Community Spirits...Let's All Stand Together in Love, Support and Respect

Sitting and reflecting on the wonderful communities I belong to

Did you know that there was a time when communities didn't exist at all? I hadn't thought of it until I was in my third year at university learning about Ancient Greece and I started reading about the way city states (poleis or polis, singular) were created.

"Greek citizenship stemmed from the fusion of two distinct but related elements, (a) the notion of the individual state as a 'thing' with boundaries, an ongoing existence, and a power of decision, and (b) the notion of its inhabitants participating in its life as joint proprietors."

Of course, communities and the act of living together go back tens of thousands of years before this, but as any historian would say, that's "not my period"! (I think they were talking about dates, though one can never be too sure.) As early as the seventh century BC, people were identifying themselves as a group with the people who lived around them, making boundaries that defined where they were and then taking part in life as a group.

Totally Locally... Teddington

For me it's hard to believe that people didn't always have a joint identity at least where they lived. Now, of course, we have communities all around us, not only where we live, but where we work, where we exercise, where we go to school or university, and where we join groups with like-minded people for artistic, political, religious or any other type of shared interest.

We all stand together. Indeed. Love this.

Over the past year I've experienced some of the best community spirits I could possibly imagine.
My work colleagues in the KPMG Learning Academy are brilliant people who have supported me with reasonable adjustments for my health, real dedication and team spirit for every project we've worked on together. I've made friends at Bushy Park parkrun where we gather in rain or frost or (crosses fingers) sunshine at 9am on a Saturday to do a collectively mad thing and run around the park for a 5K run. I've been accepted by Mind as a volunteer and together we are working on addressing the stigma around mental health and trying to raise funds to get people the support they so deserve, and the respect that should be a given but is still something many are struggling to find. I've had my wonderful friends, who have sent me messages in tough times and shared their own troubles with me, and we've supported each other, which, as my therapist keeps telling me, is exactly how it should be.

A new community of friends made through

Helen Astrid and her Singing Academy

The community I haven't mentioned about is the place where I live - Teddington. Having broken back my back late last year, and also trying to manage my depression through 'reasonable adjustments' like home working and not travelling, I've stayed at home to work for a lot of my working weeks. As I've said before, this is hugely helpful because I've been able to stave off loneliness which I experience when I'm isolated too much from others, It's a balance for me of wanting to get out into the world and see people and feeling that I'm not up to it on other days. Thankfully at the moment those days are much fewer, but I do pause to check in with my health regularly to see if I'm lower than usual and might need to do something extra to keep my health as good as I can.

London, Christmas Style

Teddington is a small town about 35 minutes from central London by train. Many families live here, many people (from my small network) seem to have grandparents or great aunts here. And there are also people like me, in their thirties (and twenties) who have a flat here because it's (just about) affordable based on quite a good salary and is not too far away from central London. It used to be colloquially and locally known as Deadington, lacking many shops, with a fairly unhealthy crime rate and not much going on.

Thanks Postman Pat for teaching me about communities from an early age.

Plus, you had a cat called Jess. I had to be on your team!

What a difference even in the five years since we've lived here. We have a huge range of unique shops selling everything you could want, and a particularly strong collection of independent shops, which I'm really proud of, especially given our current economic climate and how challenging it is to afford all things small-business.

Hands up!

Within those small businesses I've made friends with some very special people in the last year. I've been able to get out of the house and experience just a little bit of the outside world when I'm particularly unwell, or when better I've had wonderful conversations with these people and we've shared laughs and experiences in a way that has been hugely beneficial to my mental health. I am really touched by the kindness, support and love that I've received (and hopefully I've given some of this back!).

My mum... I'm so lucky to have a supportive family

Last night I launched my mental health campaign #RedefiningResilience at 1of1 Designs, a beautiful treasure trove of a shop where you can find many, many treats for yourself or your home, run with love by Kate and her husband Charlie, who also generously donated 10% of takings to Mind last night. Other special local businesses (and a few chains too) were kind enough to donate raffle prizes for the night, which raised money for Mind. A local couple who run a wine company - Doran Vineyards - provided wine for the event, my friend Hannah (whom I had not seen for 15+ years since we left school!) went above and beyond the bounds of friendship and made 50 cupcakes with cherry blossom decoration to match the brand.

