The road to hell is paved with plastic pockets

The list of methods available to the dedicated procrastinator are endless. Today the growing, spreading, and, I believe, breeding piles of notes on my desk crossed the threshold that demanded action. Not content with merely irritating me, they began to slide and attack me. The anthropology notes were all jumbled in with the psychology notes, and produced a book about cross-cultural psychology that I had no recollection of borrowing from the library.

While tempted to leave them be and see whether they produced an entirely new field of academic study when left to their own devices, I was determined that I wouldn't be buried alive or bested by piles of paper and plastic pockets; I took action. I whipped out my trusty accordion files and ruthlessly segregated the lot, now safe between protective plastic barriers and no longer able to torment me.

While notes are useless if left to compost down without ever looking at them again, and some sense of organisation is essential, I've also decided that spending an hour sorting them elegantly and neatly is just a way to give myself a tremendous sense of productivity and accomplishment, without actually achieving anything. It's a dangerous way to procrastinate, because it feels like work, and it's something to do with uni. Ergo, I've been doing uni work. It's also a slippery slope! This decision that spending hours sorting notes is actually a waste of time now has me pondering whether to get an in-tray/out-tray, where I might procure one, or whether to use separate files for each subject. I'm wasting even more time considering what the optimum filing system might be, and writing a blog about it all, extending the procrastination period exponentially. 

I'll let you know how my new "shove it all in a draw until the holidays/the draw collapses" system works out.

Social Psyche and Serendipity

We've moved on to social psychology at university, one of my favourite areas. Today the nature of this units experiment and lab report was revealed, and the topic is.... [drumroll please]




























Self-esteem.


Strange perhaps, but I really do enjoy it when life throws funny little coincidences like that into our lives. At the very least, it reassures me that should I be wrong about the god hypothesis, then at least god has a marvellous sense of humour. Platypuses, the plural form of platypuses sounding so ludicrous, fossils and hobbit people; and delicious little coincidences that make you raise your eyebrows and smile at the same time.

Stigmas, smoking and support networks

Last weekend was basically a write-off.

I'd recently finished a course of antibiotics after a particularly nasty chest infection, and when I still felt pretty rough I thought that the infection hadn't completely cleared. But I was busy, so I just got on with things and ignored my increasing breathlessness and feelings of weakness. Friday morning I was due to sit an exam, but I realised soon after waking that I didn't feel right at all. Stepping out of the shower I felt faint and saw that my hands were shaking, and on the way to uni I realised that my spatial perception was off, and I was walking as close to the inside of the pavement as possible because I was scared that if I did faint, I would fall into traffic. During the exam, I felt awful - I know that I answered all the questions, but I have no recollection of what they were or how I processed them. Since I was seriously worried by this point, I got to the doctors that afternoon.

There was no infection - she diagnosed asthma. What I'd been experiencing that morning was an asthma attack, and it was lucky that I'd been given an inhaler to help with the chest infection and that I'd used it that morning, with no idea that what I was experiencing was an asthma attack.

Now there are two things you should know about me at this point:
1. I'm a smoker.
2. I have a history of anxiety and depression, rooted in low self-esteem.

This diagnosis floored me, and sent me into an acute anxiety attack that lasted the weekend. It was the most intense and extreme episode of anxiety I've ever experienced, and it was awful. I gave myself asthma by breathing poisons into my system voluntarily, and the guilt and shame added hugely to the intensity. I was scared and furious with myself, aware of my extreme reaction and then worried about my mental health as well as my physical health. I had another assignment due on Monday and I couldn't concentrate, I couldn't write, and the more I tried to read around the task and focus on it, the more I doubted myself and the more confused and frozen I became. This sparked more fury with myself and doubts that I could handle a degree, particularly in psychology, if my own mental health issues were going to incapacitate me.

It was horrible and scary, but on Sunday night I began sending emails to relevant people at university and started sorting things out on Monday. I've managed, with a lot of help from friends and staff at the university to start catching up with work that I was falling behind on, doing the readings I needed to do and getting myself organised. I've talked to the people at uni who can help me, or who needed to know what was going on so that they could support my studies, and I was brutally honest about what happened and how I felt about it, and what I'm planning to do now to get back on track. They've been unfailingly supportive and understanding, and have said encouraging things about my abilities and the way I'm handling the situation. I'm more informed about what support is available should I need it and what to do if I hit another bump. I feel more in control of the situation now that all that is done, which means I'm calmer and the anxiety has died down - I can focus again and be productive because it's all out in the open and I have a plan to catch up, with lots of offers of help and support when I need it from others, some of whom have only known me for a few weeks.

