Anxious and Catholic cathartics

Into the bin old Catholic burdens!

They are just symbols. Inanimate sculptures of metal, pieces of fabric, with no inherent meaning other than that which I choose to allow them. No magical powers. Yet a source of heavy burden for many years, a burden assigned by the mind - influenced by the world outside it - and reflected back with greater intensity as neurons fire and anxiety pulses through the brain.

For years now, they've been packed away, close but virtually non-existent. I couldn't throw them away. I don't know why, it just felt ... wrong. Out of sight to spare my mind. Left sitting in a dark place devoid of meaning.

This is the one aspect of my 15 or so years of chronic OCD that I never thought I would publicly disclose, or at least not for a long time. Honesty is fine, but some things people just don't get. It was the most absurd and personally embarrassing. But, the hell with it.

On the wall just inside the door to my bedroom at my parents house, just above the light switch and in direct line of sight, less than a metre away as you opened the door, was a crucifix. I think I received it as a First Communion gift.

I was raised a good catholic boy. God fearing. I was more superstitious than religious now I think of it, so perhaps it was inevitable that I would reject it when I realised it didn't satisfy my soul. I feared the unknown power of God, hell and religion more than anything else ever. It was so abstract and so overwhelming it was one thing my obsessively rationalising mind could not combat when anxieties kicked in. The 'what ifs' were endless. And, at times, terrifying.

I couldn't look at that crucifix much of the time for fear of thinking a 'bad thought' and feeling like I'd prayed for it. So at any time I feared I might slip into prayer (basically any time I thought about it) my thoughts went into lock down, heavy control, so I didn't inadvertently ask the almighty for something bad. Something like the Mr Stay Puft scene in Ghostbusters. Over time I developed measures of avoiding these outcomes, though each time my mind found a loop hole and they are too many and absurd to describe here. I had internal debates about what constituted praying. When did a thought become a prayer.

Religion was the bane of my life. It was made more torturous by the fact I 'knew' no one else had these concerns. Still, I couldn't rest easy or allow free thought until I was absolutely, beyond any doubt convinced four, eight or sixteen times over that I had nothing to worry about. Welcome to the world of OCD.

Thought suppression is not just essentially impossible, but counter-productive. Looking at that crucifix made me think of prayer, which brought anxious thoughts of things I didn't want to pray for, which made me try to not think those thoughts, which, of course, made it impossible to get those things out of my mind, which made me *want* to think them just for the relief, which created more tension as I desperately suppressed those thoughts more tightly, thinking in explicit, super-conscious, 'front of mind' words to avoid my worst fears potentially coming to fruition.

I got frustrated and desperately angry with myself. Often I would hit myself in the head with the heel of my hand to teach myself a lesson.

Once I threw Jesus across the room and broke his arm. I later placed him back up on the wall, a bread bag wire holding his arm on the cross, and wondered what mum and dad thought when they saw it.

As an aside, this history of religion-related OCD might also explain for my friends who were with me in Munich where I drunkenly and joyously yelled abuse at God and the Church as we stumbled home from Oktoberfest one night. It wasn't hatred so much, or even grandstanding, but a primal uninhibited release harking back all those years. Why that night, I don't know - I was happy and free of worry perhaps. It wasn't cool, but it was harmless. And it feels good to break the shackles of your oppression.

I started trying to get out of going to mass in my mid-late teens because it was such a tortorous experience. It wasn't until a few years later that I became disillusioned with the Church, and later realised I didn't really believe in it. Not believing in it was no reason not to feel the anxiety though. That went on a few more years along, or in interchange, with other fears. I still couldn't prove beyond obsessive doubt that I had nothing to worry about.

So, when I moved out, for some reason I took pieces of religious memorabilia with me. They never saw daylight, just sat in a cigar box I souvenired from my Dan Murphy's days on a shelf. A sense of foreboding unease prevented me throwing them away. I couldn't think of it, it had a bad feeling to it.

Until this weekend past. Cleaning out all the crap from my crowding bedroom I found an old communion plaque, a card from my confirmation and a scapular I wore religiously in year 8. Discarding them out was not easy, per se. I didn't want them, but there was an instinctive discomfort with throwing them out. And not because I'm a hoarder. Other than band t-shirts most other things can go when past their usefulness.

Overriding that though, was the fact they no longer reflect my identity in any way, and it was empowering to toss them. What would my parents think? It doesn't matter.

These were reminders, not of joyous times, but of pain. By throwing them in the bin, where they still sit in my room as a sustained show of strength, I'm not running from those memories but prioritising my energy and focus on things that reflect who I am. It was liberating. I felt my 15 year old self smile. I'll never forget. But I have no space for oppressive symbolism.

