A mental health journal: day 50

Happy Groundhog Day. Look at that, we made it through November!

I apologise for the three week gap in my weekly blog. Sometimes the words aren't there and it's hardly the most thrilling of times. My lockdown days have been largely indistinguishable - school run, job hunt, daily exercise, weekly shop. Wine on Fridays and Saturdays. We are dug in, battened down. Waiting it out until Spring and hoping for a return to some form of normality. 

But there's disruption on the horizon in the form of Christmas. Like many I'm uneasy about the lifting of restrictions, but I can see why it's been done. The mental health cost of a Christmas lockdown - which millions would flout, further souring the mood of the nation - should not be underestimated. Either way, a post-Christmas spike in cases is inevitable. If there's to be a third lockdown in January, we'll all need a bit of cheer to see us through.

Needless to say our festive season will be very low key. All being well, we'll be joined by my wife's brother, who is part of our bubble. There will be small outdoor gatherings with parents and friends. I imagine mulled wine will be involved.

I have a bit of a battle with Christmas, which to me seems fantastically overrated. I love a bauble and a string of sparkly lights as much as the next person. I don't love the forced jollity or the relentless pressure to celebrate and spend. Or the cold and dark. 

Having grown up in the southern hemisphere I can report that far from being 'wrong' (as I can hear every reader now crying) Christmas in mid summer is freaking awesome. In South Africa it was celebrated with enthusiasm, but without the hysteria that grips the UK. Because the school holidays extended into the middle of January, our usual festivities were often followed by a week or two in Umhlanga, on the Indian Ocean coast. I'm sure my rose-tinted testicles (that's the correct phrase, right?) are a factor here, but I miss the warmth and simple joy of those days. And the relaxed pace which is conspicuously missing from a British Christmas.

Depression and the festive season can be a toxic mix and the years before my diagnosis were difficult. Nobody - least of all me - understood why I felt alternately morose and angry, why I was so overwhelmed by the avalanche of shopping and family gatherings. With better understanding, I've learned to dial out the noise and focus on the aspects I enjoy. My loved ones have learned to give me a little more space. I no longer buy presents for extended family (like many on the autistic spectrum, I find this extraordinarily stressful) but enjoy finding things for my wife and daughter. And in normal years, we try and keep the big gatherings to a minimum, with rest days in between. 

So I don't dread Christmas (much) any more. 

I do dream of spending the festive season away one year though. Skiing, perhaps. Or - whisper it - somewhere warm and sunny. In the meantime I'll enjoy the sparkly lights and the wonder on my little girl's face, eat my beige food (which does at least pair well with a variety of wine) and see as much daylight as I can.

A mental health journal: day 29

Where were you at 4.30pm GMT on Saturday 7 November 2020?

I was at home (obviously) hanging up washing (ditto) when the news broke; within minutes, my social media feeds had filled with clips of people dancing in the streets and opening bottles of bubbly. Like millions of others, I went a little blurry at the sight of CNN host Van Jones breaking down in tears. It was only then that I realised how draining the last four days had been.

I had followed the US election with interest, but without much hope. Not in 2020. And I had too many concerns at home to worry about a political battle happening thousands of miles away. Or so I thought.

Last week was rough. I felt twitchy and irritable, my anxiety skyrocketing, so beset by shivers and aches that I repeatedly took my temperature. Both my wife and I were unaccountably exhausted by mid-afternoon each day, our daughter reflecting our moods in sulks and tantrums.

But on Saturday evening some of the weight lifted, taking with it a chunk of the anxiety and exhaustion. We have some genuinely good news at last. There are mountains still to climb, but the world feels like a better place today - buoyed by the encouraging news of a covid-19 vaccine. 

This is a special week in our household. On 11 November 2000, I attended a family wedding which changed my life. I met a rather lovely woman, flung her around a cèilidh dancefloor without injuring her (much) and 7303 days later, here we are. Without that chance event, I wouldn't be here to type these words. Simple as that.

In a parallel universe, I've probably been talked into throwing a party to celebrate our second decade together. But in this one, food and drink will do just fine. Our wine rack is groaning with excellent bottles delivered by the brilliant Wine Utopia - supporting local business has never been so easy. I've been tasked with choosing and sourcing the food for our mini-celebration. It's a tough job... I was thinking along the lines of Côte at Home but am open to recommendations.

