Little April Showers

I feel a black cloud coming down over me again.

It's a very romantic way of saying that it feels like everything is fucked just now. It's much nicer than saying that my anxiety is through the roof, I'm easily frustrated to the verge of snapping and it doesn't feel like things will ever get better.

It's not as pleasing on the ear but it's a far more honest assessment of my situation. It's more real, it's harsher, it's scarier.

And for that reason it can be harder to open up about it.

If you think that it's scary being told that people can see you deteriorating,   it's nowhere near as scary as seeing yourself deteriorate.

Seeing the smile fade when you catch your reflection. Catching yourself getting angry at tiny situations. Overthinking every little mistake and every wee signal until it feels like there's a riot in your head.

People often say that life is peaks and troughs. I'm in a trough just now, and it's shite. Because I don't want to be here. Nobody does. And I know I can get out of it, but I've got a hell of a climb in front of me.

I know I'm slipping. I know you can probably see it. I can see it. Please bear with me. I'm trying my best.

Fuck it and fight it.

RIP Keith Flint

"If people find me scary, fuck 'em."

Today the horrible news broke that Keith Flint, the singer from The Prodigy, had died, according to his bandmate Liam Howlett by suicide, at the age of 49.

Whilst I was never a hardcore fan of The Prodigy, Keith made a big impression of me. I'll never forget being a wee boy and watching the video for Firestarter - those wild, piercing eyes almost burning a hole through the TV screen, the stars-and-stripes top and the double-mohawk. Then there was the song itself - the venom and vitriol behind his lyrics. There was something about it which resonated with me. The raw energy behind their songs and seeing how much the three of them put into their work.

Sadly this once again brings us to another situation where we are mourning another tragic loss. Once again it is only after the passing of someone that the conversation about depression and mental health begins for most. It was the same after Robin Williams, after Chris Cornell and after Chester Bennington. We need to start addressing all areas of mental health in an open and sincere manner. Encouraging people to reach out, whilst a good starting point, is simply not enough. There often isn't enough support there for someone after they do reach out in terms of treatment and support, and the stigma attached to the subject often puts many off reaching out in the first place. We need to start having uncomfortable and difficult conversations.

If you are struggling, please do reach out. Please have these conversations. Please keep fighting. Admitting you are fighting this battle is not an admission of defeat nor is it a sign of weakness; it is a show of strength. Fighting this battle is a scary thing to do, but you shouldn't feel scared to admit you're fighting it.

If anyone makes you feel that way, fuck 'em.

Fuck it and fight it.
RIP Keith Flint.

Daddy sad

So I was a lot quieter on this last year than I had expected. There were a number of reasons for this, but one of the main reasons was quite a biggy.

I became a dad.

My partner has a 2-year-old from a previous relationship and the biological father is nowhere to be seen. So as our relationship went on I became a more prominent figure in her life. I became her father figure. And its not been easy, but it is more than worth every tantrum, every cheeky reply, every time she hits.

But there is one particular aspect that is frustrating and uplifting at the same time; she has no understanding of what depression and anxiety are.

It's frustrating because if you're having a down day she won't care. No matter how shite you feel she'll still want someone to play hide & seek with. She'll need someone to feed her properly when you can't be bothered cooking a proper meal. She'll want to go to the park on days when getting out of bed feels like running a marathon.

But it's uplifting at the same time as no matter how much you doubt yourself, how useless you feel, how much you hate yourself that day, she'll always remind you that you matter. That your making a positive difference. That you're loved.

I'm going to try and get back into blogging properly this year. If I fall away for a bit, I'm probably just playing hide & seek.

Have a wonderful 2019.
Fuck it and fight it.

World Mental Health Day 2018

For years I tried to cope with my mental health on my own, hiding what I felt was some shameful flaw from those around me. I felt embarrassed. I felt ashamed. I felt as if it were my fault and I had done something to deserve this horrible bleak cloud that seemed to hang over me perpetually. It put me off reaching out and seeking help. It fed the demons I was fighting.