On medication, depression and no more stigma

I take anti-depressants.

No big deal right? Not for me, but I'm wary of other people's perceptions. So, while I've been increasingly open over the last year or so about history with depression, anxiety and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), it's a little different when it comes to the meds.

I don't hide the fact but I don't generally mention it even when talking about my condition ('condition'? Ugh). I told a few close friends when I started taking Xanax because I kind of had to. I was advised to curb my alcohol consumption and that was not going to go unnoticed.

'Coming out' about my OCD last year, and subsequently talking more about the anxiety with more people was fucking liberating. It was a little terrifying doing so on national television, but in reality it was relatively easy being able to talk about it largely in the past tense - especially the most 'embarrassing', least understood part, the OCD, which seems to be essentially absent from daily life now.

Talking about medication, however, shifts the issue from recovery back to problem management for me, from past tense to present. At least, that's my suspicious assumption of how some people would respond. And as healthy as I am, as far as I've come on my recovery from OCD and Generalised Anxiety Disorder, I may be on the pills for some time yet.

I worry about how some people might think of me differently if they know. Will they be more wary? Will they think I'm somewhat unstable? Would an employer think twice about my capability? Would a potential romantic interest be put off?

Lots of people still don't understand mental health (see, I don't even want to say 'mental illness'). I'm pretty determined to do my bit to kill the stigma, but it still beats me sometimes. It's difficult not to be wary of the lack of understanding or misguided preconceptions that might influence someone's perception of you if you wear it on your sleeve.

It's led me to lie - about reasons for being late to work when I've had appointments, on forms (mostly emplyment related) where I didn't consider my medication to be crucial information and was concerned about perceptions. Sadly, sometimes the truth can distort a person's perception of a situation more than a white lie.

In 2006 I started a new job two weeks late because it took the organisation that did the medical check that long to send through the 'OK'. I'd told them about my depression and medication, which was being managed. It pissed me right off. I got through school and university with good marks, mostly before getting treatment, so why should I be judged on it now as I'm recovering by someone who doesn't know shit about the circumstances? Does an employer - or outsourced medical checking organisation - have a right to know and judge me on the basis of a mental health issue that does not prevent me from being a fully functioning member of society? Hell no. It is no more reasonable a consideration than any number of other social factors - like use of drugs or alcohol, gambling, addiction to social media, etc - that could impact someone's work.

But things like that made me feel like it was something I should probably cover up as much as possible, and that was counter-productive. It wasn't until last year that I realised just how many people do understand, and that others will try, and the rest don't matter. Unless they're employing you I guess.

I'm increasingly indifferent about people knowing the details of my depression. It's part acceptance, part bloody-mindedness in the fight against stigma. I don't want anyone's ignorance to put me back in my box, the only way to change it is to be more open, even if some take a while to get it and others never do. There are enough quality, open-minded people to surround yourself with that the others don't really matter.

The stigma is all the more tragic though because of the prevalence of depression - it undoubtedly even infiltrates people who actually have depression.

My trepidation with talking about the meds might be a projection of the initial fears I held - that they would alter my mind, change my thoughts, affect my personality. They've done none of those things, at least not directly.  My thoughts have changed, my brain has been re-wired, but I did that myself. The medication simply eased the extreme anxiety I felt on a daily basis for most of my life, so that I could find a more comfortable head space to make necessary changes to my thought processe - naturally through education, cognitive therapy and things like yoga. And it's those are things that will have a lasting effect, the drugs are just a conduit, albeit an important one for me.

Others don't need medication at all, it's horses for courses.

But I hate hiding it. It's a central element of this thing that has been the most pervasive issue of my life. I hope I can come off the medication someday, sooner than later, but I accept I may be on them for a long time, maybe a lifetime. There will always be people who don't - or worse, are unwilling to - understand. No-one can be in my head and compare it to their own. Everyone is just a little fucked up - the interesting people anyway. The important people do, or at least try, and don't judge me on such spurious grounds.

More importantly, imagine if every person with depression came out and spoke up about it, and we could see just how many people it affects, across all sectors of society. The stats are their, but numbers don't resonate like actions. It would change the way people think about mental health, those who will never experience it, and crucially, those who are struggling. We'd see just how wrong we were/are to feel alone and misunderstood.

Mental health issues aren't visible. It is hard for someone who hasn't experienced it to interpret and understand. People's own fears come into play. I can't do anything about that. Except be open - which I'm trying to be more and more - for my own sake, and that of others with mental illness. I want to kick the stigma and misunderstanding square in the balls.