AND they tasted SO GOOD

On top of all of the above, the friends who either came along or sent messages of good luck from wherever they were, truly touched me. I think it's probably quite hard to be friends with me because although I manage to work full time and hardly ever take a day off, there have to be trade-offs for this, and they come in the form of my being not always that social. That being said, I love my friends, I love seeing them and that we support each other, and last night very special messages came my way, and some people discovered that the journey from Highgate to Teddington really does take about an hour and a half, even on good public transport! Eek!

My friend George...A super friend.

I am a part of a community of individuals challenging stigma around mental health, but in all of the above I find myself in communities. At work, in Teddington, in my interests in books and films and food, and in much more. Within our communities we can make positive changes - whether that's at work or elsewhere. Working together, supporting one another, we can grow. As a change management specialist, who tries to shape change within organisations through learning, communicating and bringing people together, I see everyday why it is important that we have our communities (or our networks if that sounds more work-appropriate).

Speaking at the Redefining Resilience Launch in Teddington

at 1of1Designs Teddington, who generously hosted the event

The communities that I have chosen form my identity, as a friend, wife, colleague, campaigner, patient and more. Without this support, I don't think I could be here today, so thank you to all of you.
I have included some pictures and videos of the communities in my video diary series #12DaysOfXmasMH. This short Christmas campaign describes my experiences of what resilience and what mental health is like for me, and a big part of that is finding support from others that enables me to keep going.

More posts to come, but for now, thank you, readers, because you are a part of this community reading the blog and interacting with mental health and life and all its winding pathways. Take care of yourselves and I send you much love for the weekend. x

Can't wait to give these gifts to my family tomorrow!

We Can Work It Out...Or can we? Talking About my Mental Health at Work

Stephen Fry, Patron of Time to Change and mental health advocate

In June, when Stephen Fry appeared on Desert Island discs (which, if you haven’t heard of it, is a fantastic way to glimpse the biographies of the world’s good and great through their reflections on life and 8 discs they would choose to accompany them if they happened to be cast away on a desert island). He talked about the impact of his mental health on his life. He also talked about his decision to be open about his condition, recognising (to paraphrase) that he is never free of thinking of his mental health or others’ through his decision to be open about it. 

Stephen Fry on Desert Island Discs

I sympathise with this perspective, because I would very much like to be free of my own mental illness and to go through life with a normal amount of woe, (whatever a normal amount is) balanced against a reasonable ability to cope with whatever life may drag, toss, push, cajole or offer into my path.

This is the kind of conversation I can so easily have with myself, again and again.

At the moment, however, I am still handling poor mental health every day, and I am more than happy to speak about it in the hope that it will help me to accept myself as I am, rather than embracing all the defective qualities I find it so easy to discover in myself. More than this, I hope that my decision to be open will help other people at work be more open about their illnesses, and I especially hope that it will help managers, leaders and HR professionals (the people whose job it is to support us at work) to see that depression and anxiety do not exclude a person from being able to make a valuable contribution to the working world.

I “came out” at work last year after realising that to go on hiding a condition that left me at times debilitated and unable to get out of bed from my employers only fostered my own strong sense that I was actually a failure, hopeless, useless and no good for anything or anyone. I set myself extremely high standards, nurtured since my earliest memories, for everything that I do, and when I considered the risk that, in coming out with my depression, I might find visible proof that others saw me as “less than”, “weak”, “to be avoided”, I only wanted to crawl further beneath the duvet, to barricade the windows with blackout blinds seven fold and never to come out again, rather than to take that risk.

It's not actually wallowing. It's drowning.

I had had bad experiences at work previously when struggling with my depression, which you can read about earlier in my blog and also in the piece I contributed to Buzzfeed this week about my precarious route along the tangled wiry cables of a life spiked with barbs of depression towards being honest about it to myself and others. It was when I experienced bullying from people outside of my company which left me so destroyed that I did not want to live, that I finally got help in hospital. And it was during recovery and return to work that I realised that I would only protect those bullies and harm myself if I didn’t try to put across my point of view, and show that I was still Jessica, depression, anxiety, and all.

Sometimes I feel this way; mostly I have to work not to hide it, 

as well as deciding whether I have the energy to smile

I have heard many negative stories from people who have been terribly treated by someone from their employer when they have tried to express their needs for support because of their mental illness. It enrages me when I imagine the huge step a person has to take to ask for help because of a (still very much stigmatised) mental illness. I am ashamed for the human race that people wilfully (at times) harm people with mental illness when they refuse support or (at best) to ignore requests for help. 

