An Update on the Previous Update

How I would love to write life has made a turn for the better and I can feel this depression beginning to ease. Sadly this is not the case and I am firmly in the grip of this tawdry malaise. However, I shall begin this blog entry with the positives because these are far more important than the negatives.

I am being incredibly cared for by my local Community Mental Health Team (CMHT), especially my Community Psychiatric Nurse (CPN). In the past when I have reached the depths of depressive despair as I have, I have ended up in hospital. This time round I have requested not to be admitted and to remain at home. I have been heard and acknowledged which is incredibly important for me. Going back into hospital, while being a place of complete safety for me, would this time feel to me to be an utter failure on my part and most certainly be a catalyst in me acting irrationally to prevent admission. I’m determined to fight this depression on my terms and while this may be risky, I do feel empowered to make meaningfully healthy choices. For example, I decided on two occasions not to meet with good friends who were visiting the Isle of Mull and who I hadn’t seen for ages because I simply wasn’t well enough. Being the good friends they are, they understood. Despite inevitably feeling shitty for ‘letting them down’, I realised I had made healthy choices.

The form the wonderful support I’m receiving from the CMHT and my CPN is regular telephone and Zoom contact, checking in with me and being a non-judgemental ear for my depressive unloading. I am fortunate to have a really good relationship with my CPN and I trust her implicitly, so much so, I speak candidly about my strong suicidal ideations and the plan I have in place to see them through. Simply put, being able to do this is for me, one of the reasons why I ultimately choose not to follow my plan through. By speaking of my darkest and most dreadful desires with her, I find myself lancing this infected wound so to speak and releasing the building pressure. Nevertheless, she is concerned for my safety and arranged further contact from the health services while she was off duty, this being in the form of a phone call from our local GP and over the last weekend, phone calls from the Out of Hours mental Health Team. Knowing I was receiving this support and had these calls lined up helped me make an easy decision not to act on my suicidal ideation. In a way, I felt honour bound to meet the agreement that I would be available to speak with them. Additionally I deeply appreciated this level of professional care and did not want to reject it by acting out. Throughout my mental health journey I have strongly believed in meeting my care full on, and while maybe not always being totally compliant, certainly being respectful of and grateful for the care being offered.

It has been my experience that our NHS professionals have our interests at heart and work their utmost to ensure this is upheld, despite the many constraints they face.

So, I’m grateful for the professional mental health care I am receiving. Hand in hand with this of course is the unconditional love and support I receive hourly and every day from Karen, my wife. She understands me and she knows how to live with me when I am depressed like this. I appreciate how difficult I can be at times, but increasingly, the sense I am a burden on her is diminishing. Of course there are many times when I feel utterly miserable about being poorly motivated and listless when it comes to enjoying shared time in the outdoors be this going for walks and possibly camping nights away. However, having Karen’s unconditional, no strings attached, support helps me live openly with my depression rather than bury it and hide it away. As with my CPN, I am able to speak with Karen about my suicidal ideations without fear of being judged or ‘shut down’. Simply being able to state where I am with this thinking, by expressing it out loud, is enough for me to make a decision not to act on my desires or the plan I have in place. I cannot stress enough how important Karen’s love and understanding is for me.

Then there is the unconditional support I receive from my wide Social Media diaspora in the form of private messages letting me know I’m in their thoughts, to more public utterances of concern and good wishes for my welfare. Despite having not been active on my main Social Media outlets, I do not feel forgotten and therefore the pressure to contribute. It is good for me to know that people understand I’m taking care of myself and I will return to my online visibility when I am stronger.

View fullsize

My shed has possibly been one of my greatest saviours. In here, with the accoutrements of creativity around my, I lose myself in hours of absorbing making and creating. Just as I found Occupational Health activity incredibly helpful for me in hospital, I find my shed has become my place of safety. It is a pace of purpose and intent and this is vital for me right now. It is in my shed where I make wearable art to sell and subsequently receive hugely important recognition for my creativity. During this period of my depression I have been reluctant to market myself but despite this I still make sales and this is helpfully rewarding for me. I feel I have purpose and I’m contributing.

Finally, I dug a pond in our garden and it is already filled with water, planted with plants and artistically fringed with rocks. The birds like to drink from it and it’s already an oasis of calm for me to sit beside.

Having written about the positives, I now find I’m unable to write about the negatives. I’ll rephrase this - I do not want to write about the negatives, suffice to say I am so very tired, exhausted in fact, fighting with what seems all my might to remain in this world. I long so much for the peace I experienced when I was in the sea after leaping from the ferry in 2019. Expending my energy on fighting my depressing seems to me to be such a sad waste because I have none left to enjoy what I want to enjoy, this being my kayaking, wilderness immersion and all the joys the summer months have to offer. Having just written this, I realise the possibility of reversing this energy flow from sustaining my depression to sustaining my recovery from it. If only this were so easy. I can see the possibility for this but right now, it’s frustratingly beyond my grasp.

Writing like this is hugely helpful for me and I’m grateful to those of you who read my ramblings. As I type these words now, I sense a positive shift within me and recognise the glimmers of change ahead. I know this tide of depression will turn and I will once more be moving ahead with the flow of life. My head tells me this truth constantly but my depression is a wily opponent and manages to sow the seeds of doubt and manipulates my frailty with so very powerful beliefs of my inadequacy and a strong sense of self-loathing. I’m longing for the strength to begin to turn these beliefs around. Until then, I trust in all the positives I have outlined here in this blog entry and hold close to me heart the words Karen so often tells me - “I think you’re amazing for your strength”

Thank you to all of you from the bottom of my heart,

State of Play

I’m staring down the rabbit hole of my depression and I’m scared shitless. I don’t mind admitting this. I have been in touch with my Community Mental Health Nurse and I have in place the support I need to keep me safe. Within an hour of me texting her this week, she phoned me back and we have been in regular contact since. I cannot express anymore than I have before, how much I appreciate the professional support I receive from our NHS mental health team. However, no matter how caring the folks are, at the end of the day. my keeping well is down to me. This rabbit hole is a familiar one and this time it’s a particularly dark one. I have an urge to express myself and write about what I’m experiencing. I have a sense this may help me work my way back to the bright, colourful sunlight of the summer. Thank you for taking the time to read this and to hear me out.