I first saught help 4 years ago. It is only really in the last 18 months or so that I've really opened up about my mental health. By no means am I cured, but I am getting better. There are times I slip but each time I am helped back to my feet by the wonderful people around me.

Dealing with your mental health can be a truly horrible experience.
Some days in life you'll feel crap. Some days will feel bleak and empty. Some days will leave you exhausted.

This is not a flaw on your part. This is not your fault. This is nothing to be ashamed of.

It's been said countless times in countless different ways but it doesn't make it any less true; it's ok not to be ok.

Don't be afraid to reach out. Don't be afraid to talk to someone or seek help. It might be one of the scariest things you'll ever do, but also one of the most worthwhile.

You got this.
Fuck it and fight it.

I am fucking sick of being mentally ill

I don't like moaning about my mental health but I need a rant.

Things appeared to be going alright for a while, and instead of enjoying I spent a lot of the time worrying, waiting for things to go wrong.

Well fuck me have they gone wrong.

I've burned myself out, big time. For the first time in my life I've been signed off. Things that aren't worth getting annoyed at enrage me beyond reason. There are external factors at work too but I can't do a lot to stop them. My anxiety and depression feel like they are through the roof at times.

I'm worrying that I'm falling into that same old pit I found myself in for almost two years. Some days I feel I'm in it, others like I'm circling it.

I'm fed up with being so irritable. With not finding enjoyment in old hobbies. With constantly feeling like I'm shite. I'm fed up with feeling like a crap friend, boyfriend, workmate etc. I'm fed up with feeling like I'm failing and can't prevent it. I'm fed up with feeling these things when deep down I know they're not true because unfortunately the voice reminding me of that fact is much quieter than the one telling me I'm shite.

I am fucking sick of being mentally ill.

Fuck it and fight it.

One More Light

A year ago today I was starting to come out of one of the darkest chapters in my life in the wake of a severe depressive episode at the end if spring/start of summer. I was walking home from work and jumped into a takeaway at the foot of Leith Walk for my dinner. Whilst I was waiting for my food, I checked my phone and saw the awful news that Chester Bennington had passed away.

Whilst I wasn't what you would call a die-hard fan of Linkin Park, they were a band that you would find on every one of my CDs, mp3s, spotify playlists, whatever. The first CD I ever bought with my own pocket money was Hybrid Theory and it helped open up a world to me in which I met many wonderful people and made many friends I most likely wouldn't have otherwise met. Friends I still have to this day.

Their music and lyrics, particularly on Hybrid Theory, Meteora & Minutes To Midnight, helped me through the times when I thought my depression was just teenage angst and my anxiety was something that could be easily overcome. The emotion he put into his work resonated with me, and as I learned more about his past struggles the more I appreciated this.

I remember sitting in this takeaway, my mouth agog, scrolling through the internet trying to find something to say that this wasn't true. That it was some hideous rumour doing the rounds. That something had happened but he wasn't actually dead. It was only after a few hours that I began to accept it. I hadn't found it this difficult to accept the passing of other idols who had died by suicide, such as Robin Williams or Chris Cornell who had died a month or so prior to Chester. I had been saddened but I didn't go through this stage of denial. It hadn't hurt this much.

It was in the aftermath of Chester's passing that I decided to open up about my mental health. Hearing him talk about his battles and seeing how they had been a source of comfort to not just him but many others fighting those same demons, inspired me to talk about my own battles.

If you are feeling down or you are in a bad place, please talk to someone. Friends, family, a doctor, message me if you want to. If you're in the UK you can call Samaritans (116 123) or if you're in Scotland there is also Breathing Space (0800 83 85 87) if you want to talk to someone. The world can be a dark place. Your light makes it brighter for so many people.

Fuck it and fight it.

RIP Chester.

Harry Potter and the Aorticstenosis

Don't ever let people stand in the way of your goals.