Despite the funny message intended, being a boss 

who doesn't support colleagues and staff's health needs  is not acceptable.

An atmosphere at work where there is too little support is toxic and unproductive

What makes it worse is that when I am struggling with depression the last thing I want to do, instinctively, is to draw attention to it publicly, because my self-loathing and acute awareness of everything weak and bad in myself is so heightened that I am seething with the physical sensations that this brings, and feel sure that others must be able to see that I am totally worthless. To be refused support only perpetuates this notion. To be told to “pull yourself together” makes me fall farther apart.

It's easy to believe this when you are struggling with depression.

It's so easy that I can believe everyone else will have the same low opinion of me

that I can have of myself

So what would I suggest to those people? Not everyone will have a positive experience when speaking about their mental health at work…but if you are ill you need to take whatever steps are needed to try to get well, whether that is medication, therapy, time off work, adjusted working hours, adjustments to the way that you work. You should be able to get these. 

I believe that everyone has the right to support at work, with illness

and that everyone has the right to work without fear of discrimination

I understand that you might not want to speak up or ask for help, naming your need as a mental illness, because you feel the weight of your own self-hatred holding you back, and you are afraid that you’ll be met with stigma, be shamed, be devalued, perhaps even lose your job.

I can only say, you are not wrong to ask for help. You deserve help. You are worth it, even if you have never felt more worthless. You can seek help from Remploy (in the UK) and other mental health work information sites which provide information for you on your rights and give helpful advice on how to speak to your employers about your needs. (And, on the Remploy site, there is also a downloadable advice leaflet for employers, so if you’re reading this and wondering how better to support your staff, please take a look at this, and use the Mind website and helpline for further information.)

Remploy and other sites can help to reassure us that we do have rights,

and can (and should) expect support for our needs

(Mind's legal line can also advise on what to do, you can reach them on 0300 466 6463) 

In my experience, I continue to have to “come out” throughout my working life, because my job means that I’m frequently working with different teams of people who don’t know me or the fact that I have health reasons for needing adjustments to the way that I work. I try to do this in a fairly ‘light’ way, because I have work to do, firstly, and if we have a thirty minute conversation about my depression and medication, that’s not something I’m going to be able to put on my status update to my manager as a positive outcome. (Although, I can put it in this blog and feel a little bit glad that I continued to be honest when it was hard!) I want to be seen as the sum of my parts, and depression is still just one part of who I am, the pink and purple hair-streaked business woman who likes to write, sing, paint, eat good food and drink good wine, buy far too many pairs of shoes, run in the park and watch endless films and TV shows on Netflix, and read good literature and totally crap novels.

The crucial point: I am not denying that my mental illness is part of who I am.

I am who I am...depression, pink hair and all

Towards the end of that episode of Desert Island Discs, presenter Kirsty Young asked Stephen Fry, “You’ve more than hinted earlier that much of the torment you’ve gone through is why you are the person you are. If you had the choice to live without your bipolar condition, what choice would you make?”

“Interesting" he answered. "I wouldn’t want anyone to underestimate the seriousness of a condition like that it can shorten lives, sometimes traumatically and terribly. It can have a terrible effect on families and people around you, but it’s so hard to separate it from oneself. W. H. Auden perhaps put it best. He said, “Don’t get rid of my devils because my angels will go too.””

My story on Buzzfeed. Read more here

I am still trying to be well, and on and on it goes. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow perhaps my depression will go. I am so lucky that I have had the chance to learn that, whatever I may think of myself in my darkest times, my illness is real and worthy of treatment, care and respect. And because not everyone has that experience (not even me, all the time, from everyone) I am going to carry on talking about it. Here, and on Twitter @volette and on Facebook, and face to face. I hope you might be able to join me one day.

#GetSetToGo How Running Helps My Mental Health

#GetSetToGo with @MindCharity

This time last year I was one week into my spell in hospital to treat my acute depression. Throughout this hospital stay, though, part of my treatment plan was to continue to exercise, whether this meant running or walking, every day, because I so identify with the benefits one can derive from physical exercise. At the time we were trying to address my sleeplessness problem where I would often wake at 5 or even earlier and be unable to sleep for the rest of the night, in addition to having a broken night of sleep throughout. And we were also trying to calm me down from the completely ‘on’ Jessica that has to keep moving at all times so that nothing gets missed, but which has the negative side of keeping my mind permanently switched to hyper speed, racing through hundreds of different items on my multiple, mental “to-do” lists.