The warning signs were there a few weeks back. I noticed changes in my thinking and how I perceived myself and how generally my mood was slowly beginning to diminish - I was losing my spark. The contentment I had been enjoying in my life was being eroded to be replaced with increasing thoughts of self-criticism and self-dislike. “It’s a blip” I told myself. “I can expect my mood to dip from time to time.” So I decided to sit things out and wait for the beginnings of this deepening gloom to shift. After all it was early summer, the months of May and June which are my absolute favourite months of any year. It is when the fecundity of Nature and life, which abounds during these weeks inspires in me a sense of joy. Indeed, there was a long period when all my stars were in alignment. I was engaging in what I love most in life, immersing myself in wild nature and in turn I was rewarded with some truly incredible experiences which reinforced my hard won conviction that life was worth being around for - to be lived at its fullest! There was entering Fingal’s Cave in my kayak on a perfectly calm day. Sitting alone with the early summer Puffin arrivals on the island of Lunga, enjoying my human solitude and my companionship with the wild life around me. Then there were the three days of exploring the Small Isles in my kayak when I was privileged to encounter a friendly and exuberant pod of dolphins just below Ardnamurchan Lighthouse, the film footage of which went viral and propelled me into a short period of recognition from around the world. It seemed then that I was reaping the rewards of steadily speaking of my connection to Nature and how this helps my mental health. I met the dolphins again about a month later and again their obvious enjoyment in swimming alongside me in my kayak captivated nearly 200 000 people on Twitter.

In these early weeks of the summer months my life was as joyful and unencumbered with depressive thinking and feeling as I ever remember it being. I truly believed recovery from my depression was within my grasp.

Now, in the space of a few weeks this bonhomie I had been enjoying with myself has evaporated to be replaced with a self-loathing so fierce, it has taken even me aback. To explain this self-loathing a little. It’s literally looking in the bathroom mirror and hating my reflected image. Not how I look (though I do see myself as a complete shaggy disaster), but the face of a man who I dislike immensely. I’m a person who rarely takes against people, in general preferring to see the good in most, but in those rare moments when I do, my dislike is fierce and uncompromising. Right now, I am the person I most hate in the world.

No matter what positive messages I receive from those who love me and who are my friends, I only hear what I believe is unsaid - criticism of who I truly am. The man in the mirror who I hate is a fraud and this man is me. I talk of Nature being healing and yet I do not allow this to be true for myself. I’m good at talking the talk and because of this I hate the sound of my own voice. So much so I choose to speak as little as possible to prevent me hearing the words uttered from my mouth. Most of all though, I hate who I am and who I have been. I look back and see a swathe of errors of judgement, mistakes, wrongs committed on others, hurt, pain, slights, deceptive inauthenticity and general misdeeds. A recent visit to my family down in England served to reinforce many of these thoughts and beliefs, after all, I consider myself to be a total embarrassment to my family who deserved (and continue to deserve) so much more from me.

I think by now I am making my point. I dislike myself intensely.

The odd thing with all this is that there is in within me the knowledge that all the self-hatred I’m experiencing right now is untrue. It is my depression which is causing me to think like this and as I so often tell myself, this period of intense discomfort will pass. I will come through to the light again and begin to realise the good within me and my capacity to positively touch the lives of those around me. Somehow though there is a corruption of my positive synapsis’ and instead any thoughts of hope are diverted and quashed. This is where I wish I could describe this in greater clarity. There is within me a battle for supremacy, my depression over my authentic healthy self. It is not that I see myself as a ‘poor victim’ and need saving by anyone who wants to save me. Far from it, I seek the support I need and accept this is an internal battle I must fight myself. However, this can be exhausting - literally so. It takes considerable effort to remain coherent to the world around me while at the same time internally fighting feelings of alarm, fear, self-hatred and desperation. Quite literally, I ache for the time to go to bed when I can take my dose of Zopiclone and ease myself towards the relative haven of unconscious sleep. Only this respite is fleeting because I normally wake again in the early hours to a rush of disturbing thoughts.

When I started this post, I said I was scared. I am frightened of being really ill again. I do not want to be so ill I end up in hospital again and yet, I crave the release suicide would give me. I am thinking of my suicide and consider seriously the benefits my death would bring for me and those who I affect through my tumultuous way of living. I wrote a blog post in 2018 about my relationship with suicidal ideation which I think expresses with some clarity what I face with this - here. It is sufficient to say I’m fearful where my thinking about suicide is leading me at the moment. Basically, I’m so fucking tired of fighting this illness, I ache for the release my suicide will give me. Death will be so absolutely final, and while this is the reality, it is an incredibly attractive one.

However! And yes there is a however. There is within me a notion of self-preservation which is why I reached out to my CPN and asked for her support. I’m prepared to trust myself to the professional help available to me. Additionally, as much as it may seem so through what I have written so far, I have not given up and I continue to function, even to the point of continuing to make jewellery, one thing I find gives me a sense of purpose and a level of internal peace. Admittedly, I have Transglobal Underground playing loudly on repeat through my headphones to distract me from my thinking, but each day at 5pm I close my work-shed with some sense of accomplishment.

This then is the chink of hope, even if at the moment I cannot see hope or even feel it. After all my desire to do the things I normally enjoy such as walking and kayaking have completely disappeared, replaced with a self-incriminatory lethargy. One thing I know is to work within these chinks as they appear, to appreciate them and to accept every opportunity towards recovery they offer. Right now, creating wearable art is the one thing which is offering me positivity in the midst of the descending blackness within me. I notice as I write these words, there is a recognition that not all is bleak, and despite what I might believe to be true, I am not totally useless. Finding my way into making a small living from my creativity is proving to be more than I could have ever hoped for.

View fullsize

This Week’s Production

So, what now? I am here and I’m not ready to give in. I hate where I am right now (within myself that is) and I am desperate for respite from this. At the moment I am safe and I make assurances to remain safe. I have more than enough cognitive resonance to understand what I am living through at the moment is pretty tough but this purely is due to my depression and will ease over time. My fear of sinking further into my depression is real and exists and this leads me into the tangled web of it all. It’s like untangling a hopeless knot of string - there just seems to be no solution or end to it all.

Please don’t be overly concerned for me. The fact I have written this and shared it so openly is an indication I am positively working to overcome this particular bout of severe low mood. Thank you for reading what I have written and please know I truly appreciate all the generously warm comments I receive here and on my various Social Media platforms.