Only 2% of people over 65 get diagnosed with aortic stenosis.

I was diagnosed at 3. I couldn't be held back.

I'm taking a break from discussing my mental health (which is pretty decent just now) and instead shall tell you my story of living with aortic stenosis, going through open heart surgery, almost dying and my life afterwards.

(Spoiler: I survived)

As I said I was diagnosed at the age of 3. Apparently I had a really severe coughing fit and my parents were so concerned they called the doctor to come check me out (ah the 90s). The doctor was doing his thing with the stethoscope but was struggling a bit to determine what was wrong with me. When my parents enquired, he snapped with frustration, telling them he couldn't hear anything over the murmur.

Clearly "what murmur?" wasn't the response he was expecting.

I was diagnosed not long after, meaning that I've never really known a life other than one of regular hospital visits and check-ups. Aortic stenosis is a narrowing of the aortic valve. Most people with mild to moderate aortic stenosis do not have symptoms. Symptoms usually present in individuals with severe aortic stenosis, though they may occur in those with mild to moderate aortic stenosis as well. The three main symptoms of aortic stenosis are loss of consciousness, anginal chest pain and shortness of breath with activity or other symptoms of heart failure such as shortness of breath while lying flat, episodes of shortness of breath at night, or swollen legs and feet. As far as I can remember mine was mostly asymptomatic though I was prone to shortness of breath after activity, which I mostly thought was because I was chubby.

The main treatment for this condition is a valve replacement, and the decision was made to try and put off this procedure until my body was ready for the adult valve, so that I would only have to go through the procedure once.

It is testament to the strength of my parents and the wonderful work of the staff at Yorkhill Hospital that I went through most of my childhood without the foggiest idea of how serious the situation really was. I knew they were looking after my heart because there was something strange about it - there weren't any other kids at school whose parents picked them up at lunchtime once or twice a year to get their chest examined by doctors -  but was sheltered from the true severity of the situation, even after my first operation at the age of 11.

Because it is quite rare to have someone so young diagnosed with this condition, I would occasionally be brought in for student doctors to practice their craft on. This probably should have set off some kind of alarm bells, but I was being told to lie in bed rather than be at school and being paid in Malteasers and Irn Bru so I was too content to think much of it. I went that frequently that I picked up on key phrases being used, and on my last such visit at the age of about 10 blew the minds of some trainee doctors who were stuggling to diagnose me by telling them to "check for the thrill in the sub-sternal notch."

My first operation was a keyhole procedure at the age of 11. In hospital for 3 days then off school until after the Easter Holidays. This was essentially a procedure to buy some time so that the valve replacement could be put off. I had another such procedure at 13, just before school finished for the summer, but this one wasn't quite as successful. The big operation was going to have to happen sooner rather than later.

I came home from school one day in the August to find my mum home before me. This was rare, as both my parents were teachers at further away schools so usually I was the first one home. My dad wasn't far behind. It turned out it was a good news/bad news situation.

The good news was they'd got me tickets to see Franz Ferdinand that November (ah 2005). The bad news was operation was scheduled for the start of September.

A few days before the operation we went to a family friends 40th and I spent a lot of the night with my friends trying to sneak some cider. I didn't feel like I needed any major surgery at all, but there we were. 3 days later I was in Yorkhill being taken down to be knocked out and cut open. (Insert joke about typical Glasgow night out here)

I woke up staring at a neon light on the ceiling in intensive care hooked up to a plethora of paraphernalia. Wires were coming out my mouth, nose, neck and chest. The chest wires were the most obvious as they were below a big feckin wound that wasn't there when I last closed my eyes and attached to a big grey brick of an external pacemaker. After a while - I don't know if it was hours or days (ah fatigue and painkillers) - I was moved back up into a room in the ward.

All seemed well. For a day or so.