I started to run in 2009, thinking that if I were to be able to keep eating as I desired (and desire, I did!) I would have to start keeping fit in order to allow for that. I was eating about 1200 calories a day or so to try to keep my weight down, but when a ‘normal’ restaurant meal (or in fact a meal of any kind) was afoot, let alone when wine was served with dinner, of course, that base level went out of the window, and I knew that in order to have more flexibility with my diet and try to make sure that my clothes still fitted. The fact that I was also getting married in 2010 also provided a time-bound incentive – the dress, the dress, the dress!

Running towards a dangling burger (nope sorry, a carrot won't do it).

At first I was hopeless at running. My biggest failure was a total inability to pace myself. Running outdoors was hopeless as in less than a minute I’d be perspiring and expiring from the sprinter’s pace I’d mistakenly put in. I tried the treadmill as an alternative, but this approach meant that I was constantly looking at the clock in front of me, panicking that I couldn’t keep going and hyperventilating myself into stopping. Interval training was one way to get out of this, but I knew if I were ever going to run any kind of distance I had to learn to pace myself.

A fair distance...ZZzzzz

I finally agreed to do a 10K and absolutely had to get past this, and eventually realised that it was more mind over matter. If I ignored the bits of my mind telling me to stop, slow down, lie down, and concentrated on the bits telling me to keep going, don’t give up, not much farther, I finally built up my stamina. And I started listening to music that drowned out the sound of my ragged wheezy breaths and (at times) made me feel like I was dancing along with Katy Perry, Florence and the Machine, and Britney and Madge. It became a treat to go and spend time with my tunes. And the fact that burgers could be wiped off the slate afterwards if I’d run far enough were a massive bonus too.

I was still running last year, but much less than before.

Running up that hill. And that road. 

And if I could swap places and not...sometimes I would

Depression affects me by killing any desire to do anything. I just want to stay in bed or on the sofa. I can just about foresee the next meal, but any other activity is hugely difficult to contemplate, let alone complete. On my day of admission, my psychiatrist and I had deliberately planned a 1-2 week stay, in order to support my depression, but without wanting to delve too deeply into buried issues and traumas that might have increased my feelings of hopelessness, worthlessness and general defectiveness and have needed a lot longer than a short term treatment plan to deal with the many past life experiences which act as triggers for my low mood and inability to function.

At five in the morning, then, I would get up (not before trying to go back to sleep) and head out for a morning walk / run in the nearby park. I wasn’t confined to the hospital grounds as some of my fellow patients needed to be, so could benefit from the stunning summer sunshine and the – just about – cool enough weather of the early morning to run / walk through a few miles and return just in time for showering, breakfast and that day’s groups to begin. It was the Elle Woods approach. “Exercise gives you endorphins. [Yes!] Endorphins make you happy. [Yes!] Happy people don’t kill their husbands.” [I guess not but I have no ability to comment…]

It certainly gives you endorphins, Elle!

I continued my exercise after hospital, determined to make it a part of my recovery plan, and even signed up to run my first half marathon in a couple of years with my husband in the early autumn. If I’m being honest, preparations hadn’t quite gone to plan. I was clinging to ‘mind over matter’ but even I knew I had to have run more than 6 miles to complete a distance over twice the length. I ran home, ten miles, from Waterloo towards the west on a sunny afternoon. I made it through sheer grit, nothing else, and had no idea whether I’d be able to complete the 13.1 miles on the day.

Then I found the excuse of all excuses to avoid the half marathon by accidentally chucking myself down the stairs, fracturing my back in two places and smashing my left elbow in (and my head, bye bye sense of smell and taste buds)… it was an original excuse, and certainly prevented running for a fair long time afterwards.

PINK post Park Run

Tendonitis, thanks so much for adding to my list of medical complaints. And at this point any positive voice in my head was severely tested. I was so annoyed, frustrated, and fed up.

