The Penny Drops

Just a short post today- another super cheery topic! (I'm full of them) This is about watching someone I'm close to have a panic attack, about a year before I realised that that was what I was suffering from myself. I knew she had them and had often heard her being ill from them behind closed doors, but I had never seen her have one.

Bizzarely, I managed to calm her down by talking to her about my own panic attacks, although I didn't realise that that was what they were and I didn't put two and two together until almost a year later. This sounds inplausible, but at the time I was studying for my MA dissertation and I was in a world so full of stress and anxiety that I couldn't tell my arse from my elbow.

At the time it was very upsetting to see her like that and initally not doing what to do or how to help her. I remember feeling so angry as I walked down the street to get my bus, that she should be reduced to such a pale imitation of the person I know and love.

I haven't seen anyone have a panic attack so a long time now, I've only experienced them myself. I'm still not sure what's more scary: witnessing them and feeling completely out of control- or having them and feeling much the same.

Perhaps you could let me know in the comments below?

Cognizance

Blurry morning uni lecture

crap I’m late

three flights of stairs

creak and splinter

then an unfamiliar clamour

at the bottom of the soft stair

Choking, sobbing, clogging

heart ceases to beat

someone is deceased

she’s trapped, she’s wounded

behind the living room door

Enflamed face, misty eyes

terror grasping the muscles of her face

clawed hands, eyes wide

stooped on the sofa

swaying back, rocking forth

I gawp and ask what’s wrong

Gasping, faltering,

breathbreathbreath

words stumble forth

‘I have panic attacks,

‘I’m well, please don’t be upset’

despite her state

her first concern is me

And softly

so as not to spook the

scared cat, ensnared animal

I stay calm, ‘I’m not upset’

and in due course

speaking to me quells her terror

She exhales reprieve

rubs her grey, fatigued expression

‘Are you done with the bathroom?’

I fib and say yes

but I haven’t brushed my teeth

‘Good, I’m going to go

and retch for the next hour’

so matter of fact as

she makes her way

back up the carpeted steps

and as I march down the street

I can’t stop myself

bursting into tears

so wrong, so harsh, injust

a person I love so much

an anxious, fretful ghost

and far along, almost a year later

the penny drops.

Suitcase Label

So, I got married nearly 4 months ago (hooray!)

It was quite frankly, the best day of my life and I have never felt so supported and loved by so many people in one room. So much so that I talked quite openly about my anxiety in my wedding speech and how my husband has helped me come to terms with it and learned to deal with it himself. Some guests came up to me afterwards and told me about their own experiences with mental health, some thanked me for being brave enough to talk about it- I was so touched that it meant something to them.

At the wedding, we asked guests to write down their favourite memory of us on a suitcase label and attach it to a 'memory tree' (photo below) – some made us laugh, some made us cry- all were beautiful and generous and it was a joy to look back at what memories our guests have of us, as well as making more amazing memories with them on the day. **Wallows in self-indulgent nostalgia**

One, however, made my blood boil, as is described in the poem below. At the time I felt that the comment written on the back of the suitcase label, aimed at me as a kind of afterthought, showed a complete misunderstanding of what it is to live with a mental health illness and that the fact that I had mentioned it in my wedding speech had provoked such a patronising and frustrating response.

I think it's safe to say that at the time of writing this poem, I slightly jumped the gun in my interpretation of this comment. A few days later, after I'd calmed down- I began to see that this probably wasn't meant in the way that I took it and that it was a genuine attempt to sympathise with me, and perhaps to comfort me. I don't believe it was meant maliciously, or patronisingly.

However, this is not the only difficult attitude I've had to deal with regarding my anxiety. A colleague at work has quite openly told me that he doesn't understand how I can have these 'issues' because I'm married, own a house, am good at my job and seem like I'm pretty chipper most days. In his eyes, these achievements or accolades should cancel out any mental health issues, because a married, seemingly successful house-owner doesn't have any cause to get anxious or depressed.

