Under Pressure

I am fully aware that, at the end of July, I posted half a blog post with the promise that Part 2 would come soon.  Well, I've not written Part 2 yet.  Sorry.

There is at least a reason I've not written it.  Let me explain.  (It's a long post - sorry!)

You may remember way back in March I wrote a post called Dear Depression.  In that post, I mentioned my head being full of the sound of bees, that I was exhausted but couldn't sleep, that I was more accident-prone and more forgetful than normal...  Little did I know, but they were all signs of something much bigger and much scarier.

What I didn't mention in that post was that my forehead sometimes felt like it was being squeezed in a clamp.  Well, gradually over the next few months, the headaches started getting worse.  On one day at the end of June, it was so bad I had to pull my car over and throw up in the gutter (not a highlight of my summer).  Since then, I have averaged between 4 and 6 hours sleep a night; I'm permanently tired (even on the days when I did manage to sleep for 12 hours); my limbs began to feel like they belonged to someone else; I started getting migraines, both with and without a headache; I got dizzy whenever I stood up; I lost my eyesight a couple of times; the migraine auras stopped going away; I felt sick...  It's been pretty horrendous. I just put it all down to stress, but went to the doctor about a month ago because it just kept getting worse and worse.  To cut a very long story short, she couldn't find any medical reason for it, so just wanted to prescribe me medication to stop the headaches.

You might not have noticed (where have you been?!) but I'm quite stubborn, and I hate not knowing why something is happening.  I can't just treat the symptoms if I don't know what the cause is.  So I refused the pills and asked what my other options were.  She didn't really have any, so I asked if it could be my eyes, and she said that an eye test wouldn't hurt (HA!). Off I toddled.

If you've had an eye test recently (if not, why not?!), you will have met the optician's favourite torture instrument - what I have termed the 'evil camera that blows in my eyes'.  Basically, it takes a photo of the back of your eye while blowing air at your eyeball, which seems counter-intuitive since blowing in my eyes generally makes me close my eyes, thus resulting in lots of lovely photos of my eyelid and zero pictures of the target.  Anyway, I'm sure it makes sense in Opticianland.

After about twelve attempts, the assistant was getting increasingly frustrated and almost gave up, but thankfully we had one more go and just about got it.  I thought nothing of the photos until after the optician had done her thing, decided I needed a new prescription, and then opened up the pictures of my eyeballs on her screen.  I should have known this wasn't going to go well when she asked if the doctor had done a CT scan (obviously not), but what I wasn't expecting was to be told to go straight to A&E.  Do not pass go, do not collect £200.

I think I swore quite a lot, but to her credit (and the credit of the other two staff who rushed in at this point), no-one mentioned it.  I didn't really understand why it was so important that she phoned a neurologist and I rushed to A&E, except that my optical discs looked like fried eggs rather than marbles.

I don't think the A&E staff really understood either, which is why I was still sitting in the uncomfortable waiting room at Edinburgh Royal Infirmary on a Sunday afternoon, six hours after arriving, with anaesthetic in my eyeballs making my pupils dilate to the size of dinner plates:

After six hours in A&E with VERY dilated pupils

One unfortunate hilarious side effect of having massively dilated pupils is that it was completely impossible to focus on anything.  I remember the doctor trying to tell me something, but I can't remember what she said because I'm sort of a little bit deaf in my left ear and generally have to watch people speak to actually take in what they're saying.  Luckily, my brilliant friend Angela, who came with me (not exactly what I'd meant when I said we should take a day trip soon...) made notes, and when we left the hospital at 10pm, I said I'd buy her dinner, forgetting I couldn't really see.  Note to self - going to Pizza Hut in fits of giggles (because I couldn't see) and asking the server to read out the menu, then ordering two large pizzas, one medium pizza, two sides, one sharer dessert and a large bottle of coke with massively dilated pupils is only going to result in other people drawing one conclusion.  No, I'm not high.

By this point, I still didn't really understand why I had been rushed to A&E.  They hadn't done anything except make me look like I was stoned, which I'm guessing was not the optician's primary aim all those many hours ago.  All I had been told was that my optical discs were very inflamed, which 'could be caused by something benign, but could be something more sinister'.  Right.

Monday morning rolled around, and off I went to work, pupils still massive so still a little bit blind, and awaiting a phone call from a neurologist.

Fortunately I didn't have to wait too long for the call, and by 1.30pm that same day I was installed in a much more comfortable chair at Edinburgh Western General hospital.  The neurologist was expecting me, took me through to her office, did all sorts of tests (called me a 'walking miracle' when I told her how accident prone/ disastrous I am - I much prefer that to 'walking disaster'), and then explained that there were a few potential causes for the 'fried eggs for optical discs' (though didn't explain what those causes actually were...)  She wanted to do some tests, so sent me off for a CT scan and 'something involving radioactive goo'.

I have decided that, as much as I am a 'walking miracle', I also spread disaster 'miracles' wherever I go.  On this occasion, I was lying in the CT scanner waiting to be plugged into the radioactive goo machine, when there was a crash, a squeal and a splat from somewhere behind my head.  A few seconds later, another nurse rushed in and things got a bit frantic for a couple of minutes.  I obviously couldn't see anything, but apparently the first nurse had spilt the radioactive goo on the floor, stood on it, slipped and bashed her knee.  It wasn't me, honest!

Radioactive CT scan things are hugely unpleasant.  If you've never had one, let me describe it.  It's like having your head inside a washing machine on the spin cycle.  You aren't allowed to move, not even a little bit.  You have a needle in your arm which is connected to a machine that beeps occasionally.  You have been warned that it will feel a little unpleasant when the radioactive goo is released, but you haven't been told when exactly that will happen, or how long the whole experience will last.  When the radioactive goo is finally released, it feels like someone has injected liquid metal into one arm, which then spreads through your head, your other arm, the rest of your body and finally your legs.  When it passes through your *ahem* nether regions, it feels like you have wet yourself in a most spectacular fashion. Except of course you can't move, so you can't check whether or not your dignity is still intact. 

Before the CT scan, I was told that if the results were clear or inconclusive, they'd need to do a lumbar puncture, but we'd get to that if we needed to.  So the relief of being told that there are 'no lumps, bumps or blockages', was very rapidly cancelled out by the realisation that I was about to have a very long needle inserted in my spinal column.