After a lot of physio I’ve been doing a Couch to 5K for the last few weeks, complete with orthotics in my shoes, more to accustom my battered feet to walking and running again than to get back to fitness. I have to say, I’ve been along to many more runs as a spectator than as a participant. I love the Park Run, where I regularly get trounced by yummy mummies, daddies (complete with single and double buggies), dogs and children, septuagenarians and more. 

You can get one of those T-Shirts if you do 50 Park Runs. I'm on 12. 

#GotToStartSomewhere

Today I accompanied Mat to the Harry Hawkes 10, a ten mile race along the Thames beginning and ending in Thames Ditton. I had dressed for a run, thinking to run a few miles and walk a bit while Mat ran the course; however, and I still can’t quite believe this as I write it, they were offering a last few ‘on the day’ entries, and I found myself handing over money in order to be allowed to try my luck on this course.

Harry Hawkes Ten. Done.

Surprisingly heavy medal!

I can only write with the primary emotion of surprise that I managed to complete it (with a snail’s pace and lots of stops for drinks, but I did it nonetheless). And I had the burger afterwards, with onion rings, fries and coleslaw too. (Come on, there have to be some perks). When I can get out of the house and on to the streets it makes such a difference to my mental health. I’m just glad I can say I’m well enough to get out of bed and get out for any kind of exercise. I feel so much better afterwards, but getting out there is the hugest step, the farthest distance, the hardest stage of the entire process. @MindCharity knows how beneficial physical exercise is, which is why they’ve launched their #GetSetToGo programme.When I’m out there doing it, particularly with a crowd, sometimes I just keep going. I hope this is the start of an upward slope for my running. (Just not literally, at least for now!) Take care. xxx

Dear Stranger: My letter to the world on the theme of happiness (Mind Charity)

"Dear Stranger is a collection of inspirational, honest and heartfelt letters from authors, bloggers and Mind ambassadors to an imagined stranger. Insightful and uplifting, Dear Stranger is a humbling glimpse into different interpretations of happiness, and how despite sometimes seeming unobtainable happiness can, in the smallest of ways, become and achievable goal..."

...And when I read that summary provided on the Penguin website it seems that with the positive messages in the book, provided by the collection of writers, many of whom I greatly respect, that happiness which – to me – so often – does seem unattainable (or it does when I define it as being the end of depression) – starts to feel less vaporous.

Click here to buy Dear Stranger on Amazon.co.uk

Reading further on Mind’s website, the book describes the letters as a collection of the thoughts of a number of (named) authors, who “offer their innermost thoughts on what happiness means to them.”

After a lovely meeting today with someone who represents one of the clients which the company I work for works with to talk about what we are doing as a firm about our approach to raising awareness and lessening stigma around mental health, I offer this small missive to the world of the city, as my wish for happiness in the strange world in which I work.

Dear stranger,

This is a story about two little girls who grew up. Both began life as little girls who liked running around, reading stories and singing nursery rhymes. One of the little girls had bad nightmares, though, and found sleeping often terrifying. The other little girl loved imagination and reading and creating stories, and could sing nursery rhymes with all the actions almost as soon as she could talk.

The little girls went off to school. One of the little girls loved school, she loved painting and writing and playing hopscotch. She learned to wink from the dinner lady Mrs. Keene and loved using it as part of her cheeky personality. The other girl cried when she was dropped off at school. She didn't want to leave her mother and spend the day in the company of other children or adults who were not safe. She sometimes got horrible headaches and couldn't wait for the day to be over so she could go home.

The girls went to junior school. The first little girl wrote a poem about a daffodil which was put up on the wall. She learned to play the piano and the trumpet, she sang songs in the playground at break time and played ball games and elastic band games and cats' cradle. She made lots of friends and had great fun learning to roller skate, ballet (and then giving up ballet because it was boring to "point and close" on and on), ice skate, horse ride and take part in the school's winning speech and drama group. She could run and swim really well. Breast stroke was her best stroke. Once she showed all the other girls how to do it because her teacher singled her out as one of the best swimmers.

The second little girl was scared of the playground. She was made to stand on the playground wall all break time by three older girls and wasn't allowed to get down. It happened every playtime and in the end, she pretended to be ill and asked for permission not to go to school. She didn't say why. Her parents didn't find out for a while that she was being bullied. Aged nine it happened again with a different bully. The second little girl thought it was probably get fault, because she had, after all, been bullied before. She started to believe there must be something wrong with her. She also couldn't breathe very well and often felt too tired to go to school. Eventually she was diagnosed with asthma and started to have trouble with sports.

