Barney Boy

Barney is a nine year old greyhound. We rescued him five years ago, once he'd finished his coursing career in Ireland. I remember the day we first met. Barney was led towards us from the kennels, dancing about on the lead with his long, waggy tail whipping the air. A tall, chunky (40kg) brindle boy, with a deep chest, long back and beautiful soulful eyes. For me, it was love at first sight.

He turned out to be the most peaceful, laid back lad who never barks. He walks beautifully on the lead, is cat and other dog friendly and has settled perfectly into life as a much-loved pet. He loves loafing on the sofa, his own luxurious bed, our bed; in fact he'll loaf about pretty much anywhere that offers a bit of comfort. He's quiet, gentle, good with people and has beautiful manners.

It wasn't long after getting Barney that I started to become unwell. This meant spending a lot more time at home. Barney turned out to be the perfect therapy dog. He listens, offers a reassuring muzzle or paw, sits or lies quietly by my side. He forces me to get out into the fresh air every day for his walk. I'd struggle to do this for myself, but for him, somehow I always manage.

Barney is the perfect company for someone who hasn't been well. He has beautifully soft fur on his head, velvety ears and he always appreciates a pat or a stroke. He'll happily have a cuddle and will occasionally chat in his own, houndy way. Sometimes he plays, throwing his stuffed animals into the air or zooming around the room. This never fails to make me laugh.

Barney is getting older now, the fur on his long muzzle becoming grey. He's slowing down, his joints sometimes hurt (Yumove to the rescue!) He's started appreciating shorter walks.

We have been through a lot together, Barney and I. He's been by my side in good times and  bad. I'm sure life will throw up many more adventures for us. So here's to the future, old lad. Thank you for being "my boy."

Schizoaffected

I have a shiny new diagnosis. Schizoaffective Disorder, depressive type. Rather than attempt to define it myself, I'll quote the Royal College of Psychiatrists when they say:

"This is a disorder of the mind that affects your thoughts and emotions, and may affect your actions. You may experience episodes that are combinations of both 'psychotic' symptoms and 'bipolar disorder' symptoms."

In practical terms, this means I have episodes of psychosis, similar to those in schizophrenia, ie muddled thoughts, hallucinations and delusions, along with depressive symptoms.

To help manage the symptoms of psychosis and stabilise my mood, I take anti psychotic medication. To counteract the depression, I take anti depressants. The side effects of these drugs can be hard to live with. I've had to put up with weight gain, increased risk of heart problems, a general 'flattening' of my mood so that I often feel numb and a general cognitive decline - I'm nowhere near as mentally 'quick' as I once was. Is it worth it? At the moment, yes, because unmedicated, I'm at risk of following orders from the voices I hear in my head. These orders are always destructive and dangerous.

Unfortunately, I've had to give up my professional Doctorate in Counselling Psychology (the second PhD I've started but been unable to complete). I'm unable to work at the moment. My ability to be a good parent, wife, friend and so on has been severely affected. In short, I now struggle with many of the things I used to take for granted.

However, I'm still me! I'm trying to find a way to live with my symptoms that gives me and my family a decent quality of life. It's not easy, but I know I'll get there. I'm still wrangling with the reality that this is (probably) a lifelong condition but I'm trying to focus on managing it, so that my episodes are as short and as few and far between as possible.

I don't think of myself as ill, I think of myself as having an unusual kind of brain. In this respect, I depart from my psychiatrist and several of my family and friends. Ok I have a different way of thinking about my difficulties but ultimately, the treatment is exactly the same.

My focus is first to get myself stabilised to achieve a decent quality of life. Then I can work on being able to be a better parent, wife, friend and so on. And finally, once those things have been achieved, I can hopefully look at returning to work.

Apologies to those of you I've neglected during the last couple of years. Things haven't been easy and to make matters worse, I haven't really been able to explain what was going on. I just kept waiting, hoping that I'd get "better." Now that I know exactly what I'm up against, I feel I'm in with a fighting chance of getting myself back on an even keel and really getting back into life.

Finally, if you're reading this and are living with mental health difficulties of your own, please know you have my utmost respect.

Love to you all,

Ali xxxxx ❤️

Three things I've learned about my mental health

1. I used to minimise my problems. 

Nobody wants to be friends with a serial complainer, do they? At least, that's how I felt. The last thing I wanted to be was a party pooper, the kind of person who sucks all the energy out of the room thanks to their complaining. So I stuck on my 'happy face' and made out I was ok. Even when I wasn't. This led to me downplaying my problems and sometimes denying that I was struggling at all.  
One of the things I've finally realised about living with mental health problems is that I'm not responsible for other people's happiness. While there are still going to be social situations where it's ok to say "fine thanks, how are you?' and swiftly move on, it's also ok for me to say "I'm having a tough time with my mental health at the moment," without feeling guilty. I don't have to worry that my honesty might 'bring them down' because I don't have to be happy or entertaining all of the time. It's not my job to make *them* happy and, with people I know and trust, it's ok to be honest. I don't have to go into detail unless appropriate.

The thing with mental health difficulties is that they're largely hidden. People tend not to know you're living with a problem unless you tell them. Most of us are great at 'faking wellness,' to the point that in cases where a person has sadly taken their own life, their loved ones often say they had no idea there was a problem.

I'm not suggesting that being more honest and speaking out is a magical panacea, but for me, it has improved certain relationships. Letting people in has been an important part of that. Which brings me on to point number 2....

2. I didn’t used to accept help.

I used to be ridiculously difficult to help. At no point would I ever directly ask for support. This included from mental health services. Whether this was pride, embarrassment or fear of letting people in, I don't know. All I can say is that for me, suffering in silence was awful. Letting friends and family help and support me has been a useful counterpoint to those times when my mind tried to trick me into believing I had nobody in my corner. Even when I was experiencing psychotic symptoms and trust went out of the window, people were there for me. Some people supported me emotionally, others practically. I now know that leaning on my family and friends has made them feel more useful. Friends have told me that even when all they can offer me is solidarity and hope for the future, they still want to stand by me. Knowing they're out there, wishing me well has really helped.

When it comes to the involvement of mental health services, I've also been difficult to help. I've dodged services when I probably needed them because I was reluctant to take antipsychotic medication. A friend then suggested that I might be sabotaging my own wellbeing by refusing to accept help. This really made me think. I wasn't consciously doing so, but I conceded that my actions could indeed have that effect.

After several false starts, I was assigned a care coordinator, a psychiatric nurse, who was on my wavelength. We started to look at what worked for me, what helped and how I might go about living an enjoyable, fulfilling life even whilst dealing with mental health problems. I'm still in the early stages but I'm hopeful that this pragmatic approach will work well for me. Letting people help has been surprisingly liberating for me as I no longer have to carry the burden of my difficulties alone.

3. I was unnecessarily tough on myself.

I used to think that if I tried harder, worked at it more and battled through it, I could outrun my mental health problems. Other people said they had successfully beaten them with their personal brand of fortitude, so why couldn't I? Lately I've come to realise the blindingly obvious: that I am not them. We don't share the same biology, psychology, history, background or social circumstances. Our difficulties are not our fault. Whether we believe that they're the result of illness or what's happened to us, they *are* and we have to live with the cards we are dealt. Giving ourselves a hard time about not getting 'better' is only ever going to be counterproductive and undermining. So I've learned to go easier on myself and practice a little self compassion and acceptance. Giving up a lifetime of self-criticism isn't easy, but I've found that it's helping.