I'm not going to go into the graphic details, but the lumbar puncture was not an experience I ever want to have to go through ever again.  I would take the radioactive CT goop experience any time over a lumbar puncture.  I was ushered into a very small, very hot room, where I had to lie in the foetal position, without moving, facing a wall.  Once the doctor had painted my back with cleaning goo and drawn arrows all over me (presumably like some sort of treasure map, with an X to mark the spot), obviously the needle wouldn't go straight in, so she kept hitting the nerves connected to my hip, sending shooting pains up and down my legs.  When she eventually got in, she announced that the 'pressure is so high it's practically gushing'.  That's exactly what I want - cerebrospinal fluid gushing everywhere.  Uugh. 

I have no idea how long I was staring at that wall, melting and occasionally twitching (to be fair, I had done A LOT of lying still.  I'm not very good at being still, it's stressful).  Eventually, she told me she'd finished, and showed me all of the 30mls of CSF she had collected.  All that for half a teaspoon of brain goo (kinda). Hmm.

So, apparently the 'gushing' confirmed the suspicions, and I received a diagnosis.  I have a rare condition called Idiopathic (ie, they don't know the cause) Intracranial (ie, in the head) Hypertension (ie, too much pressure) - basically, there is too much fluid in my head and since it has nowhere to go, it just squeezes my brain, thus causing the migraines, dizziness, nausea, flashy lights, swollen optic discs, exhaustion, etc etc. 

IIH affects between 1-7 people in 100,000, and is most common in overweight women of childbearing age.  I have been prescribed medication (with some bizarre side-effects - I'm sure there will be another post about that) and told to lose roughly 10% of my body weight (definitely a post or two about that).  Next week I will meet an ophthalmologist to find out what, if any, damage has been done to my eyesight.  And after that?  Who knows...

The moral of this very long-winded story is that perseverance definitely pays off.  I knew that there must be a reason for the headaches, even if the doctor couldn't tell me what that reason was, and I knew that taking medication to treat the symptoms rather than the cause wasn't the right thing for me. 

I am so relieved to have a diagnosis, and despite the trauma the lumbar puncture seems to have made a difference already - for the first time in months, my head feels clear.

I am so thankful for the brilliant NHS staff who tried to help me, even if they had no idea what was going on.  I am also grateful that the neurologist was able to see me yesterday, and that I had a diagnosis within 24 hours of being sent to A&E.

I'm pretty sure there is a long road ahead and it's not always going to be an easy one, but it's a hell of a lot less stressful now that I know what I'm fighting.

So.  Once again, bring it.

Inside Out - Part 1

Well, it's been three months since I started seeing a counsellor (again).  It's been a tough and somewhat confusing few months.  There have been so many ups and downs I'm not entirely sure whether I'm coming or going.  It's pretty stressful.

One of the things we have identified is that I'm not really sure who I am just now.  So much of my identity is tied up in work and Guiding, that I've sort of lost the joy, the spontaneity, the excitement and the confidence to just be me, whoever that may be.

The past month has been really overwhelming.  This week's counselling session was the first where I really felt that there wasn't an obvious solution, and it was hard.  I spent a lot of time repeating 'I just don't know.  I just. Don't. Know.'  I wish I knew what it was that I didn't know.  I just didn't know.

So today, my car was booked in for its annual service. At 8am.  Because that seemed like a good idea at the time (UURGH!)  Of course, my alarm clock batteries died, so I woke up at 8.30am and panicked.  I really wanted to cancel the service, to get back into bed, and to beat myself up for not even being able to get up in time to take my stupid car for a stupid service. 

But something in my brain told me to stop being an idiot, to get dressed and to just take the car for its stupid appointment. Just put on some jeans and a hoody.  Then walk down the stairs.  Then get in the car.  Then drive to the garage.  Then explain to the lady at the desk why I'm there.  Once that's done, I'd have a few hours to spare and I could be productive.  There's a McDonald's next to the garage, I could just sit in there and do some life-admin. Easy (HA!).

I got as far as McDonalds, bought an unsurprisingly disappointing breakfast and decided to read a book for a while.  A couple of hours and two large cups of tea later, I got a phone call.  They couldn't service my car today because they'd over-booked.  It was nearly 11am and I'd wasted perfectly good lying in bed doing nothing time in bloody McDonalds.  I did later apologise to the lady who called me for being a bit rude (I may have used the words useless and incompetent, but I really didn't mean them - I was mostly just angry at myself for oversleeping).

Regardless, I was angry.  And I knew I was angry, which made me sort of happy (because I recognised I was angry and I acknowledged it - that's a pretty new thing).  Then I got all confused again, and wanted to run away and hide under a blanket on my sofa.  But then I got frustrated because I didn't really want to hide, I wanted to be able to do the things that normal people do at the weekend without completely overthinking and freaking out.  And then I freaked out and got angry at myself.

Eventually, I found myself at a local shopping park.  Somehow, in the confused mess that is my head, the tiny part of my brain we call my subconscious decided to be spontaneous and decided I was going to go to the cinema.

In the past I-don't-know-how-long, I have been to the cinema exactly once to see a film that I actually wanted to see (I'm not including the two times in the past 18 months that I have been with Brownies - if I were to voluntarily go to the cinema, Penguins of Madagascar would not have been my first choice of film...).  Going to the cinema is one of the many things on my list of 'I really want to do but I'm completely overwhelmed so I won't' (along with clothes shopping and generally being in public spaces on my own).  There have been so many films over the past few years that I've really wanted to see, but either argued that 'it's cheaper to buy it on DVD', or 'what if I do it wrong?' (HOW DO YOU DO GOING TO THE CINEMA 'WRONG' STUPID-HEAD?!!)

