Full Relapse

Well folks, it's been a while. Nearly 6 months in fact. A lot has happened in that period and here's the start of filling you in.

We'll start off with my relapse this year, which coincided with my lack of blog activity.




Things had been going well. I was working on a regular basis, my life was picking up and there had been no signs of depression or anxiety.

My friendship with Lindsay had hit a rock. She was herself having a major relapse, but was in severe denial about the whole thing. Her then boyfriend and myself could see the signs, she was blissfully unaware though. After many attempts to help her, I decided that enough was enough and sacked her off for good. I know it's hypocritical of me, wanting support from my own circle of friends with my depression, but sometimes you just have to score the good and bad parts of a friendship and make the choice.

I'd been actively helping set up a peer support group in Warrington for people with mental health issues. I'd purchased and designed a website and was a key player in the decision making process.

Something changed though. I started skipping work, my passion for the support group started to waver and I stopped attending the meetings of the sister group in Wigan, which I had been attending regularly for months. Towards the end of May and start of June, I came to the conclusion I was suffering from a major relapse.

My GP surgery had a 'wait and see' attitude to the problems I was having. I decided to take a dramatic and inadvisable route to the help I knew I needed.

I stopped taking my medication.

Not all of it. I kept on taking the Mirtazipine. It helped me sleep. I stopped my Sertraline though and the effects were hard hitting.

My mind went bonkers. I was either not able to get out of bed, or not able to sit down for more than 30 seconds. I'd rush around all over the place, my heart rate would be high, my head would rush and more than once I nearly collapsed. The physical signs were scarier than the mental signs.

I'd spoken to Kim, a fellow mental and the chair of the support group. I'd told her I'd stopped my meds. I also told her I'd have to withdraw my support for the group as my mental health was deteriorating very quickly. One Friday night, Kim had to come and pick up the equipment I had for the group, I had already started drinking.

The following week, I asked Kim to call the mental health team at the local NHS Trust. She did. I got a phone call later that afternoon and was placed back on the 'in need of urgent support'. I wasn't placed on the 'suicide watch' list, as I tended to be self-destructive, rather than suicidal when I was in a dark place.

A few days later I was back at Wakefield House, discussing my problems with the mental health team. I'd gone back on my meds that weekend. I was back in the system now, that's all I needed.

My mood actually gained a bit of momentum, helped partly by the reintroduction of my meds, partly by my own mind having a positive outlook on the future due to my upcoming therapy sessions. You have some control over what you think about. Those with mental health issues have to work a lot harder, just to gain a small amount of control.

I've become very good at noticing signs of anxiety and depression in people around me. Old friends, new friends and even people I barely know. On quite a few occasions, I've wondered if I could cut it as an initial-phase mental health advisor. I'm not sure I could handle the pressure of changing someones life, but maybe I could put people on the right track, get them the help they needed. Without wanting to sound callous, I'd need to be paid. We all need to eat. It might be something to look into though.

Anyway, I digress...

I was put back into therapy. It was basically a top up of the things I'd learnt in previous therapy sessions, but boy did it help.

Even being denied Employment and Support Allowance on a damn technicality didn't set me back too much. See, when you come off ESA, you aren't allowed back on it for 6 months without good reason. The fact that I'd almost destroyed my own mental health wasn't a good enough excuse. It was ridiculous 'red tape'. They told me that even when the 6 month period expired, it would take around 3 months to process a new claim as they had to thoroughly check my claim to make sure I wasn't cheating the system.

For anybody reading this who has ever cheated the system....FUCK YOU. The dishonest amongst us means the honest have to suffer to get the help and support that we truly deserve. We now live in a society where it's 'guilty, until proven innocent'. Words do not express how fucked up that is.

So I had to sign on. I couldn't work on the days of my sessions, meaning any job that required working on a Wednesday, I couldn't accept.

The sessions went very well though. I took a small test at the start of each session, to determine my mood. Every week the score reduced in every area, both depressive and anxiety. Another setback didn't even damage the reduction.

One thing on my list of things I wanted to get back into doing was playing tag rugby again on a Monday night. I hadn't been for a year or so, so off I went to buy some new boots and socks. I managed to drag my best mate Fletch along, aswell as another mate who had been looking for a tag rugby session to get into.

The warm up was fine, my handling skills hadn't got any worse and I was feeling fairly confident I could have a good run out. We split into two teams and off we went.

Things went well for the first 5 minutes, a few quick play the balls, some good runs as a faux-prop forward and I was starting to get into the groove of it all. Then BAM.

I was defending and the bloke with the ball was running diagonally to my right. I turned direction and something snapped in my knee. I went down with a roar of pain and I stayed down.. The play continued, although someone stood near me confirmed that they had heard the snap aswell. My initial thought was dislocated knee, or a fracture.

I attempted to stand up, but as soon as I put weight on the bad leg, it collapsed inwards and I fell to the floor. I attempted this multiple times with the same result, slowly collapsing myself off the pitch. I'd been left on my own for a good 15 minutes (nice of them all isn't it?). Eventually Fletch came over to see what had happened. I quickly decided I needed to go to A&E. Fletch told me not to bother, he'd gone over on his ankle a few weeks before and was fine after a week or so.

This was no sprained ankle though.

We'd both cycled to the rugby, so the first plan of action was to get them back to mine. Cycling with one leg is actually quite entertaining. Once back at mine, Fletch continued to advise me that a trip to A&E was going to be a waste of time. Luckily, I paid no attention to him.

I was actually only in the hospital for about 3 hours. I felt like an idiot having to hop around everywhere though. Every bugger in there would stare at me as I struggled to get around. I was sent for an x-ray, which came back clean. There was no dislocation, no fracture and no break. Quite quickly, I was back to the triage room, where there was a pair of crutches waiting for me. The initial guesswork had it down as an anterior cruciate injury. The severity of the injury wouldn't be known for a while though.

I was booked into physiotherapy. They wanted the ACL strengthened before they even diagnosed it. You can't really argue with that system though. I've had a MRI scan. I get the official results this week, but it's already been confirmed by the physio that it's a tear to the ACL. A Pretty serious injury that requires an operation.

For those who have read my entire life story, you'll understand why the thought of an operation scares the living shit out of me. Although strangely, I'm kind of looking forward to it. And people wonder why I need therapy.

Still, the therapy continued to make my life a bit better. Every week I'd come out of the session knowing my moods were getting better. My therapist was actually quite proud of how I'd done by the end. The test I did in the first session came up with almost maximum scores for both depression and anxiety. My last test came back with a score that was fast approaching zero.

My relapse had officially ended. The Department for Work and Pensions and my knee had tried to throw a spanner in the works. But a trip to Wembley had cancelled all that out. It was time to go back to work