Recently I kissed a girl and she commented on the mild shake of my hands, something I get at times even when I'm calm. For fear of being thought of as excessively nervous or frigid, I told her it was from a history of anxiety - that seemed the lesser embarrassment. A friend was a little shocked I'd said so.

But I don't care. This is who I am, think whatever you will think.

I just. don't. care.

Yes. I take medication. It's no big deal.

The circuit breaker

Among the thousands, millions, billions or however many thoughts fly through your head every day there are plenty of scary ones, carrying doubt and seeking to play on the deepest insecurities.

Most of the time for most people (I think) they pass with maybe a fleeting awareness, a shiver at the thought and a fix of rational perspective. Some evolved people even embrace these thoughts to stare down their fears, and as a deep, dark and brooding Scorpio I'm partial to dabbling in darker areas of the mind when I feel capable. Probably why I struggled with my anxiety for so long.

Like many people, thoughts that frightened me often got caught up in a web of uncertainty and anxiety that demanded thorough reassurance before they could be released. I'm no scientist but I believe it's partly thanks to an overactive amygdala. Simple chemical reactions lead to entirely misguided attempts to attain feelings of certainty, security and confidence. Just because of a shot of anxiety.

The thought itself isn't important - it could be the self-conscious anxieties we all get about appearance or safety or acceptance, or an absurd irrational fear like what if I walk under a ladder and there's a poisonous spider in my cereal?! The anxiety caused is dependent on the brain, not the cause of the fear. And what's important is how you react.

It's that moment when you should step back and take a deep breath, but the instinctive response for those of us habituated to anxiety is 'fight or flight'. To fight is to confront the thought by addressing it, answering it, thinking through it, rationalising it. Flight means trying to push it out of your head, by controlling or suppressing certain thoughts, or engaging in distructive distractions. Try to not think about an elephant for a minute. Fight or flight can bring temporary relief but in just feeds the beast of anxiety, making it stronger and/or more regular. Jeff Bell has a good analogy relating to OCD he calls Octopus Chewing Doubt-nuts.

When it comes back it is even harder to ignore, its demands even greater. And so the cycle begins. A downward spiral that gains momentum and becomes harder and harder to stop as anxiety grows and hits more often. There are only two ways out: play it out and hit the bottom when you get so exhausted or even sick you no longer have the energy to fight or run and gradually realise how useless the whole exercise was; or you find a circuit breaker to get out early. The first is obviously not recommended. The second is necessarily difficult. Sometimes painfully so, as anxiety grows along with the urge to give in, but it's damn rewarding - resist the urges and the anxiety does fade, thinking habits are altered and the actual structure of the brain starts to change. Stick to it and it gets easier each time.

One of the awesome things about your brain is its plasticity, you can literally change the way it functions to make you happier.

Finding a good circuit breaker can be a good way to do this when it comes to 'bad thoughts' that lead into a downward spiral. I understood all this for some time before I found the technique that works best for me - mindfulness. Learning to accept the anxiety-inducing thoughts for what they are and let them go in their own time rather than waste energy thinking them through or pushing them out.

I knew about and understood mindfulness for a while before I was able to actually learn how to practically implement it. For me the two best methods are yoga and running. Yoga forced me to let go of thoughts that held me back and find the moment with a clear mind. That helped me get into running and practice it in a non-structured environment. Knowing I could let them go, I eventually brought the practice into my regular thinking.

In 12-18 months my thinking has changed dramatically. I can recognise the thoughts that will throw me into that dark pit and let them go a lot easier. Not all the time, but I don't get caught in extended downward spirals for days and weeks like I used to. Where I do feel anxiety and overthink (overthinking is my one major lingering issue!) my circuit breaker kicks in much earlier. The urge, the absolute need to address some of those thoughts, 'normal' and irrational, is no longer really an issue.

After 15 years of conditioning my brain to debilitating, pain-inflicting ways of thinking and responding to my anxiety, and about five years of trying to figure out how to implement some of the cognitive therapies I was learning about, I have now significantly rewired my brain and overhauled those negative thought processes.

Finding the circuit breaker is the first step. 

2011 - The Year I Overcame OCD

The year’s end is a pertinent time for reflection, and such personal reflections belong more in a personal journal than a self-indulgent blog post. I don’t intend to run through highlights, lowlights, top-10s or any of that shit, but it was a significant year as far as my OCD and anxiety goes. And a primary purpose of this blog is to document my recovery from those afflictions.