I also have an appointment for a session of hypnosis to try to quit smoking...Wish me luck! While I'm nervous about the idea of someone rummaging around in my brain, I'm willing to give it a go, it will be worth it if it frees me of the tobacco goblin.

The point to this post is to encourage others out there who read through my ramblings not to give up, not to be too hard on themselves if things do go wrong, and to let people know that in most cases, the vast majority of people are kind, accepting and supportive. Anxiety and depression are incredibly common, and admitting to having it doesn't make you crazy or weak. In fact, it can also help others - today I talked with a woman who is also on my course, and she seemed really stressed out about the workload. While trying to reassure her about the course and the support that was available, I also told her about my lost weekend and my diagnosis of anxiety and depression. She was very surprised, and said that she'd never have guessed - I come across as very confident when people first get to know me (I'm not sure why, but I've been told this before. Once people get to know me, they soon discover that I'm a quivering mass of neuroses and insecurities), and she opened up about her own issues and her life. We now have a connection and can support each other with the difficulties that come with studying and managing a mental health condition at the same time.

One of my biggest fears when I had more than one bout of depression and got a diagnosis of anxiety and depression was that I would be ill for the rest of my life, and never be free of it. I just wanted to be "normal", and the thought of facing another bout of depression was unbearable. That has probably been the biggest challenge, and the hardest thing to come to terms with. However after years of work and help from doctors and counsellors I began to accept that yes, I have a diagnosis of anxiety and depression, and yes, there is always a danger of a recurrence. But I have got to a point where I know what my triggers are, I know what works for me in helping to manage those triggers, and crucially - I know what to do when the worst happens and something goes wrong: I reach out for help, and I know that it's out there. I have a diagnosis, but it is something I manage, it doesn't define who I am, and I refuse to allow it to stop me from doing what I want to do.

Anxiety and depression are so common, but being able to talk about it so openly is difficult. There are, and will likely always be, people that will judge others for it. It leaves you incredibly vulnerable, and I have at times had it turned around and used as a weapon against me - to discredit my opinion or my feelings. But I've got to a point where I can be open about it, and someone who would use it against me isn't someone I would want in my life anyway, or whose opinion would matter to me. I can take the odd hit without taking it to heart, and I know that the people that are close to me accept me for who I am, the good and the bad. This mental health condition is a small part of who I am, and I don't regret the fact that it is. There was a time when I just wanted to be "normal" and wished it had never happened to me, but now it is so interwoven in my life and who I am, that I don't even know who I would be had I been born "normal." Most every quality I think I possess has both good and bad sides, and can be a character flaw or an asset, depending on the context and how I handle it. I am "too sensitive", but on the other hand I believe that this has helped shaped empathy. I've been through terrible anxiety and depression that has left me reeling and incapacitated at times, but then my battle to understand that and overcome it is what sparked my interest in and love for psychology, and has driven me to want to help others in similar situations. Without that and the lessons I've learned when battling my own inner demons, I wouldn't be who I am today, and after many years of work, I can say that I like who I am today. Why would I want to change who she is by removing one of the aspects that has helped to shape her?

The stigma that surrounds mental health issues is still very much alive, and keeps many of us scared to admit to problems for fear of being deemed "crazy" or weak, or for the very real possibility of discrimination. While we remain hidden away, the stigma continues to grow, and others don't realise that one in four people around them will have experienced a condition like anxiety and depression at some point in their lives. I've come to terms with who I am and I feel confident enough to speak openly about my issues: I want to fight that stigma, and the best way I can personally do that is to lay myself bare and encourage dialogue, knowing that I have a strong support network around me and the self-confidence to handle any consequences, good or bad. I don't ask nor suggest that others open themselves up to all and sundry in this way, since it's a very personal issue and I have opened this up to anyone on the internet who cares to read it! I do suggest and encourage anyone experiencing it to talk to someone though, and reach out for the help that is out there.