In the past he has also previously commented that if I just thought more positively, I'd feel happier. Unfortunately, mental health doesn't really work this way. Yes, positive thinking can be beneficial to mental health, as can feeling like you're doing well- but it won't alleviate the issues and it certainly won't make my anxiety go away. When I tried to explain to him that this is not something I can control, he just starting talking over me. Extremely frustrating and frankly, downright rude.

So, because of encounters like these, particularly when I feel like I'm not given the chance to explain what my anxiety is like, I clamber right on top of my high horse and stay there until I've written a stroppy poem (see below).

However, I believe this is the key issue that leads to said clambering, if you want to know what it's like for someone with anxiety, you can ask them (if they're comfortable talking about it) but don't put words in their mouth, don't try and explain your interpretation of what their situation is, and most crucially- listen to THEIR EXPLANATION! You might learn something!

When I wrote this I was absolutely furious at the 'Label writer,' I couldn't believe that someone who works in the NHS could have such a narrow-minded view of mental health (I was forgetting the aforementioned colleague!) But the mentality of 'you shouldn't be doing x, you need to do y and then you would be better' is still there, it's everywhere- and the below is basically my big stroppy, high-horse 'fuck you' to that.

Suitcase Label

Try to feel better, Lizzie.

5 words, hand written on the back of a suitcase label

The front, for him, so many happy memories and triumphs,

The back, for me, are they words of caution or sentiment?

My better brain tells me they are meant kindly, with sympathy

But the anger builds, the injustice and the unfairness

That this comes from a mother, a nurse, a guest

Who should know better

Try to feel better, Lizzie.

Because of course, I could feel better, be better, if I tried

The fabled line from the disappointed teacher

The patronising look down the rim of the glasses

'Could do better.'

And really if you follow this theory down to its crux, its core

What you really mean

Try to feel better, Lizzie.

You're saying that I choose this

I choose anxiety

I choose panic attacks

I choose not to feel better

As if this is something I choose to do myself

Or not do

As if this is something I choose

No one would fucking choose this  

I'm Not Going To Not Do Things

So sorry for the lack of posts recently, I've been travelling places a lot- but I managed to type up a few things I've been working on last week whilst at home- here's one of them!

I'm not 100% happy with it, it's a bit simplistic- but I think the message is pretty simple. Let me know what you think!

I’m not going to not do things

I’m not going to
not do things
I’m still going to do things

Because I have to

I can’t not do things
just because there’s a risk
that I’ll have a panic attack

So I’ll go back to uni
do love properly
go to a bar
talk to someone I don’t know
go to someone’s wedding

because I have to

and I’ll get anxious
I’ll get triggered
maybe I’ll have one
maybe I wont

but if I do
If I feel it
get triggered
have one
calm myself down if I can
feel like shit for a couple of hours

and then carry on

because I have to

So I’ll go to a job interview
go shopping by myself
answer the front door
say hi to the neighbours
ring my nan on the phone
and yes, be a fucking psychotherapist
or be anything if I want

so I’ll call across the office at work
stand in a crowded train
speak up in a meeting
go swimming by myself
make small talk at the hairdressers

so I’ll try to do it and fail
nearly vom on a crowded bus
try to speak up at work and fail
have one the day before my wedding
and one at someone else’s wedding

and I’ll get anxious
I’ll get triggered
maybe I’ll have one
maybe I wont

but if I do
If I feel it
get triggered
have one
calm myself down if I can
feel like shit for a couple of hours

and then carry on

because I have to

Failure

This post is a rather lazy throw back to a slam poem I wrote a few years ago, so sorry for the lack of original material, but I felt it relevant to share as I explain below...

I received a message from someone I knew at university about this blog and the stuff I'd been sharing on Facebook about my anxiety. She was describing how before she was diagnosed with having anxiety, she had just assumed that everyone else around her had really hated her and that she was just useless and worthless.

