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.

A mental health journal: day 1

This is my attempt to document a life - rises and falls, light and darkness, and everything in between. On Mental Health Day 2020, I realised that it was time to face the fact that I'm not coping very well, and to do something about it. Hence this journal, a weekly(ish) stream of consciousness. Writing as therapy.

I have struggled with anxiety and depression since my teens, although it was 2015 before I realised that life didn't have to be - shouldn't be - varying degrees of pain. If I thought about it at all, I probably assumed that everybody was like this. More likely, I simply drifted along, trapped inside my bubble as the world passed me by.

Eventually I hit rock bottom and the bubble burst. I recognised - with a little help from my friends - that I needed help. I got it, fought through some tough times, and emerged feeling like a real person for the first time in my life. Also, I became a father. The two happy events are, I suspect, not unconnected.

In 2020 I'm hanging on to my mid-forties for dear life. I'm husband to a wife who should really have superhero status. And father to an exquisite little girl who is at once the light of my life and the source of my darkest terrors.

I haven't had a good year. Nobody has. Mine started to unravel when I became ill - with Covid symptoms, though it may have been 'flu - in late February. By Easter I had still not fully recovered, having lost five kilograms in weight. As the pandemic and resultant economic meltdown worsened, I was furloughed. On 30 June, I was made redundant. A dream job in a dream team, which I'd worked so hard to make my own, cruelly snatched away. I put on my bravest face, as we all do, while oscillating between black despair and seething rage at the injustice of it. Inevitably, my already fragile mental health began to spiral. 

And so here we are. Monday 12 October. The continuing search for a purpose beyond job boards, the school run and keeping the house tidy.

I wake every day with a ball of dread in the pit of my stomach - a fear that I won't be able to cope with whatever the day throws at me. It varies in intensity from day to day; about medium today which is pretty good for a Monday. 

My daughter started Big School last month. These are the most demanding weeks of her short life to date, and the strain is starting to show: mood swings and tantrums, dark shadows under her eyes. She seems to be loving it, which is wonderful, but I worry about her. I always, always worry. 

I remember reading somewhere that until you become a parent, it's impossible to appreciate the depth and totality of the love, and its flipside: the unfathomable terror of something going wrong. I have, so far, found it impossible to strike a balance between my desire to protect her from everything and her need to live life to the full. For me, that has meant four and a half years (and counting) of relentless piano-wire tension. I've managed to dial it back to a manageable level when she's not with me, but any sort of adventure for her is a waking nightmare for me. It's debilitating and exhausting, and drains energy which I really could use for other things. Like working, or some sort of self-improvement, or anything more than simply surviving.

I got another rejection today. There have been a few of those in recent months. I feel oddly calm on the job hunt front, after a rough few days. I missed out on an opportunity last week because my confidence is shattered and I'm terrified of letting people down. It's tough looking for a new job when you already had the job you wanted.

And that, for now, is all she wrote. Without the need for backstory, future posts will be shorter. I have a couple of hours before reverting to Daddy mode, which I plan to spend working on my novel. It's long overdue and I beat myself up about it, while admonishing myself for beating myself up.

If you've read this far, a gold star for you. Have a good week. I'll try and scowl a little less.