Indeed, 2011 was the year I beat down my OCD, from a menacing beast to a humble, quiet dog. A little black dog that still lets out a yelp or two, but sits, largely restrained, in the corner. It may return – almost certainly will threaten to – but I now have the tools to manage it. Mild anxiety still lingers at times, and probably always will, but I continue to pursue a calm, happy life, knowing now that I can. The dog's days are over.

Most important was the understanding that recovery was not a fight (as depression so often is) but rather the ability to accept and let go, rather than waste tense energy fighting, which merely gave strength to my demons.

I’m now almost eight years into my ‘recovery’ so the progress made this year has been a long time coming. Where did it come from? I can’t fully know. Partly from the natural desire to change as time passes and the implications of resisting change become more uncomfortable.

It’s fair to say the acceleration in recovery was kick-started by a girl I became close friends with late in 2010. She understood me like few, if any, other people I have ever known and demonstrated the required tough lover to unashamedly and relentlessly push me in the right direction.

In January this year she walked away. So 2011 started amidst a fog of heartache and confusion; yet through it I could sense a newfound notion of clarity, and was equipped with a determination to pursue it now that I knew in which direction to head.

I started yoga in November 2010, at her behest, but moved to a new studio early this year. Yoga was something I’d long considered, and quickly saw the benefits. Some of those first classes taught and forced me to let go of my OCD/anxiety safety net (my mental compulsions) and were emotionally challenging to say the least.

Once I settled into my new studio in Hawthorn, which is a fantastic place run by friendly instructors, I gradually got into a routine habit. I came to crave the peacefulness it provides and sought to translate it into everyday life. Compared to this time last year I have a clearer mind, sharper focus, better health and fitness, and calmer thought through (finally) successfully practicing of mindfulness and being better able to let go of irrational, obsessive and unwanted thoughts. I have changed long-ingrained thought processes, something that takes time and effort but it enormously rewarding.

Yoga didn’t necessarily teach me anything I didn’t know about my OCD and anxiety or how to combat it, it just helped me (enormously) to put the pieces together, and forced me to let go of those damn compulsive thoughts, thus minimising the obsessive part.

2011 was also the year of my grand ‘coming out’. After telling all to this blog, in April I was featured on a Hungry Beast story on OCD. Other telling immediate family and a few select friends, I didn’t make a big deal about it being on, but the response from people who saw it was amazing. Even in the last couple of weeks I’ve had a former colleague tell me she saw it but wasn’t sure what to say at the time (when we worked together). With the secret out, a massive burden lifted from my shoulders and my perspective shifted. No longer was this in any way something I battled alone and bottled up. People, friends and strangers, actually contacted me for advice. I felt in a very good place and wondered why I’d been so secretive about my depression in the first place; but really I know – there are millions of people still out there, including people I know, no doubt, battling on in silence, unaware that there is far more help and understanding waiting for them than they realise.

Unfortunately, my TV appearance did not lead to stardom…

As a result of all of this, 2011 has been the best year of my life. I have achieved more than any other year so far. I’ve written more, read more, exercised more and played (even recorded!) more music. I got a great new job. I’m the fittest I’ve been in my adult life. I am surrounded by beautiful and inspirational people.

And I can only expect 2012 will be even better. I have much more growth and progress left in me, and some exciting challenges for the coming year. I don’t ever want to be a ‘grown up’, it implies no room left to grow – growth and learning are what life is about. I’ve learnt so much from my experience with OCD and anxiety; I never want to live through the worst of it again, but I wouldn’t remove it from my past.

I’m not going to go into goals and resolutions for 2012. I have a few things I’m focusing on – better and more regular writing, being more assertive, continuing my mental health improvement, maybe drinking less…

But I don’t believe in resolutions as such. The end of the year is an opportune time to reflect, and 1 January is a milestone date, but not one to be used as motivation for change. If you have identified necessary change, now is the time, not on New Year’s Day. I don’t know, I just feel like those milestones just provide excuses to put things off, and demand sustained change, where it often takes a few tries.

Anyway, happy New Years to anyone reading this. Thanks for dropping by during the year, I’ve enjoyed it. There’ll be more to come in 2012.

How OCD ruined my potential tennis career

I step up to the line, ball in hand, bounce it a few times – probably four – and make a conscious effort to push uncomfortable thoughts out of my head. My mind feels as though it is balanced finely on the edge of stable footing and anxious free-fall, torn in two equally destructive directions – to drive myself insane trying to maintain a sense of stability or let go and plummet into the black depths of my fears.

As I pour mental energy and focus into keeping intrusive, distracting, anxiety-inducing thoughts out, I simultaneously feel a strong urge to let go and have them flood into my head. The desire to give in is immense – and has a rational basis, but one I do not have time to explore at this moment to attain the certainty necessary to follow that path.