The dread ball is smaller today. I worry chiefly about my daughter, who faces the biggest challenges of her life - physical, mental, emotional - on a daily basis. She's so strong, but still so little. I can't protect her from everything, which is a mantra I repeat regularly but can't yet fully accept.

I hope everyone is finding ways to fight off the lockdown blues. For us, it's exercise in all weathers (brag: I ran/staggered 6km in the pouring rain today), Bake Off, Strictly, The Repair Shop, Brooklyn Nine-Nine reruns, Duplo, Play-Doh, lots of good food and drink. We're trying to make little plans, things to look forward to; trying, also, to focus on what we can control and shut out what we can't.

It helps that many millions of people are happier and more hopeful than they were this time last week. Long may that continue.

A mental health journal: day 23

Well. This is fun, isn't it?

Last week was half term - our first as parents of a school age child - and my wife took the week off. On her return yesterday, somebody asked her in all seriousness if she'd had a nice holiday.

We tried. We really did. And there were some moments of magic. But reality kept getting in the way.

In the early hours of Sunday 25 October, I was woken by the sound of my daughter coughing - a wracking, barking cough. She'd been getting over a cold, which has often developed into a cough on previous occasions. Her temperature was normal and as far as we could tell, food tasted as it should. In any other year we'd have dosed her with Calpol and waited it out. 

But of course we dared not risk it.

By late morning, after a sleepless night, we were pulling into our nearest drive-through test centre - mercifully, just 15 minutes down the road. The staff were friendly and efficient, the whole process appreciably quicker than our previous visit (to a different, more distant centre) during the summer. But the test itself was traumatic, as it always will be for a poorly four year-old and the hapless parent administering it. My wife rose to the occasion as she does every single day.

By midday we were home, tears dried, treats wolfed, hunkering down to wait. Friends and neighbours sprang to our assistance, delivering essentials as well as much-needed curry and Cava, and agreeing to drop our car off for its long-overdue service should we enter a third day of isolation. Not for the first time, I was grateful for the kind people in our lives, for a community drawn together in adversity.

It was a long 33 hours - but that's all it was. At 9pm on Monday, my phone pinged. Negative. We poured large glasses of wine and let the relief wash over us. My wife set about salvaging half term.

My brother and his family were visiting our parents in nearby Bramdean, and we'd made some complex plans to meet without breaking the rule of six. The first of these was a trip to a soft play centre with the three children. I can't even type 'soft play' without an involuntary shudder, but the pandemic has forced a semblance of hygiene into the armpit of children's entertainment: hourly scrubbing, nightly fog disinfection, fewer people.

After our recent trials I felt even more risk-averse than usual. But the weather was miserable and our daughter had had a wretched half term so far. So off they went, while I turned my brain off. And of course they returned with wide-eyed tales of huge bouncy slides and ice cream.

Our second expedition, to the Winchester Science Centre, was less successful. I'd spent too long poring over ever-worsening Covid statistics and was already sick with anxiety when we entered the ominously full car park. They'd taken all the usual measures - staff cleaning the exhibits constantly, every adult wearing a mask - but there were too many people for comfort. We lasted an hour. I kept the panic at bay, but it's the first time I've ever struggled to draw breath through a mask. I remember thinking that this place and others like it would probably be shut again by December.

I was wrong there.

Hallowe'en dawned to the growing noise about a second lockdown and the loss of Sir Sean Connery, and 2020 turned another shade darker. But after a week of broken nights our daughter's cough had abated; six hours of uninterrupted sleep had done wonders for the mood of the household. We celebrated with a playdate, dressing up, face painting and a spookily brilliant pumpkin walk beneath a full moon. 

As to the second lockdown - sooner and shorter might have been preferable in my uneducated opinion. Perhaps over an extended two week half term. Of course, the businesses and people devastated by the first lockdown will be most affected by this. I hope it's worth it, but there seems to be a spreading groundswell of dissent.

At the time of writing, the USA is waking up to election day. I can only hope that our fears about the result and its aftermath are unfounded, and that my friends on the far side of the Atlantic stay safe. 

I'm no closer to employment than I was two months ago. But there is hope. I've managed to keep up my fitness despite inclement weather and voluntary house arrest. My mental resilience has been sorely tested in the last two weeks. And it's stood up better than I would have expected. I don't think I'm supposed to be relieved that the holiday is over.

But I am relieved. We are still standing. And we did have cupcakes with skulls on.

A mental health journal: day 15

Job hunting. Insert your preferred string of expletives here.

