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.