I started feeling ill. Wretching. Being sick until there was nothing left to bring up. The nurses were worried. Doctors were sent for. They too were worried. My mother was terrified. Machines were brought into my wee room. It turned out I had a build up of fluid around my heart and I needed to get my chest drained (similar to getting your stomach pumped only higher up and a bit more dangerous) but there was no free theatre in which to carry out the procedure. There was shouting, crying, frantic phonecalls; then a free theatre. I was rushed down and again woke up hours/days later looking at that neon light in intensive care, hooked up to a ton of machines.

It wasn't exactly "in the nick of time" but it was less than half an hour from game over.

In the following week I was fitted with an internal pacemaker (so long, brick) and started adjusting to life on new medication to help the valve and prevent  blood clots. I was finally sent home a week later.

It was the end of an incredibly  challenging chapter in my life. But it was far from the end of the story.

Since 2005 I've walked this strange line of not being sure if I'm disabled or not. I can still have a reasonably normal life but must take my medicine (warfarin, which is a type of rat poison) every evening from now until the day my heart stops beating.

It'll also be the day I escape from the ticking. As the valve opens and shuts, it makes a clicking noise. 95% of the time it's not a factor. The 5% of the time it can be a nightmare. An irritation I can't escape or control, usually only bothering me when I try to sleep at night or when I'm trying to relax in the bath. Once I hear it it's incredibly difficult to get away from it, to the extent that when I go to bed or for a bath I put background music on to try and cover it. It may sound benign, but there have been times when it's driven me so crazy I've wanted to rip the bastarding thing out of my chest just to escape the incessant ticking.

I have to go for regular check-ups to make sure my blood's ok. I need to go for annual pacemaker checks and get the valve checked every two years. Despite the fact I'm constantly being informed that my recovery is going better than expected I still get the fear that every appointment will be the one where they find some complication or anomaly.

I'd be lying if I said that I didn't think going through this had contributed to my mental health issues. Whilst I think I may have shown signs of anxiety beforehand it wasn't until a year or two after these procedures that I started to struggle. For a while I wasn't really sure how to cope with what I'd just been through. I introduced myself to people as a guy with a big scar. My MSN addy was scar-chest. For a while it felt like it was all I was. I think going for hospital check-ups where everyone else is in their autumn years (to be exceptionally polite, some must have been Victorian) kind of knocks how you view yourself. It doesn't help when you overhear them passing comments like "there's fuck all wrong with him."

Am I disabled or am I not? I'm honestly not sure.

The most recent issue I've had with it was moving to a new practice. After over a decade of having my blood checked by NHS Lanarkshire who were fantastic, I moved to Edinburgh. And so began 2 years (so far) of arguing. Whilst my dosage had previously been kept as stable as possible and the nurses used common sense should my blood be too thick or too thin, the second I moved my dosages were all over the place, changing weekly with the nurses totally reliant on some computer algorithm.

Not to say it's a bad system, but I find it difficult to trust something that tells me my blood's too thin then tells me to wait a few days to reduce the dosage. In Lanarkshire if it was out of range it was "increase/decrease one night, come back next week." In Edinburgh it's been either "increase/decrease in a few days, back next week" or a complete and utter shake up of my dosage altogether, meaning I've gone from check-ups every 4-6 weeks to every week. Luckily my employer has been very understanding, unlike previous ones who were more difficult to deal with.

This constant changing of my doses led to my blood being so thick that I required injections to rectify the situation. It stresses me out and makes me feel like I'm fighting some invisible war with myself. Quite like with my mental health in fact.

There are other wee irritating side-effects (no tattoos or piercings for example, which tbh I think my folks were a bit grateful for as they were worried I'd end up covered in them like Travis Barker or something) but they are just that; irritating. The whole situation is immensely irritating and I do sometimes find it difficult to not go "why me?" because I wouldn't wish this ordeal on my worst enemy and I'm genuinely fearful of passing it on to anybody else.

We all have our burdens to bear, I guess. This one is a heavy one. It's just my head and my heart that are fucked up. Who needs them anyway, right?

Fuck it and fight it.