I sincerely hope what I share is of interest and help to many.

Thank you.

Fate

I know exactly what’s happening here and I thought of writing to explain one of the processes I face when coping with my depression.

Right now I have a belief the world is conspiring against me. That fate is some how preventing me from achieving the goals I so desperately want to attain. The notion that my depression is governed by an outside force beyond my control. The result for me, becoming lethargic, repeating again and again, “What’s the point?”

A couple of weeks ago I foolishly lost my GoPro camera with all the footage I had taken to create my first You Tube vlog. This vlog is one of the tasks I have set out to achieve this year. Losing the camera was a huge blow, particularly since I lost the footage. For a couple of days, I experienced a deepening malaise.

Then yesterday we ran out of fuel in our car. This is a foolish thing to allow to happen but to be fair, the Tobermory Garage is the only one nearby within 15 miles and they have been without fuel supplies for two weeks! We were on our way to the ferry. Needless to say, there began a comedy of errors interspersed with genuine warmth and help. To cut to the end of the tale, after the roadside rescue had come out and ‘fixed’ the problem, we headed back home. Only, the engine was definitely not well. We couldn’t raise more than 20 miles an hour out of her and going up hill was painful. We arrive back in Tobermory with a poorly overheated car. I can’t bear to think what the problem will be and of course the costs to this.

So, just when I had found a means to pay for a new camera, in time for the next bivouac, this money is now diverted to the car - for good reason of course. Hence, this leads to the sense my life is governed by depressive fate. The conclusion I come to (often prefixed with a deep sigh) - why bother!

The Man Who Jumped From A Ferry - Part 2

If you are experiencing low mood or you are emotionally fragile, please be aware this article details my recent attempt to complete my suicide and my psychiatric hospitalisation. I encourage you to seek help the best way you know.

---

After the Succoth ward door had clunked closed behind me, I followed the nurse to one of the side rooms off the long ward corridor. The on-call doctor joined us and a little while later Karen arrived having stopped off at the local supermarket to buy me some essential toiletries and a few bags of sweets. There followed a lengthy process where I was asked a number questions about my life, my experience of depression, and to describe the events which led to my suicide attempt. I was exhausted and it was a laborious process, especially recounting my ‘story’ again. I understood the need for a thorough assessment of my needs.

View fullsize

The Long Corridor

Eventually it was time for me to be admitted and it was with some relief I knew this was going to happen. I had been fearful I would be turned away. I’m not sure why. Karen left to head back to Oban and stay with her sister. It was in this moment I had a flash of extreme guilt for what I had done. I was concerned about her driving through the dark back from where we had travelled. I could see the fatigue and worry in her face. I found myself saying over again, “I’m sorry.” It was an emotional goodbye and then I was alone with the nurse and being shown to my bed in a four person ward.

As is the process when I am admitted, my belongings were inspected, and everything accounted for on a form which I signed at the end. Anything deemed potentially dangerous was taken away and locked in a small storeroom in a basket which became mine for the duration. The items which were removed were only my belt and a charging cable for my phone. If I had my shoes on, the laces would have gone too. To be honest, I wasn’t affronted by this seemingly intrusive management of my personal belongings. I have enough experience of psychiatric ward life to understand the drill, and anyway, I somehow felt secure knowing that means of possible self-harm have been removed from me.

Most of the nursing staff on night duty when I arrived knew me and likewise, I them. Quite bizarrely I found myself smiling ruefully when we greeted each other as if we were old friends. This was my third admission here after all, so we knew each other pretty well by now.

I was shown into the ward where I would be staying for the coming days and weeks. I find this moment to be a slightly worrying one. It’s the moment I meet the three other occupants I will be sharing this space with. Because it was after ten at night by the time I was properly admitted, the lights were low and one of the three was already asleep on the bed next to mine. The other two seemed to me to be no more than teenagers and each had an I-Pad from which they were competing to see who had the loudest volume for the films they were watching. I realised with a sunken heart; this was going to be a ward where the understanding of the needs of others would be challenged. When the nurse showing me to my bed offered me a sleeping tablet, I accepted this with alacrity.

I knew my way around the facilities so there was no need for me to be given a quick guided tour. Instead I was left to my devices. I sat on my bed and emitted a huge sigh. This was it. The moment I was on my own again and I was desperately low. My body huddled over and my head hung low. Tears welled and ran hotly, noiselessly down my cheeks. It was a confusing range of thoughts and emotions which crowded me. To be honest, I didn’t give much thought to my suicide attempt. I was more concerned with where I was, that moment in my life. I’ve never been incarcerated in prison, but I imagined that moment of realisation all hopes for the coming days and weeks, connection with family, and essentially the freedom to walk and explore anywhere had to be forgotten. Any hope of regaining all of these and more were given up. Or so it seemed.

I was a voluntary patient which meant, technically I suppose, I could discharge myself any time I wanted. I was not under section and bound by law to remain on the ward. However, it was made clear to me this was the best place for me in my condition and for the first few days I was not allowed off the ward under any circumstance. It was likely too; it would be some time before I would be trusted to leave the ward on my own. Until this moment, I would have to be accompanied by a member of staff if I wanted a walk or a visit to the shops.

View fullsize

Comfortable Bed

I placed my scant belongings in the drawers beside my bed, stripped down to my underpants and climbed under the sheet and blanket. This moment, like so many since arriving on the ward, was a familiar experience leading me to think I had never really been away. It was another instant for me to grasp the fact I was here again. A wave of personal failure flooded through me as I nestled myself into the crisp clean sheets and lay my head on the comfortable pillow. Despite the noise of explosions and monsters being defeated from the two films, the cacophony of thoughts running through my head and my overwhelming despondency, I was soon asleep. I was exhausted.

I awoke in the early hours of the morning with a start and my mind was instantly alert. My levels of anxiety were heightened, and I found myself ruminating on what had occurred the day before and again, the hopelessness of my life. I lay in my bed, eyes wide open working through my options. I really did not want to be in hospital again. I felt such a failure. As daylight broke, I made up my mind once more to attempt to take my life. The ward I was in was almost opposite the nurse’s station but even still, I surreptitiously slunk into the adjacent shower and toilet room with a blanket I had pulled off my bed. The ward and bathroom facilities were constructed in a way it’s impossible for anyone to hang themselves. For example, the curtain rails around each bed are held in place with magnets and would detach if any weight was placed on them.