At senior school the first little girl made more friends and enjoyed the new clubs, the different subjects and the new uniform. She made sure she understood the right tights to wear, the right shoes, bag and everything else. She went to sleepover parties and pool parties and all sorts of other parties. She met boys at the boys' school, and enjoyed life in the "big" school. She found it exciting to be growing up. She enjoyed swimming and drama, she loved going to the cinema. She didn't always work hard at all her subjects but she still did pretty well in her school exams, especially in English and Latin, her favourite subjects. Her teachers told her she was doing well and could do very well. She knew she could do well enough in the subjects she cared about and she didn't try too hard at the other subjects because she didn't want the teachers to push her too much and stop her having fun.

The second little girl found it hard to adjust to big school. She got very tired and overwhelmed by all the new teachers. It was hard to learn every different teacher's sets of rules. It was hard to manage all the homework. She found it frightening and tiring to be growing up. It was hard. She found homework confusing and exhausting at times. She didn't get top marks in her exams. Sometimes she did badly. Her teachers told her she wasn't working hard enough. She needed to work harder. She tried to please the teachers but sometimes she found it too hard and because she didn't concentrate in lessons or understand everything, and because she was often too ill with asthma she had to go to hospital and she fell behind.

These little girls have different lists of achievements, as you can see, and on they went. One of them went to university and got a degree. She got a job with a prestigious graduate charity and then a job in the city, all in her twenties.The other one had health problems with stress, grief, depression and anxiety throughout her twenties and got a degree with difficulty. They both fell in love with a wonderful man, but one of them - now a young woman - seemed to find it easier to have a great time and enjoy every moment together; the other young woman was plagued by anxieties about herself and worried about their relationship frequently. One was promoted several times at work, worked internationally and was recognised a number of times for her achievements; the other found the depression returning at intervals and spent some holidays resting in bed for fear of confessing her illness to a world she feared would not understand, and because she could not accept the weaknesses and failures she saw in herself.

So, reader, what do you think happened to those two little girls? As you have probably guessed, because you are wise and discerning, and used to stories like these, those two little girls were one and the same. In fact those two little girls grew up to be me.

Now you will say to me, "Writer, you have not told a tale of happiness, which I thought was your purpose?" And I will say this to you: I read my own story back again and again, and I remind myself that I am the happy little girl alongside the sad; I am the confident high achiever alongside the shy, fearful and tearful teenager. I am the woman who has made a successful career in spite of suffering episodic depression, anxiety and trauma. I am she. 

When I need a reminder of the definition of happiness, I can look at parts of my own life. (And when I want a reminder of sadness and hurt, I can do the same, but enough of that for now.) I shall celebrate the happiness when I can, and be thankful for every happy moment past, present, and yet to come. And throughout my life, as you have seen, there have been threads and strands and patches of happiness, alongside any sadness you may see or know of. So, please, dear stranger, remember that. And lastly, I wish a wish for you: yards of happiness of your own, among all the threads of sorrow. Keep looking backwards and forwards for happiness because it can and will find you, somehow, somewhere, and treat others with the kindness that you try to show yourself.

With love, Jessica

M'aidez on May Day - Getting Help

I've been meaning to write about the rest of my Japanese adventures, and they will come. This week has been interesting, though, for a number of other reasons, as I've returned to a semblance of normality with the working week, weekend and so on. And with those normalities come some of the 'normal' feelings of depression and anxiety that at times I feel that I want to run away from and at times just bury myself in the sand (i.e. the duvets) and hide from the world.

Saying this out loud has taken me a long time. But I've got there.

I may have mentioned this before, but a lot of people who have not previously been diagnosed with depression don't recognise the symptoms, in their infancy, for what they are. A change in appetite, a few bad nights' sleep and a lack of interest in doing things might slip by unnoticed for a while. Added to this the fact that many people who suffer from depression (and I would include myself in this 'many') are people who push themselves fairly far towards (and sometimes past) their own limits to 'succeed' in whatever way they can, whether it's at work, with a partner or in social situations.

Being superwoman isn't possible, and the kryptonite that gets me every time is depression coming back to remind me that I need to balance what I can do with what's realistic for my health.

