One of the reasons for this blog and Instagram account is to tell my story about how I fell into a very deep hole and somehow managed to climb out! I say "climbed" in the past tense but "still climbing" is probably more accurate. "Clinging on by my fingernails" could also describe it, but luckily for me, that's only on a few days here and there.
My journey involves being a young free and single 29 year old, to meeting the girl of my dreams and falling head over heels in love with her, to taking a career break from my job, to moving to Dublin to be with said love of my life, to becoming pregnant (well not me obviously but I feel like I felt every pain), to having a beautiful baby boy, to getting married, to becoming pregnant again and to moving back to England as a family, all in the space of two and a half years! When I think about it now it's fucking crazy! Coming to a decision to let my wife's son, my step-son, continue his studies in Ireland with his friends at the same time as being pregnant and moving to England without him was fucking tough (and something that I never will be able to forgive myself for). I thought that I dealt with things at the time by being strong for my wife but I never really did. All I did was put it to the back of my mind and carry on. I put it in my shed! That shed of mine that has all the un-filable stuff like old telephone bills and football medals that I won when I was eight years old. The instruction booklet for FIFA 2002 on the PS2 that I just might need if technology goes back in time. The certificate that I won at swimming to say that I could splash my way across ten metres whilst crying uncontrollably at seven years old. Those things all get thrown in there, mixed up with the important stuff that messed with my head and get lost until you go looking for something and they all fall on top of you at once. Then you're stuck under a pile of shit that you thought you had lost only to find again. Only when you find it again, it has multiplied and decides to stamp on your head over and over. It kicks you in the bollocks so hard that you sound like Mickey Mouse on helium. Fuck me do I ramble on or what?! Anyway back to my story.....
So the Mrs succumbed to post natal depression like many mothers do, after the birth of our second child, Lily. It's only when you chat to another mummy who then says "I'm on those tablets as well" that you realise how common post natal depression is. It's nothing to be ashamed of but at the time when you go through it, it's very tough. My wife dealt with moving away from her boy, moving away from her family and friends, leaving her job and the country that she loves to be with me and Charlie in England whilst she was pregnant with Lily. She deserves a medal for that alone! But then after Lily was born and the PND kicked in on top of all the other strains, life became rather strenuous. I helped her as much as I could and tried to mix my work with being a good husband and a daddy. I don't think I carried it off all the time but I tried very hard and I hope the Mrs can see that now. So after a rocky patch we got it all relatively back on track. A few hic-cups as to be expected when dealing with PND but all in all ok. That was until my darling Nan became ill. She's ninety four now. And mad as a box of frogs. One minute she'll be laughing along and putting the world to rights and the next she's asking what day it is. But for her age she's doing ok now. Last year not so much. She was in and out of hospital and a care home for a while as she was on deaths door. Literally knocking on the pearly gates ready to give up. At the same time the Mrs hit a rocky patch and I started to struggle. Seeing two of the most influential people in your life struggling and feeling like you have to hold them up really got to me. I didn't crumble at the time, I just carried on regardless. I became more and more tired. I became a lot more grumpy. And I started to lose my shit!
Around September 2016, the shit hit a very big fan and sprayed itself over my life. I got covered in that shit so badly that I ended up in a doctors surgery talking to the doc about what I should do next. I was lost. I was at my lowest. I had batted off the seeing my wife upset and suffering from depression alongside thinking that every time I said goodbye to my Nan that it would be the last time that I would see her, for so long that when they both got stronger and became a little less reliant on me, I cracked.
I cried a lot. I argued a lot. I punched myself in the head over and over, I smashed my own head against wooden doors, I cried some more, I got so low that at times I wondered what it would be like if I wasn't around. I was a mess. I needed help and reluctantly got it. My wife looked after me and helped me and without her I would not be the better person that I am today. I saw the doc and got prescribed anti fucking depressants! Sertraline to be exact. And fuck me did they mess with my head at first. I felt like I was floating for most of the day. Evil fuckers they are! I used to take it before bed and in the morning I woke up on Aladdin's magic carpet and flew that fucker to wherever it wanted to take me. When I finally got used to that feeling, it got better. Life became a little less serious. I could float over the hard bits a bit easier. Alongside speaking to a counsellor and taking time to retrain my brain I have ended up here as a stronger person than I ever thought I could be.
Mental health is very important. I never believed in all the namby pamby bollocks about treating your mind like you would your body. But now I realise, you can't just shake off a broken leg so how the fuck should you be expected to shake off your brain being knackered?
Get help.
Talk to people, loved ones, counsellors, doctors. They will help you and it will get better. Depression is a dark and fucked up world but it does get better. I am living proof of that.
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