If you're going through it at the moment - and especially if the pandemic has forced it upon you - I feel for you. I really, really do. 

It's a winning combination: tedious, stressful, time-consuming and often fruitless. And until you secure some sort of income, there's no escaping it. In the early weeks after losing my job, I let it take over my life. I streamlined the process with saved searches and email alerts and so on - yet still lost whole days on LinkedIn and Indeed. Whole weeks were wasted in online application forms. Because having spent countless hours toiling over the minutiae of my CV, of course I want to recreate it from scratch in a different format. Over and over. Who doesn't?

None of that was good for my health, mental or otherwise. Every job application, regardless of the process, takes a lot of energy: you need to project yourself into each role in order to articulate to employers why you want it, and why they should interview you. During those first weeks of unemployment, motivation was particularly hard; still seething over the recent past and what I'd lost, I struggled to picture myself working anywhere else.

With my wife's help, I added more structure to my days, with a strict limit on the amount of time spent on job hunting and applications. I needed something to rescue my mind from the mental slurry of vacancy listings, housework and the school run (and the other thing). Something productive and - ideally - creative. 

After a bit of soul searching and a lot of mileage on foot, I had several blog ideas, of which this is the first to come to fruition. And I've committed to finishing the novel I set aside before starting work at Carnival UK. Which is a bit scary, because I know from experience that it'll take everything I have, plus a bit more. The merest hint of half-heartedness from the author will show up instantly on the page.

So I've upgraded from Rudderless Daddy to Daddy With Purpose. Which is peachy and all. But barring a miracle, it isn't going to make me any money. And my biggest barrier to finding gainful employment - besides the countless others in similar situations - is confidence. I'm comfortable enough working on my own projects, to my own briefs and deadlines. But I'm terrified of joining a new team again, of having a group of strangers relying on me. I find myself hovering over the Apply button, dithering over my CV, missing opportunities. Which sends me into a spiral of self-loathing, wasting precious time and energy. So boring.

But there is cause for celebration: the response to this blog has been overwhelmingly positive. Thanks to all who have commented or messaged; please keep them coming. The common thread seems to be 'you are not alone', which is heartening and dispiriting at the same time. 

Writing this down is helping me get back to where I ought to be. I hope it's doing something for you.

A mental health journal: day 9

There are days when I find parenting deeply tiresome.

There, I said it. I'm a terrible person. I love my daughter to the moon and back, and we have a lot of fun together. But I can only spend so many hours wearing a cat-shaped hand puppet, or trudging around the park while she does 150 laps of the slide. After four and a half years, does it really still need to be all about her? When do I get my life back? What is 'my life' anyway?

The pandemic has knocked every aspect of life out of alignment. Lockdown wasn't easy for anyone, but balancing work, childcare and homeschooling amid deepening health and economic worries made it a particularly rough time for parents of young children. Because I was furloughed and then unemployed, it was easier for us than some. But months of non-stop Daddying does seem to have turned me into a self-centred arse who views playtime with his daughter as a chore, rather than the simple joy it should be.

The real culprit here is the numbing sameness of our existence, for which my feverish mind is partly to blame (though I am a self-centred arse). Our world contracted to the four walls of our house like everyone else's during lockdown - and hasn't expanded much since it ended. Our daughter returned to nursery in July and is now at school, but we're still working - and mostly playing - at home. 

Aside from the weekly supermarket run, I haven't been in a shop since February. I have been inside one pub and one café, both in the height of summer - and that's it. Aside from a visit to the dentist I haven't seen the centre of Winchester for nearly eight months. We did manage a family escape to the Lake District in August, which is probably the only reason we are still sane(ish). Self catering and sticking to outdoor activities kept me from freaking out, back in the heady days of summer when case rates were low.

I envy people who go in shops and bars and restaurants, who go to swimming pools and museums, who get on planes. Retail, leisure and hospitality businesses have adapted brilliantly to our new world, under hugely challenging conditions. I wish I could do more to support them, but our household is in survival mode and my brain will not allow me a moment's respite.

So that's a bundle of fun. If there was a party, I'd be the heart and soul of it.

My dread ball is quite large today. A day or two away from the news will help. If my offspring would stop leaking snot by the pint, that'd be dandy too. I'm thinking of adding 'unbroken night's sleep for the whole family' to my bucket list.

But it's not all doom and gloom. Bake Off has resulted in a heightened level of chocolate cake. Half term will bring a welcome change to the grind, which in turn will probably force me to MTFU and leave the house.