I bounce the ball four more times in a ritualistic attempt to clean the slate, start the mental process again and approach this with a clear, focused mind.

I throw the ball in the air, lose my mental grip and have a troubling thought about wanting the devil to help me win this point (at various stages of my life a terrifying thought). Anxiety shoots out in all directions from my stomach and I’m still in the process of serving the ball. My mind is jerked away from the process of delivering it cleanly and precisely to my opponent and the ball flies horribly off-target.

This is what playing tennis has been like for me for much of my life, with the subject of the anxiety shifting in accordance with whatever was my main obsession at the time. I played regular competition tennis from the age of around ten until about 18 months ago. It wasn’t always that bad – and I did actually win plenty of points too – but that’s an example of the things that would be going through my mind while my teammates and opponents had the (frankly, unfair) advantage of focusing on the game. Efforts to avoid such situations and keep my mind on track were just as distracting as when I succumbed to troubling thoughts.

On the whole, I like tennis. But I found it terribly difficult mentally, and entirely unenjoyable, at times when I didn’t have my obsessive thinking under control – whether it was thoughts based around religion, health or any of the various other issues of recurring concern.

Tennis has been unique in this way. Let me chase a basketball or football around – in organised competition or leisurely play – and I generally found it pretty easy to focus. Those activities offer great distractions, even circuit-breakers to get my mind out of a negative cycle of thoughts, and provide fresh perspective once I’m finished, untainted by whatever anxiety may have been eating at me beforehand. Even golf, which tests my patience and ability to clear my mind, still doesn’t demand the continual focus that tennis does in a way that doesn’t come naturally to me. Precision and measured restraint haven’t tended to be my thing, I’d rather go hell-for-leather chasing a ball! Maybe why my ability to chase down shots is my best, and only reliable, strength in tennis!

However, my more-social-than-competitive tennis team has been on potentially permanent hiatus for the past 18 months.

I remember dreading the Wednesday night matches most weeks. – checking the Bureau of Meteorology website repeatedly throughout the day in the hope of a washout, and spending the couple of hours between work the match trying desperately to get my head into a rational, clear, free-flowing state. There were few places I felt more vulnerable to my thoughts than on the tennis court. Sometimes I saw this as an opportunity to push along my recovery, sometimes it scared me.

Three main factors were at play: the self-fulfilling fear of unwanted thoughts causing anxiety, the constant breaks in play that allow time to ponder, and the feeling of entrapment that I couldn’t get away and find the space to think through and rationalise my fear as I could in many other situations. So if I had a thought that caused concern, I had to keep it in the back of my mind to address at the end of the night.

On nights where I was particularly anxious and affected by these thoughts it completely consumed my thinking. For sports like tennis and golf that require a particularly high degree of precision, I’m know I’m not alone in my performance being inextricably tied to my headspace and ability to clear it. So when it did consume me I played particularly badly, struggled to keep score, and was distant.

Ironically, I could have a good game of basketball if my precision in terms of shooting was off by contributing in other ways (endeavour and hussle!!), but again, I find it much easier to focus my mind purely within the boundary of the court for the entire 40 minutes when I play. That still doesn’t mean my shooting is much good.

I spent a weekend in Warrnambool a few years ago with a few friends, where we played in the annual club championships. It was here I suffered my most embarrassing bout of nerve-related anxiety. When my doubles partner and I were informed that our low-grade, first round doubles match would be played on the second most prominent court, in view of hundreds of people, I may as well have given up on the spot. We lost 6-1 I think (I think Warren and I were able to put together a game where he hit a few winners and I avoided the ball enough to win it). I barely hit two shots into play for the whole set. I also hit multiple serves not just outside the service box, but over the fence and onto adjacent courts. That is, I did so multiple times in one service game.

I hurried off court and back to our hotel, drank a bottle of whiskey and drafted my a media release announcing my retirement. We were all able to laugh about it later on – almost immediately actually – some more than others.

Last week in my first competitive match since taking big steps forward with my OCD over the past 6-12 months, I played one of the best games I’ve played in years. Being placed back in an environment that I associate closely with that anxiety did affect me a little, and would have previously set me on a slippery slope down into mental chaos. However, I accepted the mild anxiety and dealt with it pretty well.

I was pretty pleased with myself, and it was another marker of the progress I’ve made.