To give you an idea of how completely overwhelming going to the cinema is, here is a list of the things going round my head in the (literally) fifteen minutes it took me to get from my car into the cinema screen:

1.  Get out of the car.  Just get out of the car.
2.  Did I lock the car?  (*goes back and checks car is locked*)
3.  There are lots of small children around.  Maybe this is a family showing.  Maybe I should just go home.
4.  Just buy the bloody ticket you stupid idiot.
5.  That lady is dressed up in fancy dress and is smiling at me.  Oh god, what if she speaks to me.
6.  Phew, the small child distracted her. 
7.  Can I buy tickets at the machine?  Yes, good.
8.  Why won't it let me buy tickets for the midday viewing?
9.  Oh, wait, I already selected the midday viewing.  Phew.  No-one saw.
10.  Am I too late for the midday viewing?  No, seven minutes, I can do this.
11.  Oh crap, since when did you need to select a seat?!
12.  Where am I going to sit?!
13.  I need to sit in the middle otherwise I'm blind and won't see the film.  To get to the middle I need to pass other groups of people.   Where is the least populated area in the cinema?
14.  Why are there so many small children? 
15.  I'll just pick this seat here, there's no-one either side, maybe I won't be in the way if I sit there.
16.  This machine is stupid, why does it ask so many questions?  And why did it just spit my ticket out on the floor?  That's unhelpful.
17.  Right, seat H15.  H15.  Screen 3, H15.  Show the man the ticket.  No, idiot, that's your receipt.  Why is there so much paper?
18.  Do I have time to pee?  What if I need to pee halfway through the film?  I can't just get up and pee.  I'll just go pee now, just incase.  But what if I need to pee again?  I always need to pee.
19.  How do I turn the stupid tap on?  Why am I so stupid, maybe I should just go home.  But I spent lots of money on this ticket, I just need to get on with it.  But there are lots of children everywhere, what if their parents realise I'm an adult, on my own, watching a kids film.  Oh, it's a motion-sensored tap.  Well that old lady clearly thinks I'm an idiot as well.  Good job Rosy.  Good job.
20.  Right, it's now or never.  I really want to see this film.  Just walk into screen 3.  H15.  If I look like I know what I'm doing, no-one is going to stop and ask what I'm doing here.  I belong here, I bought a ticket and everything.  I'll just wait for that family to go in.  And that one.  Just go in.  God Rosy, stop being a complete wuss, just go and sit in the bloody cinema. 
21.  Oh look, a map, that'll show me where I'm sitting, that's useful.
22.  Oh crap, there are loads of people here, and my seat's on the other side of the screen - I have to walk infront of everyone to get to my seat.
23.  Rosy, don't fall over the man in the wheelchair.  Don't look up, just keep walking.
24.  Where the hell are the letters?!  Why can't I see row H?  If I crouch down, I'm going to look stupid and people are going to notice me.  Oh, here's row H.
25.  H15.  Sit down.  Get juice and half eaten chocolate bar out of your bag.  Good.  Now, enjoy the film.
26.  Why hasn't it started yet?  Maybe I'm in the wrong screen.
27.  I'm the only person here on my own.  All of the other grown up people are here with small children.  What if they notice I'm here on my own and say something?
28.  I just want to watch the film.  What if they ask me to leave?  I'm not doing anything, but what if they think I'm weird and want me to leave.
29.  That child just asked why it is dark.  It is really dark.  Is it normally this dark?  Am I in the right screen?  Maybe they changed the screen and I missed the announcement.
30.  Oh thank god, the adverts are starting.  Just focus on the adverts.  It'll be ok.

No wonder I've not been to the cinema in a while.  I'm exhausted and the film hasn't even started.

I'll update you on the rest of the trip once I've recovered...

Every Path has its Puddle

A month ago, I wrote about April, a month when I used social media to try and boost my mood every day. It totally worked; at the end of April I felt completely in control and I was happy. I could focus, I was on top of everything, I was eating, and I was sleeping. I had proven to myself it was possible to be in control of how I feel, and that it was pretty easy to do.

So of course I managed to keep the #Positivity tweets going for all of two days into May before completely giving up. I don't know why, I just stopped.

And shortly after, probably around 5th May, I started to notice my mood had started to dip. Just a little bit, but I wasn't starting my day with a positive thought, and I was letting little things get to me. I tried really hard to fight it: I wrote to do lists; I did as little as possible at the weekends; I made lunch the night before; I bought fruit so I wouldn't fill up on chocolate... I tried all of the things, but gradually I've been sleeping less and less; I've added an extra bottle of wine to my weekly food shop (as an aside, I only average a bottle over a week - I'm still within my weekly recommended limits); I'm constantly tired; my limbs ache for no obvious reason; I'm constantly on the verge of tears; and somehow the words that I carefully formulate in my head before I speak are not the words that end up falling out of my mouth. I'm not being very positive.

In my office we have a jar, filled with positive quotes. Every day, someone will pick one, and earlier this week it was my turn. The jar was thrust in my face, so I'm not entirely sure I had much choice - maybe it was more obvious that I was having a bad day than I thought.

After jumbling the quotes for a while, I pulled out a little slip of paper, on which was written:

'Every path has its puddle'

That broke me. You know those moments when you don't know whether to laugh or cry? Well I laughed, and laughed and laughed until I didn't need to worry about crying, because that happened all by itself.

Once I'd recovered from laughing/ crying at the ridiculousness of this quote, I carried on with my day. Then I went home and lay on the floor (not unusual - if I lie on the floor I can't fall any further, therefore the floor is a safe place), and ranted a bit, until I realised the person I was ranting at had got bored at some point in the previous half hour and wandered off. Essentially, I was doing what a three year old does when they don't get their own way: lying on the floor, kicking and screaming until they either get what they want or they fall asleep.

I am twenty eight years old, and I have resorted to acting like a toddler who doesn't know any better. This is what the wonderful combination of both depression and anxiety does to me.

And you know what? I really really fucking hate it (sorry for the bad word dad). I hate that I get a bit of a glimpse of normality, and I feel confident and happy and ready to start getting on with my life, and then for absolutely no apparent reason, it feels like everything is just collapsing around my ears.

Maybe that quote that I thought was just a bit stupid has a point. Maybe my path is full of puddles. 

And after a month back in therapy, this shouldn't come as much of a surprise, but I have a sneaky suspicion I know what my puddles are:

1. I need to help. I haven't worked out yet why it is, but I can't just stand by and let someone else worry about it (whatever 'it' may be on any given occasion). I can't bear to think that someone might need help, with the knowledge that I might be able to make their lives a little bit easier. No matter that I might not have the time, or that they might just need to work it out for themselves. And that brings me on to my second puddle.

2. I can't say no. If someone is asking for help, regardless of what it is or whether it is going to require a lot of physical and emotional Rosy-time, I will give it. I am trying, really really hard to recognise when I'm doing it, but I just don't seem to notice a lot of the time, until suddenly I'm overwhelmed with things that don't need to be my responsibility. Leading nicely into point three...

