Anxious and grateful

General Anxiety Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, depression: I wouldn’t wish them on anyone, yet they have shaped considerably the person I am – someone I am generally relatively happy with, even kinda proud of. So it’s difficult to say I don’t appreciate being born with a little faulty wiring and, more so, what I’ve learned through fixing it.

To be appreciative does seem somewhat dismissive, insulting even, to the many victims of mental illness and those who haven’t made it through yet; even to my past self. I’m only appreciative because I finally can be. I didn’t need to waste so many hours – accumulating to years – on unnecessary worry to reach this appreciation, but it is what it is.

Having depression forced me to work out how to be happy; crippling anxiety left me with no choice but to finally embrace uncertainty. I feel like I wound up more relaxed and happy than a lot of people out there in this chaotic world who have no underlying mental health issue. The fact I will probably always be somewhat vulnerable to anxiety helps me to not take it for granted too much.

Everyone feels some level of stress, doubt and anxiety sometimes. Most people don’t require intervention, but they’re no good for any of us. So perhaps those of us that have had to learn how to keep these things in check might actually be better placed to deal with the everyday crap that gets people down than the so-called ‘mentally healthy’! Hooray!

And is it just me, or do some of the best perspectives and lessons on life come from people who have had struggles with their mental health? Maybe it’s because they tend to be more comfortable (or at least familiar) with curiosity, sadness and uncertainty – all healthy and essential, in their appropriate form. Maybe I just relate to them more.

Yet, so often do these people tend to be deep and considerate thinkers that I am genuinely let down when someone who has come through depression or anxiety turns out to be a crap person. I’m generalising, but only because it’s generally true.

Occasionally I do wonder how much anxiety held me back, what I missed out on as a result or how my life might be different. How much more capable and knowledgeable would I be, how much more could I have absorbed, if I had paid attention to the people, words and world around me rather than the constant, disruptive pulse of anxious thought in my head; if my mind processed information rather than obsessive, worried thoughts?

It’s interesting to consider but pointless to lament. I’m more interested in how it still affects my thinking (changing thought processes can take a while, ok) and continuing my improvement.

Yes, I would have a lot of strong advice for my 10-27 year old self, but regrets and wishes are a waste of energy, and without the experience I’d have no advice to give on how to live a better life.

The most important thing I learned was to let go of unnecessary, unconstructive thoughts and feelings that hold you back. It’s not just good for dealing with the irrational fear of an anxious mind but a bunch of other stupid things like cynicism, hate, anger, frustration, restlessness, etc. So, having pretty much dealt with the irrational fears, I’m using my new skills to try and let go of those other things a little more – especially cynicism and restlessness (procrastination).

On Saturday I had a chat to one of my yoga instructors after class. I lamented the fact that I haven’t been able to get back into the routine of going to 6am classes for almost 12 months now.

“Just do it,” she said, inadvertently quoting that fantastic bastardised phrase.

And I know that I can.

The doubt I have about whether I will actually do it tomorrow, the uncomfortable feelings that will urge me to make the stay in bed another couple of hours, the discontent mind that tries to convince me it is not ready to face the day – all of these things mean nothing and will pass. I know that for a fact. It is a very basic example of what I have learned about how the mind works but it is, in short, why I’m grateful for my now-minimised anxiety.

Though I’ve been thinking about all this for a while, I must acknowledge partial inspiration by a post Anita Heiss published on her blog about being grateful for depression.

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.

What's more harmful - Xanax or Channel 7's coverage of mental health?

I'm angry with you, Channel 7. Yesterday I ran my first half-marathon and was on a high. I wanted to write about it - the pain, the achievement, the music, the reasons for and against doing it again. But then I watched Sunday Night's alarmist story on the anti-anxiety drug Xanax. A drug I take.

I don't like being angry, so I'm furious that this trash tabloid journalism made me mad.

I knew as soon as I saw the promo it would rile me and I'd tweet frustratedly, but I couldn't ignore it. I guess Channel 7 will count that as a win.

The premise was, basically, Xanax is more addictive than Heroin, it destroys lives and should be banned. Oh, and traces of it were found in the blood of Heath Ledger, Whitney Houston and Michael Jackson when they died! (Well yes, among various other things, but let's not mention that)

It was an irresistable hook and seemed to shock a few people judging by responses on Twitter. Fear-based outrage sells almost as well as sex. The more - dare I say - irrational responses to the show's question of whether Xanax should be banned were comments like: "yep! aniety (sic) can be helped if people were allowed to relax and people showed care and concern more.", "Xanax is scary! Doctors should be held responsible for giving out a drug that is known to be more addictive that heroin", and my favourite "yes! We lost Michael Jackson from it".