So, yeah… the point of this post is pretty much ‘Yay me!’ :o)


ps. The result of last week's match is unimportant.

pps. No I never really wanted a tennis career. How tedious.

hungry beast

"i am made by my times

i am a creation of now"

('The reveal - my life with depression')

The OCD shoreline

This is a more detailed adaption of a cheesy metaphor I came up with and used in my interview today with Hungry Beast about OCD. I think the episode’s due to screen on 27 April, we’ll see if it makes the cut…

I’m a child. Standing on the shoreline - staring out at an endless ocean - infinite abyss - the depths of my consciousness. Concepts not yet fully understood. I was placed here by biochemistry or something.

Small ripples wash up over my feet and retreat, wash up and retreat, daily anxiety; impossible to ignore, I give in to it and seek relief and understanding. Rituals, checking, self-assurance, rumination, repetition, doing things over and over, repeating acts.

Before I know it I’m in deeper. Waves of anxiety become more regular, hitting me with greater force. In too far and alone.

The waves begin to knock me down and pull me under. The more I struggle the worse my situation gets. Everyone knows not to fight against a rip, right? I don’t know anything.

I’m in over my head now and struggling to keep my head above water. I can’t see the shoreline I left so many years ago. I’m desperate I don’t know what to do I must do something but nothing helps I can’t keep up the fight but if I stop I will die.

Walls of water slam down on me still, incessantly. Gasping for breath, all energy goes into a final attempt, a meek cry for help.

A hand grasps mine, pulls me up, points me back to shore. They’ll teach me to swim but I have to make it back alone, otherwise I could easy end up back in the deep water. I let go of the tension and gradually find my footing. I look around, there are many people out here with me.

I wade through the water, waves continue to break against my back but the water has calmed and I can endure. And I can see the shoreline. It’s getting closer.

The reveal - my life with depression

I have depression.

Ridiculously, saying so actually feels a little clichéd, passé even, with the growing number of public figures making such admissions in recent times. There is greater awareness and understanding of depression now, but it’s still a bloody tough thing to discuss on a personal level.

Once you bear your soul it’s out there for all to see and judge. I want people close to me to understand and, when necessary, support me but I don’t want this to define their perceptions of me. As Bruce Wayne told Rachael Dawes: “I am more”

My close friends have provided the most effective distraction from my ingrained negative thinking, so I’m wary about it being a prominent feature in those relationships. Also, through no fault of their own, many people cannot relate to depression and anxiety, so being open about it doesn’t automatically mean someone will understand you better.

My depression and anxiety has been the most pervasive aspect of my 28 years though, so I don’t want to hide it away, particularly now that I am dealing with it far more effectively.

Honest and courageous personal accounts by various people, including Mike Stutchbery, Jeff Bell (especially his book When In Doubt, Make Belief) and Clem Bastow, of personal experiences have inspired me and reinforced a sense of normality.

I’d like to think my experience can help at least one other person someday. There are probably hundreds, if not thousands, of blog posts like this, but the simple that fact it affects so many people is why we need to keep talking about it; and all sufferers should feel comfortable doing so.

A chronic worrier

I’ve been a chronic worrier for as long as I can remember. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder seemed to set in around the age of eight. My mind hopped constantly from one worry to another. Initially it seemed to be something different each day, soon particular worries began to stretch out across days or weeks before I moved on to something else; but there was always something. Any clarity never lasted long, awareness of it led to desperate attempts to maintain it, in turn setting off my mind in search of a trigger to anxiety.

I adopted compulsive rituals to deal with the anxiety and troubling thoughts, like checking, repetition, rumination and avoidance. I was highly sensitive to superstition and had ‘good’ and ‘bad’ numbers and colours.

You want examples…?

One of my most recurrent and embarrassing fears was of praying. Yup, praying. Going to church was not only painfully boring for me; often it led to self-inflicted distress. I feared having a ‘bad thought’ relating to the harm of myself or a loved one, and struggled to distinguish between what was general thought and what was prayer. I spent countless hours trying to determine the difference.

In my irrational, black-and-white state-of-mind, I felt certain I had prayed for something bad until I could prove otherwise, and therefore it was bound to happen. I have no reason to believe that any purported prayer was ever actually answered, but desperately tried to suppress and control my thoughts nonetheless. This simply intensified my anxiety and kept the thoughts I sought to avoid at the forefront of my mind. When I inevitably slipped up I would spend hours, days, even weeks, examining and retracing my thoughts to prove to myself beyond doubt that I hadn’t prayed. Rationality only crept back in once I’d exhausted myself, been sufficiently distracted or a new worry superseded the old one.

The praying fear wasn’t restricted to being inside a church. Any time thoughts of God coincided with a bad thought, anxiety hit. Therefore such thoughts had to be suppressed, which kept them constantly on my mind.