3. The pressure I am under is self-inflicted. I still haven't worked out why, but as soon as someone has asked for help and I have failed to say no, I find myself under pressure to not only do the job, but to do it well. Maybe I'm looking for a little bit of recognition, although what for I just don't know, but it takes me on to my final point. 

4. I feel like I am invisible. My counsellor pointed out this week that I do a lot for other people, but she hasn't yet worked out what I do for me (I haven't told her yet that counselling is the thing I do for me). I spend a lot of time trying to fix problems, looking after other people's children, fighting inequalities, cooking dinner, cleaning (well, maybe not as much of that as I should), and going along with what other people want to do or want me to do. I have felt recently like Rosy has disappeared somewhere under the pile of other people's problems, to the point where I don't really know who the 'real' Rosy is any more.

I don't know how to change any of this - I was asked this week what it might be like to say no, and my whole body tensed up, completely involuntarily (if I hadn't been sitting in an uncomfortable chair I'd have curled up in a ball like a hedgehog). I don't want my friends to think I don't care, because I really really do.

But I also know that I need to tackle these issues - fill the potholes that make the puddles, if you like - before I can even start to work out where Rosy has gone. And I know that no-one else can do that for me. 

I can't keep lying on the floor, shouting into the carpet, hoping that something in the dirt that I've not hoovered for longer than I'm prepared to mention will throw me a solution. I need to pull up my big girl pants, put on my wellies, and grab a spade. If I don't start digging, those holes are just going to get bigger, until they are (as one of my colleagues described them) 'Vicar of Dibley sized puddles', and the real Rosy will just drown.

I don't want to drown please.

Don't be nice...

I have a friend. Well, I have lots of friends. But I have one friend in particular. This post is for her.

We met about three years ago, just before I realised I have depression. We got on OK, went for coffee a few times and hit it off. And then I realised I had depression and started seeing a counsellor. Shortly after, she realised she was also not OK. Since that moment, we have become so inseparable that everyone thinks we are sisters. We've stopped correcting them.

Fast forward a couple of years, and we're there again. I'm dealing with my issues through counselling, but she has gone one step further and had joined a group therapy class. I am so in awe - I have enough trouble opening up to one complete stranger every week, yet she manages to tell lots of people all in one go what's happening in her head. I don't know how she does it.

Every week, as part of her class, she has homework. Of course, she is super diligent and does it without fail, and we analyse it together before each class, because that's what friends are for, right?

This week, the homework was to ask close friends some questions - questions like 'how would you describe me?' and 'what positive characteristics do you think I have?' So, of course, she asked me.

We are so close it should have been easy to answer these questions. But it wasn't easy at all. It was really really hard.

We are so similar it felt like the questions were about me. Not in a narcissistic way, just that I find it so hard to say nice things about myself that I put myself in her shoes, and I know how hard it is to hear other people say nice things about you when you don't believe them yourself. And I know that, in saying nice things, as much as the professionals say it will help, I will make her cry. That doesn't feel very nice to me.

I don't know if I can handle the guilt of making her cry, knowing that it is because of something I have said, nice or not. I don't want to be the one to tip her over the edge and make her feel worse, knowing that she struggles so hard to believe all of the nice things people say about her. I know she feels that way because I feel it too, and it is so hard to separate that from the knowledge that, maybe in the long run, it will help.

I am so proud of my friend. I love her to pieces, and I would do anything to make her happy and to feel better. I love being her friend because, in our own slightly confused and messed up way, when I am with her I feel some semblance of normality - I know that I am not the only person with problems and seemingly irrational issues, and that makes everything just a little bit easier to deal with.

So I am also completely, overwhelmingly, confused right now. Do I say nice things and feel guilty that I made her cry, knowing how hard it is for her to process nice things; or do I just keep doing what I'm doing and stand by her side and hold her hand on every step of this ridiculous journey?

Whatever happens, I guess I have to do something. And since she's probably reading this through floods of tears, it's probably too late for me to do nothing. I guess I can live with the guilt, as long as it helps...

Keep smiling.

#Positivity

So here we are, rapidly approaching the end of April. I said at the end of my last post that l was going to try and be more positive this month, so I owe you an update.

At the start of the month, I decided to tweet a positive quote every day, to start the day by thinking about happy things and to give myself a little kick of inspiration to get through the day. By and large, I succeeded. I only missed two days, but they were days when I was at a Girlguiding conference and was tweeting so much I completely forgot. Those days were so positive and inspiring that I've forgiven myself for not thinking about being positive and inspired by the second-hand words of someone else.

So do I feel more positive?

I'm not going to lie and tell you that everything is hunky dory, because it's not. April has been hard. I struggled at the start of the month to accept that my own insecurities, lack of self-belief and inability to let go have been and will be the things that stop me from moving forward and achieving the things I know I want. After a week of annual leave, when I stayed in bed for most of my time off because it was easier than trying to work out where to start, I felt guilty and embarrassed that I had wasted a precious week of time I wouldn't get back.

Life has thrown a mountain of shit in my path this month - wonderful friends have lost much-wanted pregnancies, have been diagnosed with eating disorders, or have struggled with life-changing decisions, forced by crippling anxiety or depression; hundreds of people lost their lives trying to escape from their homes, travelling across the sea searching for a better life; and this week thousands further have died in a natural disaster that couldn't have been predicted.

I have been told multiple times recently that I care too much, that I worry too much about other people. And for a long time, I have been led to believe that this is a bad thing. But I can't stop caring - I know now that it is a fundamental part of what makes me me. I know that I will never forget a friend in need, regardless of where they are in the world or what burden they are carrying. Because I know that when I am struggling and lost, they will be there to hold my hands and walk by my side until we stumble upon a way out.

There are some people in all of our lives who, seemingly effortlessly, are able to function as responsible grown up people, going through their days without making a complete fool of themselves, multitasking without dropping balls left right and centre, and making the rest of us feel completely inadequate as human beings. I know it is not intentional, yet I have spent much of my adult life being intimidated and overwhelmed by these people. But I realised this month that it is not intended to make me feel that way. These people carry their own burdens. They are just them and I am just me.