I had worked a way in which I could make another attempt to end my life by hanging myself. I tied a knot in one end of the blanket and placed this on the outside top of the bathroom door and then closed the door. With the other end I attempted to create a slip knot noose, but the blanket was too bulky. I then tied it around my neck and attempted to hang from it so I would choke. As I was fumbling with this futile process, the door burst open and I tumbled to the floor. Hands grabbed me and I was hustled without any grace back to my bed. A nurses voice sternly said to me, “No, we will not let you do this!”

A short while later I was taken into a side room and asked what I was trying to achieve. In no uncertain terms I was told not to attempt anything like this again because if I was going to do this on the ward, there was no point in me being here. This seemed to be a harsh implied threat, but in that instance, I realised with chagrin, I wouldn’t help myself by behaving in this fashion. The rest of the conversation was far more sympathetic. I agreed to never attempt self-harm again while I was on the ward. For the rest of the day, I maintained a self-imposed low profile, more out of embarrassment than anything else.

The following day I began the familiar process of settling into the comfortable routine of ward life. 8am was breakfast, 8.30am were the morning medications, 9.30 was the diary meeting when activities for the day were outlined and who the nurses for the various geographical areas of Argyll and Bute were, and finally any requests from the patients. These were invariably a lift down to the Co-Op in the pool car. And inevitably, the response to this was – only if possible, because of staff constraints. Straight after this meeting was a chance to take part in a relaxation session or Qi Gong. (I rarely attended these). 10am the tea and coffee trolley was wheeled into the communal area. 12midday was lunch. 2pm out came the tea and coffee trolley again. 5pm was dinner. 8pm the tea and coffee trolley made another appearance. Then it was the long haul for me to 10pm and night-time medication. During the day there were usually group sessions and Occupational Therapy creativity sessions.

Somehow each day passed smoothly and quickly. Except the long drag from 8pm to 10pm. By the evening I was desperate for my bed and as soon as I had received my meds at 10, I was not long climbing into the crisp sheets. As each day passed, so did the weeks. These then blended into months without any difficulty.

Every Tuesday I would have my meeting with the consultant Psychiatrist.  I generally looked forward to these appointments because the Psychiatrist was a star! I thought so anyway. Despite the small room accommodating him, a nurse and a junior doctor, his attention was focussed on me. He was insightful to the point of brilliance. I thought so anyway. A few of his observations cut right through negative beliefs I held about myself. What was most important to me in these sessions was the way he worked with me. It was always clear he was the psychiatric expert, but I soon came to realise he saw me as my own expert. I was the person who understood myself the most and therefore I was always included in my treatment options. He would never decide a path of action without checking it through with me first. Sometimes of course I relied on his experience and wisdom to make the choice for me, but even then, he managed to do this in a way where I left the room at the end thinking the decisions were mutually agreed on. I trusted him completely.

Although the treatment emphasis was centred on medication as the primary intervention for my depression, a lot of weight was given to alternative courses of action. I was encouraged to go for a forty minute walk with a nurse at least once a day. I was also directed towards the group sessions which explored coping with heightened emotions, behavioural activation techniques and hearing voices. Then there was Occupational Therapy (OT) every day. It was because of these daily activities and the hourly routines the days slipped by.

To begin with, I found existing in the four bed ward I had been placed in pretty challenging. The two youngsters had no sense of consideration regarding noise, especially late into the night. I found myself retreating into my shell, hunkering down and attempting not allowing these stressors to get through to me. As an old hand at in-patient psychiatric living, I was mindful of the fact that each one of us was in hospital for our own reasons. To become irritated and judgemental would not help me at all. It was better, and easier, to accept everyone at face value and look upon them as a person and as a fellow patient like me. If there were folks I found difficult to be in the presence of, I had the simple option of finding another place on the ward to hang out. Generally, I kept myself to myself. I felt the need to be quiet and to occupy myself beside my bed with reading, colouring in a mindfulness colouring book, completing puzzles or surfing the world with my I-Pad. (The ward had Wi-Fi for the patients).

About eight days later I was moved into another four bed ward where the mood was completely the opposite. Each of us content to maintain a quietened atmosphere, to the point of not allowing the ward door to slam shut as it normally did. Also, the four of us related well with each other and chatted amiably about our lives out of hospital. We never talked of our individual reasons for our admission.

It took me nearly two months to begin to noticeably see (feel) an improvement in my mood. It took even longer for my levels of anxiety to become manageable. In the early stages of my admission, I expressed my continued desire to end my life, passionately angry about being cheated at being rescued. There were many times I found myself reduced to heartfelt sobs of hot tears; my body wracked by the strength of my emotion. The nurses I spoke to each day in the privacy of one of the side rooms patiently and compassionately listened to my exhortations. Their interjections were respectful and always helped me notice any glimmers of hope amongst the travails I was pouring out. Their insights were often pertinently enough to bring me up short with new awareness. These one to one chats were invaluable to me. I rarely sought the nurses out to speak, it was they who asked me if I wanted a chat. Sometimes a nurse would sit on my bed alongside me talking about my interests, such as sea kayaking, mountaineering, Scottish history and the Isle of Mull. These chats subtly helped me realise my passions in my life and in fact, I realised some remarkable achievements during recent years. It takes great effort on my part to embody this awareness.

Slowly, surely, step by step, my illness was diminishing. It took some time for me to accept my depression as an illness which ravaged my ability to view the world in technicolour instead of bleak monochrome. I allowed myself to be ‘ill’ and understood I had a place in hospital for as long as it would take for me to be cured. Up until this point I carried the guilt I was taking a bed when there were more deserving patients who could use it.

I was eventually given my own room with en-suite facilities. By this time, I was functioning well. I devoured easy to read whodunnit books, sometimes one a day! My parents kindly sent me two books a week and they did not last long. I also enjoyed my colouring book of wonderful scenes of West Coast Scotland landmarks and scenery. One of the joys of having my own space was if I woke early, the ability to read without fear of waking others. It took me until almost my discharge before I began to sleep soundly through the night. The downside of course was solitude. I missed the blether and craic of the four bed ward. However, the benefits of enjoying my space outweighed what I had given up.

