it (I’m not a beer fan). The switch FLIPS. Ex was pissed. He was angry I hadn’t bought him one too. I explained that I couldn’t find him, I didn’t know where he was and that I had planned on just grabbing one after the show for him. I even offered to go back in and get one. He refused. Instead he took my bottle that I had kept as a keepsake and set of in the direction of the train station in a foul mood, cousin and I in tow.

Cousin rolled his eyes and caught up with Ex, pretending he hadn’t seen Ex berate me and call me a “stupid fucking bitch” amongst other things for not buying my underage boyfriend (who has abandoned me in the middle of a gig and who I didn’t even know the location of at the time) a beer...

So Cousin and Ex walked ahead and I followed in silence. After a few minutes, Ex dropped back and began quietly berating me again. 

I didn’t love him. I was a fucking bitch. I was a fucking whore. I probably cheated on him during the concert when we were separated. I was a fat ugly cunt though, so maybe not. It’s okay though because he cheated on me too. Don’t be upset, it’s you’re fucking fault. If you weren’t such a useless bitch, I wouldn’t have kissed her. 

I remember staring at the back of Cousin’s head as he walked a small distance ahead, praying he would hear Ex and tell him to knock it off. I realise now that Cousin probably COULD hear him. He just didn’t care or didn’t think it his place to step in. Ex started shoving me and kicking my legs in between insults, making me trip and then laughing at how “fucking useless” I was that I couldn’t even walk straight. I told him to stop but he just laughed again and shoved me into the empty road, told me to die and caught up with Cousin, leaving me to follow behind in silence, sobbing and trying to ignore the pain in my shins where he had kicked me and I would later find a bruise the size of an apple.

We got the train home, neither Cousin or Ex acknowledging me as I sat across from them on the train. On the car ride home, Cousin and Ex told Ex’s dad how great the concert was. When Cousin was talking, without even looking at me, Ex started pinching my arms and only turned to face me when I started quietly crying. Silently, he mouthed “shut the fuck up”.

We got back to Ex’s house, exchanged pleasantries with his parents and headed to bed. Ex told me it was over. I had to leave in the morning. I sat on the end of the bed, trying to take up as little room as possible, wanting to shrink into nothing. My eyes stung and I wasn’t even crying anymore. I just felt sore and numb. He kicked me off the bed and told me I had to sleep on the floor. Too tired to even disagree, I grabbed my throw that I kept in his room and laid down on the floor and tried to sleep. 

After a few minutes, finally thinking it was over, he came and snatched the throw from me. 

I didn’t deserve it. I was a fucking useless girlfriend. I had ruined his birthday and his life. 

I didn’t even respond. I didn’t move. I didn’t cry. I just laid there hoping he would stop so I could sleep. So he kicked my back. 

I was in the fucking way. I needed to move to the other side of the room because he was sick of fucking looking at me. 

I moved. Silently. 

He came over and kicked my legs, then my back again and then finally the back of my head. I started crying and he stopped. That was what he wanted. So he got back in bed. 

This continued a couple of times. I would stop crying and just fall into a sense of security, thinking he was done and he would ask me why I had to be such a fucking bitch and either throw something at me or kick me. 

Eventually he fell asleep and so did I.

Now, I’d like to end this story by saying that I left the next day and never went back. But that’s not true. This wasn’t the first incident. This wasn’t the last incident. It wasn’t even CLOSE to the worst incident. 

The next day, he acted as if nothing happened and I let him.

I stayed for over 3 and a half more years...