At first I was somewhat shocked by this assessment of how others saw her as, although it's been many years since I've seen this person, she is genuinely one of the most generous, caring, supportive and lovely people I've met, and I know many people, not just mutual friends would share this view. 

Aside from this though, it hit me seconds later that although it shocked me that this lovely woman would think so little of herself, this was in fact exactly the way I often assume that people are thinking about me- that they must despise me and wonder why on earth I'm trying to talk to them or be near them.

There was a brief time when I moved away from home and went off to university when I was meeting lots of new people, that I simply couldn't believe people genuinely seemed to like me for who I was and wanted to spend time with me, more than once. My self esteem was so low that I just couldn't understand why people wanted to be friends with me. Memories of these feelings of confusion and inadequacy came flooding back and to be honest, it made me sad. Sad for this person, because I knew exactly what she meant. 

Whilst in my CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy) sessions last year, one particular chat stands out for me as my lovely therapist Bernard explained what he called a 'perceived judgement' that we often have about others- in that we assume we know what people are thinking about us. But as another dear friend who has suffered with eating disorders put it to me- people are not interested in you to the extent that you think they are, they are much more interested in themselves! 

In short- we do not know what others are thinking of us and we cannot obsess over what we do not know for sure. This is easier said than done, especially for people with low self esteem. It is so difficult for us to believe that we are worthy, we are strong, that we are loved and needed.

This, essentially is my message in 'Failure' which is a performance piece I wrote for a different friend I knew in York who had really had a rough time of it at uni, due to some fairly serious that eventually caused her to be hospitalised for some months after having a complete mental breakdown. Worse than this, she was convinced that everything that had happened to her was completely her fault and because of mistakes she had made, because in her eyes, she was nothing more than a big fat failure,

This was my reply to her.

A recording of the poem is here- really sorry about the terrible sound quality, it was recorded on my laptop: https://soundcloud.com/blowfishfellova/failure-3

Failure

See you like I see you, Failure. Stop for a second in your mean world of mad. It's not bad that you're mad or mad that you're bad, all the best people are and sometimes it's perfectly OK to float awhile, float away. And you're confused, contempt with content, but who isn't.

You think you should get off, headed down a different way, can't be happy with the steps you take. But I said there are different kinds of being a success and different types of happiness and you agreed. And I know you know that not having a man doesn't make you ugly and not having that job makes you lazy and not having your own place makes you lost, but you keep using that word, Failure.

When I heard, my heart stopped and locked, my head swoll and my eyes rolled, I just couldn't see you like that at all. What is a failure about, when any act of kindness makes you squeal for the platonic, how is a failure made when you're the funniest and that laugh busts out of you in sweet bursts and no-one on this earth can make you stop. Why is a failure here when you're a young, smart beautiful woman, stepping out onto to the best part of a person's life.

See you like I see you, Failure. Just stop for a second in your mad world of mean. You're mean to your mad and mad that you're bad, all the best people are and sometimes I just want to shake you up until your eyes fall out and I replace them with mine or anybody's so you can look at yourself and see you like I see you.

But what is failure when he ripped you open and tried to destroy the emotions closed up in the tendons of your heart and was beat back by the beautiful soul that lies around those sweet thoughts. What is a failure when she peeled off your smile, slapped it on the floor and stamped on it for all the world to see, only to look back at your bloody face and see that smile still there. What is a failure when they screamed in your face, but you screamed back harder and louder and took up your degree and walked away.

See you like I see you. Love you like I love you. Feel you like I feel you. Be you like, I want to be you, and if I were to be, I would not be a failure. You think you can't be floating down a different path but there are people on those paths whose feet are torn and success is a rock that beats their back, and I know you could do that and come through with that brave smile, but your rock needs to be one that stops you using that word in reference to yourself, because I can think of 500 words to describe how you move through this world and not one of them, none of them, accounts to a failing.