My life on the ward was seamless. The weeks blurred into each other where bed change Saturdays seemed to come around all to rapidly. From the beginning of my stay I developed a rigorous rhythm to my days. I would be out of bed by seven in the morning, showered and bed made by eight. I refused to have my bed made by the nursing staff, including bed change days. I always attended the morning meeting even though I had nothing to contribute. I liked to be in the front of the queue for meds. I would make my way to the room where they were administered a good five minutes before time. I was always in bed by ten. If I had taken a ‘sleeper’ for the night, I would curl up and go straight to sleep. If I had declined one, I would read in my bed until my eyes were drooping. This always felt deliciously indulgent to me.

Mealtimes were a different matter. I preferred to wait until most folks had been served before making my way to the serving hatch. We each had chosen our meals from a good menu of options a couple of days before, so there was no danger of no food. I invariably chose a vegetarian option because I found these tastier. I never ate potatoes and loved the broccoli and the sprouts when these were available. I rarely took a pudding but if it was jam sponge or sticky toffee, then I couldn’t resist. Sometimes I would have seconds! All my meals were eaten hastily. I rarely lingered at the table.

I was a loner on the ward. I found gatherings in the communal areas too much for me. I never watched television or streamed films. My place was beside my bed unless I was attending one of the group sessions or OT. For a short while there was a card school in the evenings which I sat and watched being played. The banter was lively, and I found it funny the betting currency were the sachets of mealtime condiments.

Halfway through my stay, I started Cognitive Behavioural Technique (CBT) sessions with one of the nurses who was a skilled CBT therapist. In the past I had ashamedly discounted the therapy because of my training as a Transactional Analyst with psychotherapy speciality. CBT was looked upon as being a rather shallow approach to working with emotional distress. After the first session with the therapist, I realised with astonishment, I was going to benefit hugely from this work. I threw myself into every session and the ‘homework’ which was set afterwards. Sometimes it was tough going and it unlocked some painful long held beliefs about myself which took me time to assimilate. One of these surrounded the issue of assertiveness. I found this incredibly difficult and for a week, I was destabilised by this new awareness. I struggled with the notion of embodying assertiveness for myself. However, I worked this through, and today, now I’m home again, it’s this one attribute which I’m aware has helped me the most. Week by week because of my CBT, I sensed myself positively changing.

View fullsize

Polymer Clay Necklace

There was a moment during my time when my medication was altered. One antidepressant was changed to another. A day into taking this new drug I noticed alarming side effects. My balance and co-ordination were knocked for six and I would stumble and wobble my way around – as if I were drunk. The other alarming effect was experiencing priapism (you’ll need to look this up if you don’t know since I’m not going to describe it). This was extremely painful, uncomfortable and embarrassing. I did joke with one of the male nurses that I should be proud of this condition now I was in my mid-fifties. This drug was hastily stopped, and I returned to the original antidepressant. Unfortunately, this process set back my recovery time because I had to be weened off one before beginning the other, have a few days on nothing, and then begin the new one incrementally.  

I’ve mentioned Occupational Therapy a fair bit. This was my saviour during my time on the ward. I enjoy being creative and I threw myself into several satisfying projects. I made jewellery out of air dried clay. I also made a chess set out of the clay for the ward since the usual one had been lost. I discovered the joy of polymer clay, and after watching various You Tube instructional videos, I was creating some lovely jewellery. These sessions were relaxed and convivial where the OT staff encouraged conversation which avoided our illnesses and treatment. There was often much laughter. Creativity helped me find value in myself.

I enjoyed one to one walks along the delightful woodland trails behind the hospital with various nurses. One person seemed to enjoy my company because he always sought me out to go for a walk. We shared a love for wild Scotland. When Karen visited, I was allowed out with her and we usually walked the woodland trails too. When my confidence grew, we went further afield for a walk and stopped at a café for a bite to eat. Eventually I was allowed time off the ward unaccompanied. To begin with, it was for only half an hour and no further than the woodland. As my trustworthiness was accepted the time limit was extended as was the range I could walk. It took me quite a while before I went to the local supermarket on my own. Being allowed out on my own was daunting to begin with. I had to suppress urges to disappear, although I knew this wouldn’t occur because of the promise I had made at the beginning of my stay.

View fullsize

Ziggy Delighted to See Me

Karen dedicatedly visited me every weekend. This meant her catching the last ferry on a Friday, reaching the hospital in time to see me on the ward. Sleeping in the car and latterly a tent, spending Saturday with me and some of Sunday. Ziggy, our lovely dog, was always delighted to see me. Karen always brought me goodies in the form of packets of wine gums and packets of dried mango. Always a treat for me. Sadly, many of her visits were tough for both of us. I was often uncommunicative and tetchy. There were often long periods of difficult silence. However, it was always wonderful to be in her presence and I missed her during the week. Our daily texting and sometime phone calls did not help me miss her any less. My parents visited a couple of times, driving up from Herefordshire with their caravan and staying locally. My daughter, Beth flew up from London early on and my son Chris, made a monumental effort by travelling by coach from Exeter, spending only a few hours with me, and then retuning home the same way. I was also blessed to receive innumerable cards from friends, many I have yet to meet. I am humbled by the love and compassion I was gifted from my wide circle of friends I knew first-hand, and others from my Twitter existence. I felt a large amount of guilt for not replying to them with thanks.

Depression is exhausting for me. Even though I wasn’t extensively active on the ward, I found myself consumed with fatigue a lot of the time. Essentially, I was fighting within myself. My thoughts and beliefs of self-hatred overwhelmed rationality but I fought back, attempting to shift these negative judgements away from me. This fight to overcome my bouts of introspection and rumination was a constant for much of my time on the ward. As time passed, these became easier but nonetheless I was often consumed by periods of ‘black thoughts’. Much of my thinking centred on guilt. The beliefs about my being a father, a husband, a son, a brother, an uncle, a friend, a colleague, even online associates through Twitter. I could only see what I perceived to be my negative manner in how I related with people. Extreme guilt for past wrongs and slights. Shame for mistakes and misdemeanours. I felt a huge amount of shame and guilt for embarrassing my RNLI Tobermory colleagues through my suicide attempt. No matter how much the nurses attempted to guide my damaging beliefs away from my thinking, I would invariably respond with the classic “yes but” rationalisation. When I look back now, I think it must have been hard work for the nurses to chat to me. (There’s an unfounded negative belief right there.) They were always patient and compassionate with me.