There are just a few minutes of April left, and I don't want to leave this post on a negative note, because in spite of everything I just told you, I do feel better. I have really enjoyed the process of finding a positive quote each morning which reflects my feelings on that day, and sharing it with the world. I've found a lot of comfort in looking back over quotes from previous days, and remembering how I felt and why I chose that particular quote. I don't know if it just the quotes, or the fact that the sun has been shining (for the most part - it was both warm and dry AND cold and snowing on Monday), but I do feel better. Right now, I don't feel so completely bogged down with life that I can't focus on getting through each day. I genuinely do feel like I can deal with the mountains, although I know I can't do it alone.

Tomorrow is the start of a new month, and I am going to continue with the tweeting of positive quotes. And tomorrow evening, I have my first real appointment with a new counsellor. Like I say, I can't do this alone, and the thing I miss most about therapy is the space to talk solely about me without feeling the need to relieve someone else of their burdens in return. I never thought I'd say that.

If you'd like to read some of my favourite #Positivity quotes you can find me on Twitter at @rosybee1, though I'm sure I'll share them with you over time.

Keep smiling you wonderful people.

Positive Thinking and Emotional Rollercoasters

Thank you everyone for all your lovely words of support over the last few days. I am exhausted, physically and mentally, but the fact that I am recognising emotions (currently anger, frustration, relief and a new one - humiliation) is a really positive sign.

Last night, I got so caught up in all those emotions that I found myself picking up the phone to the Samaritans. This is something I have never done before, and it terrified me. I just wanted to rant at someone neutral, to not have to phone a friend at midnight and feel like a failure or have to pretend that sympathy was helping (as a side note, sympathy doesn't help, it just make me feel like I'm letting you down. If you want to help, let me rant, and just listen to me. And I promise not to call you in the middle of the night!)

In the end, I didn't go through with it. I had read every single page on the Samaritans website, and knew I didn't have to feel suicidal to call for help. (Another side note - I do not currently, and have not for a number of years, think about killing myself. I am not suicidal. And if that changes, I have a plan that will kick in waaaaaaay before anything happens. Please stop worrying now. I won't do it.)

The thing that stopped me wasn't the stigma of calling them, it was the not knowing where to start. There were too many new and unexplored thoughts and feelings buzzing around (think herds of bees) in my head, and I didn't know how to get it all out to a stranger over the phone without having to go over years of background and rambling.

So I started to write notes, events and things people had said that had upset me or triggered certain emotions, and tried to find arguments and counter arguments for each point. After not very long, I was tired and just went to bed. It was pretty anticlimactic really, given that not long before I had sat crying on the kitchen floor in the dark.

Today has been a lovely day - I met a friend for a long lunch then spent the afternoon reading and colouring in. This evening I felt more relaxed than I have for ages, so I decided to write down some of the events of the past few months that I think have triggered this round of depression. Whilst I now feel completely drained (and my hand feels like it might fall off), my head feels so much clearer and I have rediscovered the stubborn side of me. I'm going to draw a line, and April is going to be a good month. I'm not going to be 100% better (it's not that easy) but I'm going to try reeeeeeeeeeally hard to focus and find the positives.

Wish me luck...!

(And does anyone have any suggestions of ways to stop my hand hurting so much? Writing is painful!)

Dear Depression

Dear Depression, 

Are you kidding me?  Surely you're joking, right?  Just teasing, poking at the edges, trying to see how far you can push me before I break? 

What's that?  You don't know what I'm talking about? 

My dear Depression,

I'd like to say it was nice to see you again, but obviously I would be lying.  

I'm sure I told you already you how much I hate you.  You make me angry and sad and frustrated and all kinds of miserable.  I have tried so many different ways to say that I am not ok, but I used up all the words before, and I don't know what else to say to make you go away.

I don't think asking nicely is going to help any more, is it?  

Oh Depression,

I forgot to say, thanks. 

Thanks for filling my head with the sound of a herd of bees.  I'd say swarm, but swarms are elegant and beautiful and work together as one for the greater good.  The bees in my head are none of those things.  They are pissed off and want out.  They buzz loudest when I need to concentrate.  Have you ever had a head full of bees?  They're pretty distracting.

Thanks for waking me up at two o'clock every morning to remind me how completely and utterly useless you think I am.  I know we're going to disagree, but you really know how to kick a dog when it's down don't you?  Could you not at least wait until the sun's shining and I've had a decent eight hours?  That way I might actually be able to fight my own corner.

Thanks for making me so tired that I'm even more accident prone than normal.  Yesterday I got my hair caught in the wrong end of the hairdryer, and instead of untangling it I just cut it off.  There's a lovely smell of burnt hair in my room just now.  I have a beautiful bruise on my shin, you'd be really proud of it. (That's not related to the hairdryer incident).

Thanks for making me act like a complete idiot. Thanks for putting a massive road block somewhere between my mouth and my brain; for making me say things I know I don't believe or that would be best left unsaid. Thanks for sucking up all the energy I don't have and making me grumpy and irritable and just not very nice.

Thanks for nothing Depression.

Dear Depression,

I don't remember saying this was ok.  But then I don't seem to be able to remember much right now. (Thanks for that. Not).  If you think I'm going to let you walk all over me again, you can stop right there.  I'm sure there are better things you could be doing with your time. Like not being in my head for starters.

I don't like you Depression. I don't like you so much that I fully intend to fight you, just like I have done before and will probably do again. I will fight you even if you tie my hands behind my back, gag my mouth and fill my head with bees. I will fight you with every drop of energy I have. I will fight you Depression.

Because even though you're winning right now, I will not lose.

Go away now please.

Thanks,
Rosy

Here we go again...

You may remember that I finished an MSc in Human Resource Management in 2013 (after all my chat about just wanting more than 53% in my dissertation, I ended up getting a distinction, which was a total shock, but awesome!). After graduating, it felt like something was missing. I was no longer working 70 hours a week AND no longer spending every other second either in the library or with my head in a book. I suddenly had all this free time (well, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but still, there was more time in the day for cooking and watching crap TV).

I spent a lot of that free time (when I wasn't guiding, watching videos of cats on YouTube or thinking about why I should probably get off the sofa and do some cleaning or tidying or something) researching PhD options. I even contacted a few universities to find out if they specialised in the things I am interested in (here's a handy piece of advice - of you are ever thinking about studying for a PhD, have a more detailed idea of what it is you actually want to study before you email the academic experts with lots of stupid questions).

As lovely as the replies were, I came away from the whole experience feeling a bit bashed and bruised. This is one thing I can't just accidentally fall into. I need more of a plan. And the biggest problem - I don't have a good enough degree.