See you like I see you. Love you like I love you. Feel you like I feel you. Be you like, I want to be you, and if I were to be, I would not be a failure. It's not wrong to want, to yearn, but it is wrong to condemn your contempt or tell yourself that because these things always happen to you doesn't mean it's because of you. Step onto the best part of your life and don't look at what kind of step of it is, look at what kind of person you are. Not a failure, a victor..

Smear

TW: anxiety, panic attacks, rape, sexual assault.

So, last year, I went for my very first smear test at the ripe old age of 25. For a year or so I'd been ignoring the various insistent letters from the NHS that I was way past needing to have one and decided to bite the bullet, gather my anxiety and go and get the bloody thing over with. Thousands of women have them every year, it's a simple procedure that the nurses do over and over again.  How hard could it be?

I was joining a new doctors and so had made an appointment for a full check up, a smear test and, most crucially- the first appointment with a doctor discussing how I could access medication and therapy for my anxiety, which at that time was somewhat crippling.

Anyway, to cut a rather traumatic story short, the whole thing was a complete disaster. The poor nurse as well as the doctor in my next appointment had to deal with a half naked, bleeding, sobbing girl who couldn't calm down enough to tell them that she got anxious even using tampons, or when anything vaguely scary and intrusive was near her vagina and the whole reason she'd come to the doctors was to get help for her anxiety.

When I first started writing this particular poem last year, it triggered me so badly I would start to shake and the tears would come without me even realising. Now I can read it and edit it. I remember it. It's like it happened to someone else, but I know it was me, because I remember every detail through re-reading this poem.

I still haven't had another smear test. The letters still come. But one day I will have one and there will be no problems. Maybe one day I'll even be able to use tampons!

Smear

Spectrum.

The smallest one she had.

Inserted only by an inch,

but I can't even use tampons.

Spoiled.

That clever lie.

My womb is normal and anxiety

isn't a problem for me.

Speckled.

Blood that sputters out.

The telling wet of a dropped tear,

from my screaming cervix.

Splayed.

The paper sheet snickers

at teeth and feet clenched as

I fight the hollow ride.

Spotted.

Plastic sterile rapist.

You couldn't find my cancer

but you found my gulping shame.

Spurned.

Burned, my cervix hating.

Hot tears of shame in failing

the simplest of procedures.

Spaced.

Cold empty cave.

White walls enclose white pants

hanging limply on a door hook.

Spat.

Stop, nurse, stop.

Jaw stiff and clenched, halts the words

'I have a problem'.

Spawned.

It doesn't belong to me.

This body, that obeys not my pain

but a spectrum.

Split.

'Please, it hurts.'

Fear. I won't ever have babies,

the aftermath of this empty, easy rape.

Shame.

Smeared all over me,

bloody mucus on the paper tissue

a sloppy hot redness I can't wipe off.

Snap.

That cold, biting instrument

who overzealous nurse plunged deep

into the pool of my nameless agony

Shame.

The smallest one she had.

I wish I had explained before.

I wish I had shaved.

Welcome!

Hello :)

In this blog I plan to post the poems I've been working on to help me process my anxiety.

I've come a long from last year, when I found  writing and reading about panic attacks to be horrendously triggering. Now I find it therapeutic to write, a calming process, where, by being able to
 describe what happens to me, I am more in control and more aware of the power I have over my anxiety.

We are separate beings, me and my anxiety. I am not weak or pathetic because I suffer from it. It is something that happens TO ME, not something that I choose, or not choose to have. This has been a crucial lesson for me to learn and it empowers me. I can't get rid of it, but I can control it.

I hope that by being open about my anxiety that I can help others who are suffering, who need help and support. I hope to able to educate those who do not know what anxiety is, so that they can also help and support others.

If you have any questions or comments on these posts, please don't hesitate to post comments, I will be moderating them but I'll answer as many as I possibly can. Also please don't be afraid to comment on any poems that I post as I would love some feedback!

Thanks for reading, I'll post again soon :)

Lizzie.