My depression this time was deep. Deeper than I had experienced before. Now I knew I had it within me to carry through my desire to take my life, I couldn’t think of much else. In the early stages of my admission, my thoughts always ended with the inevitable belief, I must die, I want to die. If I didn’t, I’ll forever be wracked by this illness and I could no longer live like this. I found myself angry with the misconception I was keeping myself alive purely for the benefit of others. Could they not understand the pain I was experiencing? Could they not allow me to end this all? After all, once I was gone, they would no longer have to put up with my depressive moods.

This belief I must die was roundly challenged by the consultant who asked me one day, “If you didn’t have your depression, would you still want to die?” I remember sitting there my mouth agape attempting to come up with one of my usual negative ripostes. It dawned on me; I didn’t want to die. In fact, I wanted to live a life of potential and hope. I think it was in that moment a shift occurred within me and I understood my responsibility in working towards my recovery. I couldn’t expect the hospital staff to cure me, this was a process I needed to accept control of.

The CBT certainly helped me engage with my recovery process. So did past awareness from my sea kayaking adventures where I had encountered many profoundly metaphoric experiences. Probably the most powerful of these being the awareness – ‘this will pass’. The difficulty, the discomfort, the anguish, the pain, the depression will all eventually disappear, and I will be strong again.

My eventual recovery on the ward as it has always been in the past, was a swift process, happening within two weeks. The CBT sessions were ending, my mood had considerably lifted, and my anxiety levels had stabilised. I was allowed home for a two night stay. This proved to me I was ready to leave hospital. In fact, I suddenly realised I did not want to be there anymore. Within a few days of returning to the ward from this home leave, I was discharged and away the very next day.

I had been in hospital for three months. It did not seem this long, though I did realise with some sadness, I had missed most of the summer. It was a joy to return home to Tobermory and now as I type this, I recognise how far I have travelled since that desperate act at the beginning of May, when I was the ‘Man Who Jumped From A Ferry’.

Resurgence

The past month or so has been dreadful for me. My clinical depression has had me firmly in its grip, so much so, I’ve been literally fighting powerful urges to complete my suicide. I think this stark statement may come as a surprise to many who have seen me on-line in my Twitter and Facebook personas, posting lovely photographs and typically Nick type cheery comments. This is the nature of my beast,

View fullsize

Resurgence

Last year during my ‘Three Peaks by Kayak’ adventure, I found myself inspired by the various experiences I encountered to make meaning of my depression and understand how I can live with it. There was one particular moment when fighting against the tide in the middle of the expansive Luce Bay off the Galloway coastline, when I came to the enduringly powerful realisation that the discomfort I was experiencing at the time was not permanent, and when the tide I was fighting against changed in a few hours, it would soon pass. In that moment, I instantly embodied this awareness because of its powerfully analogous pertinence to my depression recovery process. In this moment of enlightenment, I finally believed what the many caring professionals had been telling me for many years - “This will pass. Given time, you will become stronger and feel better.”

Making the decision to believe the impermanence of my depression did not lead me to believing I would eventually be cured of it. Instead, this allowed to me to accept I will live with depression all my life, and it’s the deep depressive moments which will come and go. Likewise, the thoughts and beliefs I have about taking my life are associated with these deep low periods and I was now able to counter these with a belief that they are impermanent. I now understood the notion of making a permanent decision based on an impermanent feeling.

However, when my clinical depression takes hold of me and I sink into a deep and dark low, my ability to cognitively function is impaired by the wide ranging self-destructive and self-hating thoughts and beliefs I find myself struggling with. I find myself literally fighting for my life, voicing out loud (when alone), reasons why I shouldn’t kill myself. This is an internal battle which rages in my head and through my body. Thoughts and feelings merge to be expressed in my language, how I think, how I feel emotionally and how I feel physically. My energy and personal resources are expended on this battle and too, in masking this fight from the world around me. I do not want the ordinary world to know of my pain. There may be hints, or I may put out a Tweet which may be more explicit, but generally, I continue post lovely photos with asinine words. (At least I think they are at the time). Likewise around and about in my lived world, people will probably not be aware of the self-destructive thoughts I have running through my mind when I meet them in the street or when chatting over a pint or a coffee.

There have been a few moments recently when I have desired hospitalisation because the struggle to overcome my thoughts of suicide have been more than I could cope with. However, there’s always been one reason or another why I didn’t explicitly seek this and I continued to fight on my own. In a way, the now embodied adage “this will pass”, enabled me to remain with my distress in the knowledge that it was likely to diminish over time. I continued to live my life in the public realm as unobtrusively as possible, hoping few people would cotton on to the mask I was wearing. Karen was totally aware of course and lovingly supportive. Likewise, my C.P.N. was happy to see me twice a week for lengthy appointments. I wasn’t totally alone.

I’m often asked what the causes are for a particular bout of depression, something I can pinpoint as the originating source. Generally there is none. The malaise takes root, deepens and insidiously manifests itself to the point where I become overwhelmed by it. I’m aware of its early presence and determine I will not allow it to take hold of me, but despite making efforts to stall the process by undertaking health enhancing activities, the depression is the stronger. My mood sinks and I am engulfed with beliefs of self-hatred, self-loathing, and uselessness. No matter how heartening the reassurances from friends and family about my worth, these messages of genuine warmth and love fail to reach my core. I find it easy to counter them with the all to predictable response - “Yes, but…”. This in turn serves to make me feel even more unhappy, because then I add the belief I’m an unnecessary burden to those who love me.

Having met with a psychiatrist, I am on a new medication regimen which he is confidently hopeful will help me raise my mood and begin to feel the joy in life again. To be truthful, I detest taking anti-depressant medication because I have found the side-effects to lead me to feeling more unhappy than the opportunity for a cure. Feeling sluggish, doped, constipated, lost libido and other minor conditions, all serve to reinforce the futility I feel about my life. For the last eighteen months I have been medication free, determined to live with my depression in an organic, self-sufficient manner. To all intents and purposes I think I managed to do this successfully until the point this year, just after Christmas and my mood slipped past my ability to self manage myself. Even then, it took some insistence on the health professionals’ part to encourage me to consider taking medication again. It’s early days still.