I knew that bloody 2:2 would come back and bite me one day. Those two little numbers, which people kept telling me aren't important once you've got your first job, and which are, in percentage points, only 1% lower than the cut off for a 2:1, have suddenly created this massive block in the road. I've finally worked our what I want to do next with my life, and one missed answer on an exam paper six years ago is coming back to haunt me. Damn it!

Despite having a Masters degree and lots of relevant experience, I don't have a 2:1 or a relevant degree. There goes the dream of having a PhD by the time I'm 30.

So guess what I started this week?!

Yep, I've gone back to square one, have signed up for a BA (Hons) in International Studies with the Open University, and I'm starting at the very beginning with an 'Introduction to Social Sciences'.

This all sort of happened by accident (surprised much? No, me neither). At some point last year I must have signed up to some sort of mailing list, which meant I would receive a weekly email from the OU telling me what I was missing in my life. I kept hitting delete without reading - I'm too busy to do another degree, I can't afford it, it's just going to be another thing I end up resenting, I don't have time, I already have two degrees I don't need another one, etcetera etcetera. Oh why did I stop listening to the voices in my head?

I'll tell you exactly why. Because studying is awesome. And I get a student card so might be able to buy all the things I don't need. But mostly because I miss studying and learning is fun and the sense of achievement at the end will be so worth it, even if I hate it 93% of the time (which I'm hoping I won't since this is going to be my life for the next hundred years. Or something.)

Also I had two weeks off at Christmas, when I had time to spend all day every day sitting on the sofa, and accidentally read one of those pesky OU emails. I then accidentally clicked on the 'register here' button and typed in my address, just to see what would happen. OK, the next bit (filling in funding applications and reading lots of small print) was slightly more of a conscious process, but then all of a sudden my course materials had arrived and I was getting emails from my tutor, and now I'm at the end of week one and I've spent a lot of time noticing things I'd never even thought about before I became a social science student. And I'm already behind, and the kitchen's a mess because we got a new boiler fitted this week, and I forgot to hang the washing up so have been sleeping in a sleeping bag all week, and I'm a little bit hungover (because that's what students do, right?)

But apart from all that, I'm so excited to be studying again. So far, we have had amazing support, and the resources for the module are incredible, it's all so clearly laid out and there is an obvious path through the module materials so I think it'll be really hard to go off track. I am a little apprehensive about the fact that it's mostly all distance learning. I like to be able to discuss things and share ideas, and it's hard to engage with a discussion on an online forum. We do have a few face to face tutorials, and our first one was on Tuesday, but I'm pretty confident I did at least 50% of the talking, which, given that I hate the sound of my own voice, wasn't exactly the kind of discussion I was going for (I can talk to myself at home, where it is also socially acceptable for me to wear pyjamas and eat cereal straight out of the box).

Overall, I know that I need to do well in this to reach the ultimate goal of doing a PhD. And the great thing about the Open University is that I can take 10 years (or more) to finish this if I want (which I don't), so if life gets in the way, it's not the end of the world.

To those of you who worry about my already limited time, or my inability to sleep, or my mental health, or the cleanliness of my flat, don't worry, I have a plan.

Just be glad you don't have to live with me!

Wanderlust (A Tale of Two Cities)

(Written on 31st January 2015)

Today is my 28th birthday, and I am writing this somewhere under the English channel. As birthdays go, I suppose waking up in Paris and then spending the day with some of my favourite people in London ranks up there as one of the best ways to spend an adult birthday.

However, it's also quite sad. I am on the penultimate leg of my 'mini grand tour of Europe', which means the next stop after London is back home and back to real life. I've been looking forward to this trip for so long, and now it's nearly over. Somewhat like my 20s.

I have just realised that I'm technically no longer in my mid 20s, and I'm closer to 30 than I am to 20. Not that age matters hugely, I've just spent a lot of time this week with friends I have known for a long time, and have naturally reflected on our teenage years.

Ten years ago today, I turned 18. I remember it vividly - going out for dinner and to the cinema the night before, and driving down the M56 for half an hour so I could be with my friends at midnight (we sat in Chester service station sharing a chocolate muffin between four of us, then I had to drive everyone home and didn't get in until after 2am. I vaguely remember falling asleep in my stats class the next day, which would have been less of a problem if I hadn't made up 50% of the class).

At 18, I think I was probably the most confident I have ever been. I had lots of friends, I could drink and drive (not together) and have a job and do all sorts of grown up things. I was clever and passed all my exams (they later let me take a whole extra A level, which meant learning the course two weeks before the exam), I was going to go to university and get a great job and do loads of travelling, and it was all going to be amazing.

Fast forward ten years, and I am happy. But life is so completely different than I ever imagined it would be. This week of travelling around Europe (albeit only three countries, not including the UK) has been amazing, but on more than one occasion I've found myself wishing I was there with my friends, living in a new city, learning and using a different language, and being part of a completely different culture. My lucky friends live on this huge land mass where a completely different country is just a few hours away on the train.

I think I might be a little bit jealous.

My friend sent me an article recently that says if you are ever asked for life advice, tell them to go travelling. I could have told you that for free.

But just because the advice is given doesn't necessarily mean I'll take it. I love travelling, but I've come to realise that one of the things I love most is the opportunity to escape from real life.

Unfortunately, when you leave anywhere to go travelling, real life has a habit of coming with you. My lucky friends do have so many opportunities to travel, but they also have to deal with bills and rent and insurance and all sorts of grown up nonsense that means travelling isn't actually as easy as it sounds.

So I guess I don't really have a choice. I have to go back to real life and face my quarter-life crisis head on.

Though that won't stop me from planning the next grand tour!

A Vegan Abroad

(Or 'why I never want to see another omelette again in my whole life')

You may have guessed, I'm not technically vegan, but I have been vegetarian since I was 9, which has been fine (apart from being force-fed nuts and seeds when, particularly as a teenager, all my friends were eating chicken nuggets and chips). That is, it was fine until about three years ago when I became lactose intolerant. All of a sudden, the main ingredients disappeared from my diet - no more macaroni cheese, no more milk in my (copious and very large) cups of tea, and no more ice cream, cream or custard. Basically all of the best foods had gone.