Fortunately, just as many tweeters defended rational consideration of the issue, many of whom had actually dealt with anxiety. It was a pleasant irony for us to be the (at least relatively) rational ones.

The misleading emotional use of dead celebrities, was just the first giveaway of a rubbish story. At no point did it address the dangers of mixing drugs without medical advice, which happened in each of those cases. I suppose truthful (respectful?) representation of those tragic deaths, rather than insinuating one drug's responsibility, would lessen the emotional affect of mentioning them.

They also spoke of side-effects like blackouts in absolute terms as though they happen to everyone who takes it. I've never had a blackout in four years on a relatively high dosage. Maybe I'm on the placebo.

Not only was there no test of the premise (just run with it), there was no acknowledement of the many lives Xanax has undoubtedly saved from suicide, or helped get back on track from various levels of anxiety. Nope, not even considered. Has that actually happened ever? You wouldn't have thought so.

There's no doubt we need to monitor the use of medications. And I don't doubt the genuine suffering those interviewed have experienced. Some drugs are addictive and can have serious side-effects, which is why you need to take them responsibly under professional advice (and I'm not suggesting these people didn't).

But if you are going to call for a ban on a product that manages the suffereing of severe anxiety, you should at least explore some alternative treatments. The report didn't even look properly at why people are prescribed Xanax, other than bandying about the word anxiety.

How many people today will be fearful of the drug and consider stopping usage (a very dangerous course of action)? How many will resist advice from doctors to take it as a result of this unbalanced reporting, possibly preventing recovery? How many unqualified people will advise family or friends to stop taking this "horrendous drug", out of concern but based on ill-informed fear? That could be dangerous.

This was not a story for public interest or information, but a grab for ratings.This kind of sensationalist reporting just fuels hysteria or makes thinking people dismissive, it serves no real purpose. Which is sad, whether or not there is any validity in the concerns raised.

I am not here to defend Xanax. It's worked for me, but I had a period of trial-and-error with other anti-depressants first. I value how it helped me recover from a pretty dark period and start to manage severe anxiety, but feel like cognitive therapies and activities like yoga and running have been the things that really changed the way I think. So I'm hopeful of coming off it sooner than later. I never really liked the idea of a drug that affected my brain, though it hasn't stopped me consuming alcohol.

We should look at the role of medication in various areas. I personally tend to agree that we live in an age of over-prescription, but I'm not an expert, and many people need these drugs to live a normal life.

As a comsumer, I want the media and government to hold the pharmaceutical industry to account. Just as much as I want to see responsible reporting on mental health that doesn't induce irrational fear or reinforce stigma. I don't want to see reporting that prevents people getting the help they need.

Xanax is potent. It works fast. Am I addicted? Well I've never craved it (like I crave yoga after a few days) and I'd deal better going without it for a day than Facebook or Twitter, but if I miss a few doses I do experience physiological side-effects that are not fun, as well as an increase in anxiety. Is it more addictive than Heroin? I don't know, I've never had reason to take Heroin. I do know that when I come off Xanax, it will be very slowly and under the supervision of my GP and psychologist.

I'd rather see Channels 7 and 9 banned from covering mental health issues until they can drag themselves from reporting on extremes and cover them in a fair, considered way, than have Xanax banned. They've demonstrated that they either do not care or do not understand the serious and complex nature of mental illness.

Nobody will avoid depression or anxiety as a result of last night's shameful current affairs story. Hopefully not too many are thrown into mental chaos by it.

But well done Sunday Night, you have set us back some way. I hope you made some money from it.

The best advice is: be sensible. That goes for people taking Xanax as well as media talking about it.

Sad music is not depressing music

Radiohead fans worldwide are used to hearing it.

'That music is so depressing.'

'Music to cut your wrists to'

Dismissive, naive, flippant bullshit attitudes at least; maybe even ignorant, closed-minded, shallow and insulting - to the artist and appreciator.

Not everyone has to, can or should like Radiohead, or any particular band/song. Music (as a whole and individual songs) is a subjective experience, heard and enjoyed differently by different people. Maybe if less people liked Radiohead, less people would hate them. And I could see them at a decent, smaller music venue for a reasonable price.

Yes yes, I have been diagnosed with depression. In fact it was at its worst around the time I was getting into Radiohead. And I started on anti-depressants the day after I saw them live in 2004. That's a nice little irony. Be careful about the parallels you draw though; at the earliest onset of my anxiety my favourite singer was Johnny Farnham.