Despite this desperate bout of depression, I have looked forward to the future, and found within myself a desire to plan for another kayaking adventure. Not only this, I have chosen to invite a new friend to share the adventure with me thus breaking with my usual process of kayaking solo. In getting to know Jack on-line and then meeting him recently, I have discovered a friend who shares my understanding of the world and a passion for exploration by kayak on the sea. Our common ground is our connection to the R.N.L.I. and it is the charity which forms the basis of this expedition. You can read more about this here.. Sharing a kayaking expedition is going to be a renewing experience for me because it’s many years since I last headed off into the wide yonder with someone beside me. I’m really looking forward to Jack’s companionship.

Today the sun is shining and the sea is calm. It is the last day of March and early this evening we move out to our summer mooring in the bay. I’ve readied the engine, checked the electrics and filled the water tank to the brim. Propane gas bottles for cooking and heating are charged, and the inflatable dinghy we use as our tender has been spruced up with a wash and a new seat. There is something in this transhumance experience of mine, moving from our winter berth to our summer one, which excites me and reminds me of the resurgence of life. Around and about there are the signs of spring. The cormorants are gathering materials for their nests on the nearby cliffs, the trees are beginning to show signs of green and the sea is becoming translucent again. I feel my blood moving within me, a sure sign that life is returning and soon the shackles of this depression will be shaken off. With the help of my medication, I’m hopeful in a few weeks I’ll be noticing the colour of the world around me again.

This Thing Called Depression

Yesterday I had my monthly appointment with the Psychiatrist who is responsible for my care. I like him and more importantly, I trust him. He is personable with an easy yet professional manner. He is a yacht owner too so we share yachting stories and he likes to tell me of his recent trips.  Amongst these short conversations we also speak of my clinical depression, how I'm doing with this, and checking how safe I am with myself. He is thorough in his assessment of my current situation and willingly offers suggestions for new approaches. This certainly was the case yesterday.

At the moment I'm locked in to a severe bout of depression which is not shifting in anyway shape or form. The medication I have been taking is simply not making a dent on my low mood or even imprinting any form of colour into my life. The upshot is a diagnosis that I'm struggling with 'treatment resistant' depression and if this cannot be overcome with medication alone, then other treatment courses will have to be attempted. 

My Psychiatrist has prescribed one last medication which he hopes will provide me with increased energy and thus motivation to turn my current lethargy around. However, there are risks attached to this medication (see my previous blog post) and it may not suit me. Hopefully this will not be the case and it will work the magic he thinks is possible. It's not a medication for depression per se but there is evidence that it works for people like me, who have been fighting a deeply stuck low mood. 

If this new medication does not work then I will be admitted to hospital for further assessment and possibly a referral to a specialist NHS unit for people with severe and enduring clinical depression. Apparently there are non-medication approaches which can be explored, some of these almost experimental. Thankfully it seems that I'll not be put through ECT again because this clearly did not work for me.

Bringing my session with him to a close yesterday, my Psychiatrist implored me not to give up hope, assuring me that we were nowhere near the end of the road and I was not going to be given up on. One of the struggles I'm dealing with at the moment is a strong sense of hopelessness, sometimes to the point where I believe there is no reason to continue fighting for my recovery. Associated with this, is the gnawing belief that I'm nothing but a burden to my family. I'm not sure if I was entirely mollified by his assurances that I will recover but I did leave the Health Centre with a little more hope than I had before.

I have started to take the new medication which is an adjunct to my current pill regimen. Time will tell if this will work or not. Sadly I will not be able to celebrate their success or deal with their failure with my Psychiatrist because he is moving on to new pastures. I will miss him for his professional and affable care, and the ease with which I'm able to communicate with him. 

Here's to HOPE.

Taking a Risk

I am an adventurous person and I'm used to evaluating and taking risks either in my sea kayak or in the mountains. I consider myself to be a person who seizes risk laden opportunities as they appear and I believe I'm fortunate that I do so. However, I have an opportunity before me which I consider to be risky and which I find myself feeling unusually wary of.

As many of you know I suffer from severe clinical depression. The psychiatrist responsible for my care has termed my depression as 'treatment resistant'. This is because despite many different interventions over the last year, my mood remains obstinately depressed, so much so that there are moments where I find myself staring into a dark abyss. I'm incredibly thankful for the treatment I am receiving from the medical profession here in Scotland and I do not expect them to solely work the miracle of cure for me. Rather, I view their care as a facilitative one where through my increased motivation and assistance from their prescribed medication and talking therapy, my depression lessens and my sense of well being increases.

Recently my mood has been incredibly low - worryingly so. Apart from my interactions on Twitter, I find myself paralysed with self-doubt preferring to hide here on the boat, away from my world, rarely venturing forth unless I'm certain I'll not bump into people I know. This time is not entirely wasted because I am writing and researching plans for adventures in 2018. However, I would prefer to be more outgoing and be as engaged with the Tobermory community as I used to be.

In response to this deep low and my seeming resistance to the treatment I am receiving, the psychiatrist has prescribed an additional medication for me to take alongside my existing anti-depressant. I won't say what this is because for some reason I don't want to make my medication details public. What I will say is that it is an uncommonly used intervention and is one not normally prescribed for depression cure. The hope is that this drug will shift the log jam I am experiencing in my tormented depressive thinking which leaves me inactive and paralysed by self-loathing. By all accounts, this drug when used for other people in a similarly stuck position as the one I am facing, has proved to be incredibly successful. It has been explained to me that in just about every case the patients had returned to full cognitively buoyant and rudely happy health. This for me is my Holy Grail!

View fullsize

Without much more persuasion I agreed to give this medication a try and this morning collected it from the pharmacist. (As an aside, we are incredibly fortunate here in Scotland to receive free prescriptions & medication.) On opening the box and reading the information my heart slumped - it was like a punch to my abdomen. I had expected there to be side effects to the drug because there always are with psychiatric medication. I had hoped that this being an 'add-on' to my current medication regime, this wouldn't be as worrisome. 

I personally find the side effects of medication difficult to cope with, especially those which affect my nervous system - increased agitation and insomnia. It's an anathema to me how these drugs actually cure the illness they are prescribed for, when it appears that the side effects exacerbate it. There have been many times in the past I have stopped taking a drug because the side effects were more difficult to cope with than my illness itself. 