My family noticed some of my other odd behaviour in the early years: flicking my bedroom light switch on and off repetitively before going to bed; being excessively anxious about my parents safety if they were even 10 minutes late arriving somewhere; walking around in public with my arms up like a kangaroo’s paws to avoid germs (my older brothers lovingly nicknamed me ‘Skippy’ for this one); and, for a short period, refusing to swallow my saliva for a reason I don’t recall. Sometimes I worried about my health, convincing myself I had a disease of some sort, but never seeing a doctor because I generally knew my fears were illegitimate. Ironically, if I had maybe my anxiety would have been diagnosed earlier!

My parents tried to understand and explain that my worries were baseless, but since such worries had no rational foundation Mum and Dad’s logical reasoning held for me as well as water in a sieve.

I didn’t understand why I was the way I was – I just knew I was different from everyone else. I thought no-one thought and acted the way I did, so I tried to stop. Instead I became more frustrated, obsessive and anxious. I often hit myself repetitively in the head as a form of punishment. It didn’t seem to teach me anything, but might explain why I like Toto’s music.

Realising that such strange behaviours (my compulsions, not liking Toto … ok, maybe both) would doom me to social torture in the dog-eat-dog world of high school, my compulsions became mostly internal and thought-based. But they were still just as relentless, destructive, and excruciating. The checking, repetition, rumination and avoidance stuck, it just became well hidden.

Over 13 or more years, I developed a defensive, restricted process of thinking to avoid worry, bad thoughts and anxiety; it dragged me down into the depths of uncertainty, isolation and depression. My thinking was often painfully controlled and explicit, like saying every single word aloud in my head – which made reading veeerrryyy slow. It became norm, unless I was distracted enough to let it go and return to normal flow. I lost the faith in the general ‘background’ flow of thoughts, so that to feel sure of something I often needed to think it through in that explicit fashion.

I wasn’t socially isolated – I have always had loving family and good friends – but I often felt alone, dealing with uncomfortable thoughts and feelings that were too embarrassing to reveal to anyone (see ‘prayer fear’). And I was trying to stop this behaviour with little or no real understanding of what was going on. I was waging a war inside my head, and unknowingly providing weaponry to the other side simply by engaging in the battle.

So it has been for most my life – a private fight. Having left behind visible indications of my OCD, I seemed ‘normal’ enough to others. I was a shy introverted teen around those I didn’t know well, but lively and fun with those I did. I developed a good sense of humour to counter my troubled side and, seeking to avoid unnecessary conflict, was (am…) a pretty friendly person to anyone who made any effort with me. (It should be said though, that as a fairly passionate Scorpio I sometimes possess a harsh sting in the tail for anyone who I feel has done wrong by me, or the world in general).

I got through high school and university with good marks, but I do regret the fact that so much of my attention was wasted on irrational worries when I could have been soaking up valuable information. On the positive side, it demonstrated that I was rational enough to put my worries aside when absolutely necessary and get work done. Last minute assignments became a specialty.

The start of university also found me in my first relationship. In reality we were never destined to be life partners, but she was the most supportive and important person in my life for six years, particularly in April 2004 when it hit rock bottom.

Hitting rock bottom

By then my controlled, suppression-based process of thinking was falling apart, and so was I. During shifts at Dan Murphy’s, I would seek quiet, isolated space several times an hour to focus without distraction and direct all my mental energy into easing anxiety. ‘Just one more time,’ I’d tell myself, ‘then I’ll be assured and be able to get on with it.’ But every time I gave in to the anxiety for short-term relief, I made it more frequent and stronger. The worries themselves are of little importance but ranged from health related, to my own mental capability and sanity (and its decline), to being overly obsessed by everyday ‘normal’ worries, to superstitious and religious based fears. All of which I knew deep down were not worth worrying about. But if it was nothing to worry about, why was I anxious? Not understanding the true source of the anxiety was principally why I could not yet recover. It coloured how I saw my future – I felt like unless I resolved the source of anxiety quickly the problem wouldn’t go away, when really the opposite is true.

I was increasingly confused, uncertain, obsessed, detached, and scared. These worries had a stranglehold on my daily life, yet I managed to hide it from every single person I knew. There were undoubtedly signs, but I made every effort to hide them.

The anxiety finally reached a level beyond my hardened endurance. The mere thought of another day living this way was pure agony. Something had to happen.