There have been many posts and articles this week elsewhere which have sparked my interest in writing about my own situation again. This week is a pinnacle in my long road of depressive episodes as I can feel myself getting worse and worse towards next week when I have a planned hospital recovery period in the calendar for the whole of next week, and know that I will benefit hugely from some rest, some structured help, and just by being around other people who are freely talking about their struggles in a safe environment where there is no potential for shame, stigma, or having to pretend to be something that one is not.

I've now stopped pretending, but I still expect people to dislike me a lot of the time,

 and am a work in progress towards accepting myself

The fact is that when we can recognise the symptoms sooner we can stop the depression getting so terrible that we need to take many weeks off and have years of recovery ahead. It's hard to spot the signs and do something about them when you're feeling absolutely dreadful, but if you can do anything towards this it's a real bonus.

I've stopped pretending now - to a large extent: as difficult as I find it to accept myself to be myself, the real myself and not the garrulous 'great pretender' for whom everything is joyous, funny and to be made into a grand joke,, but I am trying to be just me whether it's me not having a great day or something else.

Sometimes plugging in or distracting is the safest way to get through to tomorrow

Here's a comment I wrote just now for a piece published recently in the Guardian:

Quoted from article: "People suffering from long-term conditions, such as mental health problems, will spend most of their time outside of NHS and social care settings."

[My comment]: I first realised I was depressed aged 20 when I sat in my university room, crying and crying but pushing my fist into my mouth or my head into the pillow, hoping my roommate couldn't hear and hoping that she could.

Fifteen years later I understand I was depressed and anxious as a young child, with the dreadful dread in my stomach, aged three or four.

My help has rarely come from the NHS; I'm not 'bad enough' or 'Ill enough' to qualify for anything more than a gp appointment. So I saw a (private) Ed Psych when I couldn't go to school anymore; I saw a wonderful (private) counsellor who helped me get back to university and complete my degree; I took pills from the NHS when I couldn't get (afford) help elsewhere. I had therapy again (privately) which was terrible and didn't help. And last year I was in hospital (privately) because I didn't want to live but - again - I wasn't ill enough for NHS help of the kind I needed. And now my GP remains supportive but my major support comes from (private) medical care. This weekend and next week I'll get some more of this kind of help to keep me going, to not take the worst step. Thank you to my brain for just about enabling me to study, work and pay for my life in private mental health care.

Thank you to all of those charities mentioned above. Although I have not benefited from you directly my knowledge of others who can't afford care privately need you now more than ever. You are amazing and I pledge to continue to support Mind and Time to Change and others as much as I can. Because not everyone is as lucky as me and can afford this care or have it covered by private medical care. And for goodness sake, we're still working hard to get it recognised as with equal rights to those with non-mental health conditions. It's already so hard. Let's help each other. And by the way, #GE2015 candidates, I'd gladly pay extra tax to support the NHS to be able to survive and serve us all - mental health and other patients - better. Just give me a call. @volette or via my blog Laptop on Tour.

Thank you Guardian for publishing this piece. I believe the third sector is critical for helping those in need struggling with all the debilitating effects of many mental illnesses. Thank you.

There's a third element that supports recovery that is not mentioned here, and I think is truly, critically important, and that is the support that comes from one's friends and family. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my friends and family for their unswerving support for me through all the difficult times that I've experienced. I continue to need them (and this is challenging, as I ask myself, "When (soon surely) will people become sick of my sickness and my need for support?" I don't know the answer but I hope it lasts a bit longer than my illness does...and in return I hope that I try to be a good friend when I can, and answer texts or send them, make phone calls or meet up when I'm well enough, and when not that I'm accepted to do that. I hope so. 

I find these positive statements hard to hear, but I'm glad some one is saying them.

I don't think it matters whether it's a friend or a family member (or indeed a partner) who is your go-to person when struggling. I hope that everyone can have someone, and if not someone in their personal or professional lives, then I find all the more reason to support the vital charities mentioned in the Guardian piece and many more who do so much. I am an advocate for supporting one another, and for feeling free and able to go in search of that support without fear of judgment or censure. With that said, I wish you all a healthy weekend ahead, and hope that if you need help you can find it from your friends, your support networks, third sector organisations or medical professionals. After all, we all need a little help sometimes, and we can share in the mutual support of others and ourselves by working together. Take care. x

With a little help..this can be true.