Looking at the side effects for this drug I'm left wondering whether to go ahead and begin taking it or to stop right now and leave it well alone. I'm in a quandary. It has been explained to me that this may be the wonder drug to cure my depression, albeit an unconventional choice. I certainly want this to be true yet..., I see the list of side effects and I feel incredibly reluctant to take it.

In essence I'm faced with a risk of sorts, and it's a risk I'm having difficulty evaluating. It's not simply a case of giving the medication a try and maybe stopping if it's not working. It's a commitment to giving it a good long try, despite the difficulties I may find I have with it. I am genuinely fearful of the side effects. When I'm kayaking or mountaineering I face fear as a matter of course when I encounter outdoor risk after risk. Invariably I'm able to rationalise  any fear I may feel and use this to my advantage in making a decision to accept the risk. However in this instance, the sense of fear is getting the better of me and I find myself struggling to consider taking on the risk, even though it has been explained that the possible benefits far outweigh the perceived difficulties.

There are a few days yet for me to decide what path to take and I have the opportunity to meet with the psychiatrist in the coming week to discuss my choice in greater detail. This will be helpful because right now I find myself where I hate to be - paralysed by uncertainty.

A Fresh Start

8th May 2106! That was my last blog entry and what a lot of water has flowed under my bridge since then. I'm not certain where to begin, so I think I'll resort to a hasty summary of what has happened since that last post.

I ended up staying in hospital well into the summer and returned to our home in the marina on Loch Fyne. My recovery was well under way and it was wonderful to be home again but I still had a way to go before I could confidently say this bout of depression was at an end. It wasn't long before we were making plans for a move to Tobermory on the Isle of Mull as well as making ready for the arrival of our new yacht too. Karen had found a job in Tobermory which suited her down to the ground and the opportunities for work there for me were far greater than they were on the Cowal Peninsula. So, in August 2016 Karen moved to Mull and I waited for the new yacht to arrive which it did at the beginning of September. It was a momentous moment when along with a friend I cast off from Portavadie Marina to sail our Colvic 33 to Tobermory. Four days later our new home was safely berthed on the pontoons in Tobermory Harbour.

There followed a period of settling in where I took time to establish myself in the community and sadly continued to struggle with severe bouts of depression. Thankfully I was well supported by the community mental health nurse and the psychiatrist. Despite the periods of deep lowness I found myself enjoying my new surroundings. The Isle of Mull is a lovely island with so much to explore and enjoy. The walking is second to none and the coastline is one of the finest to explore in a sea kayak. As the winter deepened we hunkered down in our boat and safely rode out the passing winter storms.

The new yacht has transformed our live aboard life. She is twice the size of our previous yacht and is well appointed with two sleeping cabins, two heads, a shower, hot water system, a lovely saloon and an excellent galley. She is also a lovely boat to sail - seaworthy, which is ideal for us. The extra space has allowed us to live comfortably with a sense that we are definitely in our home and not in a small yacht.

On our mooring in Tobermory Harbour.

When the New Year arrived we found ourselves becoming accepted by the Tobermory community. I became involved with the local lifeboat fundraising committee and from this I was invited to become a Deputy Launching Authority for the Tobermory Lifeboat. An honour and a responsibility I'm proud to have taken on. In doing this I have found my social circle has widened to the point where I can't remember enjoying the company of so many friends for many years. It is a wonderful feeling to go about my business around the town and always be bumping into folks I know and who know me. Another important aspect for me is the fact that folks are interested in me and for the first time in a long, long while I feel acknowledged for who I am.

At the beginning of the summer I established a sea kayak guiding service in Tobermory with the generous assistance of Chris of Clearwater Paddling. Essentially I am working for him as a guide here on the Isle of Mull but without his generosity in agreeing to set up a Mull wing to his business, I would not be doing something I love - sea kayak guiding. So far the business is going well and there is a lot of interest. It is lovely to take people out and around Tobermory Bay, showing them the sights and sharing with them the joys of sea kayaking on the west coast of Scotland.

I am free of my deep depression at the moment and I look forward to the coming months with hope and excitement. There is a lot to be joyous about living here and there are many times when I pinch myself to make sure that I am where I am.

I look forward too to writing many more blog entries with a more upbeat tone to them.

The Inner Storms

My last post was in early February. Since the middle of that month I have been a patient in the wonderful care of the psychiatric ward in the Mid-Argyll Hospital. I have severe clinical depression, an affliction that has dogged me much of my adult life. This time though, this particular bout has been unusually tortuous and I have struggled at times to make sense of the world and my place in it. Suicide is a subject many of us find challenging to openly speak about which is why depression can be such an insidiously serious illness. For me, suicide is not a simple 'get out' clause, it is the seemingly obvious resolution to my inner turmoil. The struggle I have in believing that I have value to offer and I am valuable to the important people in my life. My desire for completing suicide offers me a sense of deep and timeless peace - a peace that I often struggle to find in my life.

Thankfully, despite the emotional anguish I experience, there is within me a strong desire to continue living. This is why in mid-February I was able to seek the assistance first from my GP and then the psychiatric team of the Mid-Argyll Hospital. The sense of safety I experienced once I was admitted to the ward was an overwhelming one. At the point of admission there was the usual tussle within myself to follow or not to follow the advice of the GP and the ward staff. However once I made the decision to accept admission, I was able to relax (somewhat) and allow the pent up emotional tensions within me to be slowly expunged. This process has not been straightforward nor particularly pleasant. I have time and again slumped to the depths of my soul and faced my demons head on, believing at times that these would ultimately triumph. These demons continue to combat me and my sense of self as a worthwhile individual is far from complete. My recovery from this depression is slow and tenuous to say the least.

In a few days time I begin a course of ECT (Electro-convulsive Therapy) in the hope that this approach will knock my depression on the head - pardon the pun. It is not known how many sessions I will require but it is generally thought that six to twelve are the normal amount. From all accounts I understand this to be a safe and effective approach to curing severe clinical depression with odd renewal sessions from time to time as required. For me, the prospect of no longer feeling and experiencing the deep emotional anguish I have been is of course hugely attractive. It means quite simply that I will be able to smile with the world again.

I am not ashamed of my depression though I do feel shame when I recall some of interactions with people while deeply depressed. I am happy to speak of my condition in the hope that it helps others who may be experiencing depression or living with a loved one who is. As I have always been told - it's good to talk.