For a while, I survived on garlic bread and chips (although that was as much to do with the depression and general exhaustion as it was to do with the fact that 'I can't eat anything'). But over time, I have rediscovered my love for cooking, and now spend at least one afternoon each weekend creating new recipes and adapting existing ones.

One of my biggest bug bears is going out for dinner and being stuck with one of three options: pizza without the cheese (delicious but irritating given that I can buy lactose free cheese in the supermarkets, and therefore make my own pizza at least once a week); chips and salad (the excellent but lazy combination of unhealthy with a bit of wet lettuce); or my least favourite - pasta with red sauce (normally tomato. Sometimes I'm not sure).

Most of my favourite restaurants are on the list because they either offer a range of Rosy-proof food, or they are willing to adapt menu items. If the chef gets excited about the opportunity to try a new recipe just for me, they boost straight to the top of the list.

This is all fine when I'm at home - we don't go out for dinner very often. But during my 'mini grand tour of Europe', it wasn't that easy.

On my last day in the Netherlands, my friend and I decided to go out for lunch. The evening before, we trawled the internet for local menus, and had a shortlist of possibilities. When we got into town (I didn't fall of my bike - yay!) we headed to the first restaurant which, online, had veggie burgers on the menu. Their menu has changed the week before, so no veggie burgers, or anything that wasn't meat, fish or cheese.

The next few restaurants were similar - lots of options, nothing for Rosy.  After about half an hour, we settled on a pub, and I ordered an omelette - delicious.

Fast-forward a few days, and I'd given up looking for anything that isn't egg based and fried. I've just counted and I reckon I ate no less than 17 eggs in six days.

Being in Paris was particularly hard. Every other shop I passed seemed to be a fromagerie, and I LOVE CHEESE! I may have spent half of my final day in Paris standing outside and staring through the window, drooling just a little bit. That was the hardest part of this trip.

My advice for fellow intolerant vegetarians (HA!) travelling in Europe is threefold:

1. Take multivitamins with you, and make sure they contain iron. Chances are you won't get a huge variation in the meals you eat, so you'll need something to make sure you get your recommended daily levels! Although if you eat as many eggs as I did, your iron levels will be the least of your worries...

2. Stay in self-catered accommodation. There are loads of options, particularly in major cities, for cheap accommodation - I love staying in youth hostels if I'm travelling alone, but if I'm with my boyfriend or friends, we try to rent an apartment (I use waytostay.com). Every city will have supermarkets, local markets and delis where you can buy fresh food which needs minimal preparation, and you can always take some dried pasta, rice or couscous with you as a back up.

3.  Do your research before you travel. Find out what the local delicacies are, and if there are any veggie/vegan alternatives. If you can, find out where you can buy these, and include them in your plans for your trip. Find out if there are any vegetarian restaurants, or restaurants that might have a vegan option (Mexican restaurants almost always will). Most importantly, make sure you know how to say 'I am vegetarian/ lactose/ gluten/ etc intolerant and cannot eat dairy/ milk/ cream/ bread/ eggs/ etc' in the language of whichever country you are in. You could write it down and keep it in your wallet if that helps, and try to learn how to ask whether there are any alternatives (and give examples). In my experience, restaurant staff are much more willing (and able) to help if you're speaking the same language.

I guess most importantly, don't be scared to try something new, but if you have to eat omelette every day of your trip, that's way better than being hungry and not enjoying yourself!

Toilet Humour

Yes, this is a post about toilets. Please don't read on if you are squeamish.

For as long as I have been travelling independently, particularly with Girlguiding, I have had what some may see as a completely bizarre obsession with toilets.

My introduction to international guiding, at the age of 14, was a presentation from an older girl who had been to an international camp the previous summer. I can't remember where she had been, or who she was, but I do remember she told us a lot about the toilets. She even showed us a picture (I'm pretty confident it was a portaloo, so pretty safe as far as international camps go, as long as your tent isn't down wind, particularly towards the end of the week).

My first experience of an international camp was in Germany in 2003.  I remember we had portaloos, and they were horrendous and weren't emptied until they started to overflow three days into the camp. Add in the communal wash tents (15 year old me was not expecting to be surrounded by hundreds of fully naked Germans), and it was a pretty traumatic experience.

Regardless, thus began my apparent obsession with toilets.

The reason I'm telling you this is because I realised during my 'mini grand tour of Europe' perhaps how unnecessary and weird this obsession has become.

In the Netherlands, we always seemed to end up talking about poo at the dinner table (I noticed my friend stopped putting tomatoes in my salad after I told her about a man who noticed tomato plants growing at the bottom of his garden thanks to the British train toilets which 'evacuate' straight onto the tracks), and whenever I go on a Dutch train I'm careful not to drink too much - there is something very off-putting about seeing the tracks moving at hundreds of miles an hour below you. I'm also petrified of accidentally dropping something important (it wouldn't be the first time I've dropped my passport in the loo).

In Brussels, I noticed that the toilet cubicle doors opened outwards, and on more than one occasion I found myself thinking this is a much better design than in the UK, where I more often than not have to balance either myself or my shopping on the toilet seat in order to squeeze the door shut behind me.

And that brings us to Paris. My friend lives in a beautiful but very small studio apartment with a communal toilet. To be fair to her, she did warn me about the toilet in advance, but it wasn't until I arrived (having drunk many cups of tea while waiting to meet her after work) that I remembered it is a squat toilet.

Now, in theory, I have no problem with a squat toilet. Once you've mastered the art of balancing and not peeing all over your trousers, you're all set (I was going to say it's a bit like riding a bike, but we all know how good I am at that...)

The problem comes when you're very tired. As I locked the door behind me, I had a horrible flashback to the first time I used a squat toilet. Without being too graphic (use your own imagination), I hadn't accounted for how slippy the floor might be, and ended up in a less than desirable position.

I don't think I drank for a week afterwards.

Needless to say, I was a lot more prepared this time around. I just made sure I used public toilets at every possible opportunity, just to be safe...

I promise I will try not to blog about toilets again.

As easy as riding a bike...

I have come to the conclusion that the phrase 'as easy as riding a bike' is pretty much a pile of rubbish.

I mean, ok, the physical act of sitting and pedalling is not hard once you've worked out that you just need to stick your feet on the pedals and move your legs around in a circle. Staying upright is a bonus.