And there's the new book. That, I think, has potential if I can write words good. Back to it...

A mental health journal: day 5

Five years ago a motorcyclist popped a wheelie in a 20mph zone on a public road. He lost control and mowed down two pedestrians. They were my newly pregnant wife and a friend. Both suffered serious injuries - life-changing in the case of our friend - and for a while, we feared for the health of the baby. I was surprised that the police incident form - which we had a copy of - included the address of the motorcyclist. That seemed unwise. 

So I've had some practice in coping with anger. And in 2020, there's a lot of it about. Frustrating and depressing as my own situation is, it's a lottery win compared to many. Gatwick Airport, for instance, is running at 20% of its normal capacity, with little chance of recovery this side of spring. That has caused thousands of job losses in nearby Crawley, with many more to come - effectively turning it into a ghost town. It's a similar story across a travel and hospitality industry devastated by the pandemic and the clusterfuckery of our government's response to it. Millions are suffering, and like most I feel powerless to do anything about it other than use my grain of common sense and follow the (often contradictory) rules as best I can.

Yet an outrageous number of people seem to be carrying on as if nothing has changed. They're hosting weddings and parties, sending their teenage children to school with Covid symptoms, getting on trains while awaiting test results, proudly declaring their independence by strutting around Tesco without a mask on. A tsunami of arrogance and negligence and utter, utter idiocy - some of it perpetrated by people who are supposed to be setting an example. 

All of that makes me angry.

Despite the practice, I'm not very good with anger. It seethes and burns and eats away at me, sometimes erupting at undeserving targets. My wife, my daughter, the occasional inanimate object. The exercise helps, but the closest thing to a coping mechanism seems to be work. Which for me is writing. Blogs, fiction, almost any sort of content (did I mention I'm available...)

It's Friday, but doesn't feel like it. I'm tired. Everybody, I think, is tired. It seems impossible to feel grateful for what you have without accompanying guilt for those worse off.

There are things to look forward to. Holding my little girl tight. Drinking wine with my wife. Watching something silly on TV.

Today's post has turned into a bit of a rant, for which I apologise. Getting it out has marginally improved my day. I hope it hasn't made yours worse. I hope that you're finding things to look forward to.

A mental health journal: day 3

Managing anxiety, for me at least, is all about momentum. Keep moving, keep ticking things off the list, try not to let anything stop you in your tracks. The tricky bit is that although most people who suffer acute anxiety have a good idea of what might trigger it, it can still sneak up on you unawares.

For instance: I was an obsessive hand washer long before it became fashionable, and so keeping a small person clean - but not so clean that they never develop any immunity - is a bit of a battle for me. A couple of weeks ago, when my wife was doing the school run, I waved them off and watched them walk down our road. It was rubbish collection day, and wheelie bins stood at even intervals along the pavement. From a distance it looked as if my daughter brushed against a bin on her way past. I couldn't be certain, there was nothing I could do about it, and in all likelihood no harm had been done - but my mind would not let it go. Stopped in my mental tracks, I lost most of the morning fretting about it.

For the last two Wednesdays, I've walked with them to the end of the road. That circumvents the problem rather than solving it. But it gets me through the day. Baby steps.

Five years ago, during the darkest days, generating and maintaining momentum was nigh on impossible. There were times when choosing breakfast cereal sent me into a flat spin - depression feeding anxiety, and vice versa. During those times, exercise saved my life. 

I've always tried to stay fit, with varying degrees of motivation, but in recent years it's become my primary weapon in the fight against depression.

Most of the time it's as simple as going outside and putting one foot in front of the other. I use a Garmin GPS watch to track steps and distance, with a daily step goal of 12,000. That's about 10-12km every day. It's enough to push me (different for everyone of course) and force me outdoors whatever the weather. 

It can be hard to fit in - I've found myself running in 35 degree heat, splashing through puddles in the dark, or trudging around our living room at 11pm in order to reach the magic number - but it works. Endorphins are released, demons kept at bay. Being me, I'm slightly obsessive about it, but I won't lose my shit if I don't make the goal. (I've taught myself not to)

My ball of dread is quite small today. The sun is shining and I'm looking forward to a run later. The job hunt is in hand - I'm waiting on a couple of applications - and the novel is next on the list. I'll be lucky if more than a few hundred people ever read it, but that's not the point. It will be completed, it will be the best I can make it, and those few hundred people will be entertained.

And I will keep moving.