To conclude, I had an attack of anxiety and it was awful, but it was a blip instead of a slide into depression. It lasted three days, not weeks or months. Had this happened a few years ago, I would have hidden it as much as I could, tried to get on with it and catch up on my own and not told my uni what had happened, and it would have dragged on for weeks or months. I vividly remember how it was to carry that alone, afraid that I was crazy or that people would judge me, and getting lower and lower until I was drained and in a clinical depression. If anyone reading this is feeling that way, then please, reach out for help. Go to your doctor, go to a mental health professional, go to a friend or anyone you feel safe talking to and ask them to help you find professional support. You don't have to feel that way, you don't have to deal with it alone, and it can get better.

Blessed

This title might strike those that know me as surprising, since I'm very much an atheist. However I find that religions have pinched many of the best words, and I have no shame in using them, I do so with gleeful abandon. While 'blessing' is generally thought of as a gift from god, conferred by a man of god perhaps, I prefer my own interpretation, and one from the free online dictionary I just looked up to back-up my stake in the word: "Something promoting or contributing to happiness, well-being, or prosperity; a boon."

It's been a crazy few days (in a quite literal sense) and I've run the gamut of emotions within each 24 hour period. Amid the chaos there have been shards of brightness that pierced through my internal gloom; most often in the form of friends, old and new, that reached out to help lift me from the darkness. I haven't been easy to save, so their love and patience has meant the world.

Things are still going to be chaotic for a while, but I feel somewhat more steady. After an unusually productive evening I'm feeling ready to fall into bed, but decided that instead of adding to my gratitude journal, I'd stick it up here instead. I'm deeply thankful for the people in my life, and tonight I feel a sense of peace. Blessed indeed.

My final meditation for the day which fits so well with my feeling of gratitude, comes from John Steinbeck:

"I have come to believe that a great teacher is a great artist, and that there are as few as there are any other great artists. Teaching might even be the greatest of the arts since the medium is the human mind and spirit."

Like a fine wine...

There is an element of apprehension when returning to study as a 'mature' student. There are huge benefits, but it's still a slightly odd position to be in. Reassured that in this day and age mature students are not so uncommon and feeling buoyed by a delightful lunch just for us old 'uns and the warm welcome we received there, a fellow mature psychology student and I headed to the main psychology building to register on the first day of term. Still feeling relaxed and happy after a lovely introduction, the very first person from our course that we met appeared gobsmacked that we were there. For the purposes of anonymity, here she shall be known as 'Cindi' (it just seems to fit). Cindi was staring at us and looking confused, so I said hi and smiled at her, putting it down to first day nerves. Cindi then asked if we were first year students as well, which we confirmed.

I didn't pick up on the attitude in her tone when she said: "But you look.......um........ older.... than us..." (picture, if you will, gum-smacking and hair-twirling) so I replied that yes, we were mature students. I only noticed it when she followed up with "so.... um.... can you still be freshers then??"

I'm now forming The Mutton Club, with the tagline that you can still use your brain after 25.

I'm left wondering whether this was just a snide insult, or the much worse possibility that the concept of a mature student is utterly alien to this girl; and the fervent hope that she doesn't plan to go straight into a field that involves working with people.

Thinking Block

Frozen in fear of GETTING IT WRONG, I've found myself delaying this first blog post. I've tried, believe me I've tried, but I've written, critiqued, erased and then delayed some more. Waiting for the time when the perfect words will come to me, and I'll be happy with whatever I've put together. The attempts have just not been good enough, so surely it's better not to post them at all?

I have to write my own opinion about an essay concerning mathematics, then discuss it in a group later this week. As a card-carrying sufferer of maths phobia, I've found this task impossible. So I've also delayed, procrastinated, read round and then given up on that as well. The fear of writing about it and getting it horribly wrong and looking like a fool have made me freeze and stop thinking.

I've finally found the block and I'm pushing at it, clambering over it and giving it the finger.
I'm so consumed with fear of getting it wrong and negative thoughts about myself and my abilities or lack thereof that I can hardly think about the problem at hand, let alone process the information. Not doing it at all isn't an option, and this brain freeze is only making the process harder. So what if I get it wrong? I'm trying, and anything I try and get wrong is better than avoiding it altogether. I won't learn a thing that way.

The same goes for this blog, except that here there is no right or wrong, only expression. I'm going to take Sark's advice and practice the art of being splendidly imperfect.