Being in the Netherlands, cycling is pretty much the only way to get from A to B, and there are literally no hills (something that, having grown up surrounded by mountains, completely freaks me out every time we go outside), so I don't really have any excuse not to. Therefore, on Saturday, I rode a bike for the first time in roughly 15 years (I'm not counting the time I cycled 3 miles from my parents house in North Wales to visit a friend, and then left my bike at their house for six months because the journey was so traumatic!).

I borrowed my friend's mother-in-law's bike, and after some faffing around trying (unsuccessfully) to lower the seat, we headed off on what should have been a relatively short journey into town.

Wait, that makes it sound like it just happened.

Now might be a good time to mention that, the night before, it snowed in Meppel for the first time in over two years.

So, we decided we would walk to the end of the street, where the snow had been cleared. Then, to avoid the confusing anticlockwise roundabout, we walked across the road. We were essentially half way into town before I even attempted to get on the bike.

In between my nervous/hysterical giggling, and my short legs not quite being long enough to reach the floor, it took a further ten minutes before we could actually set off.

I was just about settled into being on two wheels when we arrived at the supermarket. I had navigated my way around a small child and snow drifts, and managed to not crash into any cars (stationary or otherwise), so I was pretty happy.

The one thing I hadn't factored into my journey was stopping. I mean, I knew I would have to at some point. I just sort of forgot to think about how.

As I mentioned before, my legs aren't quite long enough for any more than the very tips of my toes to touch the floor when I am sitting on the saddle. Those of you who know me will know that I have a hard enough time staying upright when my feet are on the floor.

Needless to say, the disembarkation was less than elegant. As we came to stop, I forgot which of the many knobs and levers on my handlebars (which are, by the way, located somewhere near my ears) were the ones for stopping, and I panicked, steering the front wheel into the pavement. Fortunately, the snow provided a soft landing...

I'd like to say I'm getting better at this game, but I'm currently sitting on the sofa drugged up with ibuprofen and feeling sorry for myself, having lost control of the lower half of my body (ie, the bit attached to the bike) while crossing a road. Turns out I can do the splits (a challenge even without a bike tangled around my legs).

I think I can safely say that cycling is not a thing I will be taking up on my return to Edinburgh.

Flying Solo

(Written Friday 23rd January 2015)

I'm writing this post on a train. Somewhere in the Netherlands.

Three weeks into 2015, and I'm off on what I like to describe as a "mini grand tour of Europe '. 

I started planning this trip on a whim back in the summer of 2014 after the wedding celebrations of one of my best school friends. She now lives in the Netherlands with her husband (it still feels weird saying that!) And I realised when, we were all sitting in her parents' back garden just how much I miss her. Over the next few months, we caught up on life via Facebook and Skype, and by October we had decided I should go and visit.

At the same time, I had been chatting to my friend Helen, who I have known for 10 years (we went on a trip to Iceland with Girlguiding Cymru together). Helen lives in Paris, a city that I have wanted to go back to since my last visit seven years ago, so when the possibility of a trip to mainland Europe came up, I figured I could combine the two cities into one trip.

But when? 

Conveniently, my birthday is at the end of January, and I do not like January. That, plus the need to use the rest of this year's annual leave, plus a large number of Nectar Points, east coast rail vouchers and hotels.com points, made it surprisingly easy to book an 8 day holiday. Add a day in Brussels and a weekend in London into the mix, and I'm all set.

So here I am at the start of this mini adventure. I've survived the nightmare that is Edinburgh Airport's new security checks (basically a large cattle shed with automatic barriers that need to be staffed because they don't work, so those of us who used up the last of our printer ink printing our boarding cards at home had to queue for 20 minutes to get new boarding cards printed. I'm not at all angry. Nope.) I've downed 2 litres of liquid to avoid having to throw it away on my way into said cattle shed (and regretted it 2 hours later when the plane spent longer taxi-ing down the runway at Schipol airport than the whole rest of the flight). I've even managed to pack for a week in hand luggage (and we all know how much I dislike packing)!

All I have left to do now is work out where I'm supposed to get off this train...

One year on...

Somehow, with minimal thought or effort, it is a year since I posted my last blog post.

I've just re-read it, and I can't believe it was a review of 2013.  I honestly don't know where 2014 went, and now, all of a sudden it's 2015!

What?!


Not going to lie, 2014 wasn't the easiest year. But it sure as hell wasn't anywhere near as bad as the one before.

2014 was a year of huge achievements, with things that seemed impossible a year ago just sort of happening.

Finishing counselling in December 2013 was a huge step, and going back to 'real life' in January was big and overwhelming and scary, but also deceptively easy. I didn't fall to pieces the first time I had to make a decision or buy something bigger than one meal at a time. The world didn't implode, and the sky didn't fall in on my head. Huh. Turns out humaning isn't impossible after all!

One of the huge highlights of 2014 was my Guiding world. I rediscovered how much I really do love being a Brownie leader, and have thrown myself back into weekly meetings with a much more positive outlook. In May we had a fab Alice in Wonderland themed sleepover with my lovely friend's Brownies, and later in the year an exhausting (but fun) Frozen-themed pack holiday.

In 2014 we celebrated the Big Brownie Birthday - 100 years since the younger sisters of the (relatively new) Girl Guides asked for something for them. The Big Brownie Birthday gave me the opportunity to visit some of Girlguiding's training centres, bringing India to hundreds of Brownies from across the UK at two World Centres weekends. I'm now determined to go to India and visit the WAGGGS World Centre, Sangam, before too long!

Outside of Guiding, I have done a lot of travelling, around Scotland and the UK, and further afield - AND we went on an actual holiday for a week in North America, exploring Toronto, Niagara Falls, and returning to New York to do the bits of touristing we missed last year. I'm looking forward to even more travelling in 2015, starting with a 'grand tour' of Europe next week!

So.  Now it's the middle of January 2015.

Although I've not blogged for a year, I haven't stopped writing, and I'm planning to share more of my short stories and flash fiction with you this year. I'm also going to keep blogging, although posts may be sporadic. Why? Because...

I've decided to do another degree, to try and improve on the 2:2 I got for my first undergraduate degree, so on 8th February I will begin a BA (hons) in International Studies through the Open University. It may take years to finish, but I'm determined to do better than I did before!

Like last year, I'm not going to set resolutions that I'm not going to keep. I'm just going to keep doing what I'm doing and enjoy being me for a while.

Let's see what happens...!