Sure music - like most artistic professions - attracts its fair share of tortured souls (at least those who open up about it). Well, I think it attracts them anyway, rather than making them so. But depression is tragically prevalent and maybe the proportion in sport, for example, isn't so different, just more suppressed.

Humans love to travel and explore places; but we're not so good at looking inward and exploring our own minds and emotions. I think music (art generally) help do that consciously and sub-consciously. Clearly I'm not talking about Justin Bieber or Nickelback here.

Radiohead's popping up on my radar around the time I was in the depths of depression may have been a coincidence; the vigour with which I explored the music was not. I don't know what half the songs are about - it doesn't matter - but their mood resonated. Some of it was angsty, some a little terrifying, some exhausted, some hopeful, some hopeless, some just beautiful. Actually, all beautiful. Things we all feel.

The sounds got into my head, my heart, my psyche, my soul and shook them all up. I connected to it because it reflected things going on in my head that I hadn't figured out yet, let alone been able to express and here it was on my stereo. So I sang along, learnt to play along, danced around my bedroom, exploring it all. It was fucking liberating. I still lose my shit dancing (flailing about) my room to 'I Might Be Wrong' when it gets into me and takes over - it's an amazing release.

I want to share these little gems when I stumble across them or someone is kind enough to share them with me. Not just for the shared listening experience, but also because it helped me feel understood. And I liked to fuck with my poptart-chart loving friends by making them endure 'Fitter Happier', a song I didn't initially like/appreciate myself but actually do now (I think that fairly qualifies me as music snob).

So when someone calls a sweet song like 'No Suprises' the most miserable song ever, it makes me sad. You don't have to like it, and I probably shouldn't need you to understand, but it'd be nice if you'd try.

It exudes a sweet sadness. The world - life - is fucked up sometimes. Ignoring the fact doesn't make you happier, and acknowledging it doesn't have to make you depressed - the opposite really. I'd rather find ways to acknowledge, explore, understand and accept the shit in the world and my head than repress it. It's the only way to move on; Thom Yorke himself talks about using "music to move on, to progress through life".

It's why we play sad music at funerals, right? Ironically, I'd like at least one or two fun songs played at mine. Why be self-indulgent once you're dead?

Sad songs can be amazingly beautiful, uplifting, sure even life-changing. Sadness is in inextricably tied to happiness. If you can't let yourself be sad, how can you fully appreciate happiness? It's okay to identify at times with Elliott Smith's desperate solitude (difficult as linked performance is, there's a fantastic moment when he sings "give me one good reason not to do it" and someone in the crowds responds "because I love you" - love is the greatest thing we have, yet it's bound up with so many of life's difficulties).

Is 'Good Woman' a pitiful anti-love song or one of the most powerful, beautiful love songs ever written? Obviously, it's probably somewhere in between and I'm just using polarisation for effect.

Lots of people find Dirty Three's instrumental music, or Sigur Ros' foreign language music inpenetrable and boring. Again, not to everyone's taste but putting in the time to feel the message from the music can reap massive rewards.

Music is a subjective experience. Everyone hears in with their own ears, in the context of their own life.
I like these artists and songs because there's no bullshit. It's real human expression of emotions I feel and want to explore at the right times, rather that let them fester at the back of my mind.

It's not for you, that's ok. I think you're missing out on something special. That said, there is plenty I'm missing out on as well. We shouldn't slam something just because we don't understand it.

And try not to judge us Radiohead fans too much, we can be fragile beings.

2007-2011

    2007

 

    2011

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.

A Depressing Night At The Footy Show (a rant)

Last night I was in the audience for the AFL Footy Show.

Offered a ticker at about 5pm, and with no other plans I thought ‘hell, why not?’, so I went along with a few friends. Frankly, I don’t think the show’s been worth watching in over ten years and is just a bunch of immature, egomaniacs pretending to be comedians, using base-level, opportunistic and often degrading humour to get away with it. It’s really become a poor variety show using footy as the premise of its existence.

But it’s television, right?! Gotta take the tickets and see things behind the scenes, which was somewhat interesting. The only other time I’ve been in a television audience was for Thank God You’re Here a couple of years ago. That night we were treated to light beer, soft drink, nibbles and lollies and the delightful wit of Brian Nankervis as warm up entertainment before the show and during ad breaks (yeah, even shows filmed weeks in advance have timed ad-breaks!).