At various stages over the last fifteen years I’ve had thoughts, even fantasies, of serious self-harm, but never believed I would or could physically bring myself to do it. If I felt more desensitised to the idea or life in general, perhaps I may have – I don’t know and don’t ever want to. This is a whole other discussion, but I understand to an extent what drives someone to that point and I’m grateful for whatever it is that has kept me from going there.

I do know that in April 2004 I didn’t enjoy being alive, and being unable to find anything to provide even momentary relief from the suffocating anxiety and fear was a new low. As often happens in moments of irrationality, I couldn’t see that feeling ever disappearing. I felt as though I’d ruined my life irreparably. I literally could not see any way out of the darkness that engulfed me. The tunnel had caved in at both ends, there was no light.

This is what it took for me to consider my problem from a new angle and take real action. I don’t know if I’d thought much about depression before, but I did some online research on a sleepless night and gave a self-diagnosis. I then spent the next couple of months trying to bring my parents and girlfriend around to the same conclusion, through subtle hints and a greater than usual expression of my true emotional state, so that they could help me help myself. Even at this low point I could not simply say the words to them.

My girlfriend eventually asked the right questions and drew out of me what I’d been desperate to tell her for many weeks. I didn’t go into detail, but just having someone finally know was a great relief, if not a solution. She was a wonderful support and encouraged me to do what I knew I had to – get help. Until we broke up three years later, outside of my doctors, only her and my parents knew and she was the only one I spoke to about it.

On a rainy day morning in April 2004 I took a rare sick day from Dan Murphy’s and went to see a community counsellor. She gave me the initial help I needed, and referred me to a GP and Psychologist, who turned me around and guided me back towards recovery.

Recovery

Over the past seven years, I’ve been deconstructing negative habits and thought processes ingrained over 21 years; learning to think again. I’ve learnt to recognise irrational thoughts and effective methods of dealing with the associated anxiety, which I’m getting better at implementing. It’s been a long road, with no signage. Re-wiring your brain takes time, effort and discipline.

That it’s taken so long is frustrating, but I’m proud of how much improvement I’ve made and empowered by the fact I can use the knowledge I’ve gained to improve myself in many ways.

Even the past 6-12 months have seen significant improvement as I have integrated yoga and mindfulness into my cognitive-based methods of improvement. I feel the best I ever have, and am getting better.

The black dog probably won’t stop following me around. I’m still prone to mild anxiety, and don’t always deal with it how I know I should. After 20 years lacking faith in my free flowing thought process, I still haven’t quite cemented a satisfactory level of self-confidence.

I can get caught up giving everyday worries more attention than they deserve. I get down on myself, feel flat and unmotivated, procrastinate and worry. Everyone does, and my brain’s chemically more prone to it than most, but I can now deal with these issues far more effectively.

Calm and happiness are slowly seeping into my underlying state of being, rather than requiring effort or distraction.

It has cost me a lot of money, up to $500 per month on consultations and medication, and I am eternally thankful for my parents helping out with those costs when I’ve needed it – they’ve lent me more money than I’m comfortable admitting, which has allowed me to move out and travel over the last few years. I don’t really talk about it with them much, but I should. Nobody offers me so much love; the best kind too – unconditional love.

Taking charge of life

Getting out of a rut when I’m in the grips of depression is deceptively easy. It can feel impossibly hard, but just requires a jolt, a circuit breaker – something to passively or actively shift your focus onto productive activity or just the willpower to accept and endure anxiety. Easy is probably not the right word, but the point is I realise that I know I have the power to choose. Successfully turning a situation around is wonderfully empowering and in itself provides the energy to keep getting better.

Being locked inside your head, secretly trying intensely to rationalise or suppress uncomfortable thoughts, while those around you wonder why you’re distant, haven’t finished a task, don’t feel comfortable talking to strangers, or are emailing them for distraction so goddamn much, is still pretty isolating sometimes.

As well as my parents, a handful of friends know the basic fact I have depression. It’s not discussed much, as I said I don’t want it to define me, but sometimes I do feel like it would be nice for people to better appreciate how this has affected my life.

There’s no benefit in getting caught up in such sentiments though; rather I have to appreciate my fortune in having a pretty normal life with a loving family, sensational friends and opportunities many others can only dream of.

Perhaps the term ‘battling depression’ is not accurate. In practice, we sufferers have to learn how to live with and accept it; indeed this is how we diminish its power.

I hope this lengthy account comes across how I intended, particularly for anyone who hasn’t experienced depression themselves. I spent a lot of time writing, editing, cutting and rewriting, as is my way. I don’t believe words can convey just how hellish depression can be, but what’s more important is to convey hope to sufferers, because it always exists even when you can’t see it. I know that from experience.

And I think I’ll keep on trying.