It’s easy to be sceptical about how raucously an audience can laugh at something that might just garner a chuckle at home, but let me tell you – guys like Nankervis can get you in the mood. It was a great night and I laughed hard and loud.

Last night I made an effort to put my snobbish judgements about the Footy Show aside and enjoy it. Initially I did, even getting into some warm-up mindless cheering.

Then came the pre-recorded Brendan Fevola interview, where he revealed his battle with depression and recent attempted suicide.

The mood of the audience shifted, appropriately, making some uncomfortable; they’d come for a night of fun, laughs and mindless cheering, not to be confronted with a serious issue like depression. I was engaged, it’s an issue with personal resonance.

The discussion that followed was deflating, frustrating, infuriating. These were not experts, but you shouldn’t need to be to discuss the issue sensitively, with some compassion. Craig Hutchison – who I generally regard as the journalistic equivalent of a noxious weed, doing more harm than good in his reporting, which sucks space from worthy stories – was understandably uncomfortable asking questions about a serious, real, non-footy issue like suicide, but to his credit showed genuine empathy in the panel discussion.

Others were somewhat sympathetic, while quite happy to speculate unhelpfully on various aspects of the case; while Sam Newman seemed to think the whole thing was pathetic and an opportunity to play devil’s advocate, reckless buffoon, entertainer to the lowest common denominator or whatever he thinks is his shtick.

As a subsequent interview from yesterday – after Fevola had been exposed, by Channel 9 no less, seemingly indulging his gambling addiction by playing poker at the casino – Newman sat at the desk smirking. Sitting in the third back row of the audience, about 35 metres away I looked at him with blood-boiling dismay.

During the ensuing discussion Campbell Brown spoke with reason and sensibility, suggesting Fev needed support and privacy, and there are more important things than football. A small applause broke out in the audience while others were complaining about the ‘downer’ of a show they’d found themselves at. You can’t get excited and yell boorish comments during a serious segment – come on, let’s move on!

I’ve grown increasingly tired of Newman’s style ‘entertainment’, but given the benefit of the doubt that he plays it up as his profitable persona. Last night, even when not on camera he showed a total lack of respect for this serious issue. But it doesn’t really matter either way whether it’s all or partly an act – he has a massive, impressionable audience of men in particular who thinks he tells it like it is and would be ready to be offered a reason not to feel sympathetic for a serial pest like Fevola.

Discussion of depression and suicide needs to be treated with caution and sensitivity. This discussion did not belong on a forum like the Footy Show, although if they were prepared to address it seriously they could probably reach out to a section of society that needs education about depression the most, men who adopt strong ‘blokey’ values where discussing your feelings like Fevola has little place.

Newman obviously disagrees – nothing is off-limits, no matter the consequences on real lives when you make a living from rejecting political correctness. As he started comparing Fevola’s supposedly relatively easy circumstances with soldiers in war – an absolutely nonsensical comparison that demonstrates his complete ignorance – I’d had enough and yelled out ‘You’re a heartless bastard Sam’, while a few audience members cautiously applauded him.

The interview itself I though was well presented. It may have been part of Fevola’s recovery to speak out about his problems, and good luck to him. I must admit, I’ve always viewed him as a brat, but found a great deal of respect for his ability to be able to speak about such difficult issues openly.

After the Fevola discussion the mood quickly returned to the normal, schoolboy humour and antics. I may have gotten caught up in it in different circumstances. But I was brooding.

The camera only panned across me once, as the show returned from the ad break following the Fevola discussion. As all those around me cheered and applauded I sat and shook my head. There was no way I could be involved in this. I barely managed a clap or chuckle for the following hour.

I don’t hold the Footy Show, or the people involved with it, in high regard anyway, but last night I was disappointed in the cynical, naïve, even ignorant treatment and reaction of various people in the audience, one of my friends included, to such a serious issue.

I guess we need more people with the courage of Fevola to step forward and speak up.

Unfortunately for him, we probably need people who are more widely respected. But he earned some respect from some of us last night, despite his actions yesterday. Few recoveries avoid some relapse.

Unfortunately for those out there suffering, and for a reason I cannot comprehend, Sam Newman has respect in a certain sector of the community, and his public attitude to this will do no help to efforts to get men in particular to confront mental illness.

Newman essentially questioned Fevola’s ability to take responsibility for his actions.

It seems to me that Fevola finally is, and is making an effort to be a happier, responsible and respectable man. Sam Newman on the other hand… well as long as he’s happy.

Me, I’ll be saving a few brain cells by not tuning into the Footy Show anytime soon.