Five Years Of Hell

I wrote about my childhood and my time at university. Now I turn to the next five years or so. I hope that you find it in some way helpful – perhaps you can identify with my experiences or perhaps you are just interested in other people’s lives. Perhaps you want to share your story here. Let me know!
Whatever your reason for reading I’m glad that I can share a little more about myself with you.
I do hope that your journey hasn’t been anything like mine.

University spat me out into a great chasm. Where does a student of poetry look for a job? I imagined turning up at interviews and being asked if I had been trained to use the latest software. I imagined myself replying “No, but I know what iambic pentameter is”.

I trawled through pages and pages of jobs seeing nothing that I believed I had a chance of getting. I was at a loss and very depressed about it all. Then, motivated by that moment when I would have to ask for my future wife’s hand in marriage, and out of utter desperation, I decided that the only option open to me was teaching. What do you do with poetry? The only useful thing is to teach it to someone else. At least there was a guaranteed job at the end of it with a reasonable salary.

The problem was: I knew that I was completely unsuited for the job. It was never going to work.

I was accepted by Homerton College, Cambridge University, and enrolled on a teacher training course. The subject was ‘English with Drama’ (and believe me there was plenty of drama) and the qualification was to teach in secondary schools. What a mistake.
The course was a total nightmare and I’m not sure to this day how I stuck it out until the end. I’ll give myself credit where it’s due: I’m a determined and tough so and so when I have to be. I don’t think, given what I was going through with depression and anxiety, that most other people could have done the same.

Some of the training was done on the job, (I think I taught at three schools as part of the course) and I was used as maternity cover for one particular teacher. It turned out that she was a friend of J.K. Rowling (I had never heard of her) and she mentioned that Rowling was coming to the school and would be in the library during the lunch-break. I was not in a good place at the time and was feeling less than enthusiastic about anything to do with children, schools, teachers, books, authors and anything that I didn’t really need to be involved with. I feigned interest and didn’t bother turning up.

When I finished my time there the teacher gave me a present: a first edition signed Harry Potter book. My disillusionment was so great that I decided to see if I could sell it. I had no idea if it was worth anything but presumed that there was always someone who wanted a first edition signed copy of something. It sold for a small amount. It would be worth a fortune now.

A career in teaching beckoned. Unfortunately the jobs on offer were not in my area and I had to become a supply teacher. With my boyish face and chronic lack of confidence becoming a stand-in for absent teachers (mostly covering subjects I knew nothing about) was a recipe for disaster.

The kids hated me (they hated all teachers and were particularly cruel to stand-ins) and I wasn’t thick-skinned enough to take it. I once had a laser sight from a gun aimed at me as I was sitting in a staff-room: one of the kids was actually pointing a gun at me. The red spot sat on my tie for a while as I tried to figure out what it was.

They demolished me by totally under-mining my authority. They threw things at me and each other, and if I playfully threw something back they threatened to sue me; they stood on the tables rioting; they threatened to throw each other out of the windows; they made comments about me that nearly reduced me to tears and they gave me a good send-off when at last I could bare it no longer: walking across the car-park to leave for the last time their cries of derision rung in my ears.

However, quitting my career and wasting my training wasn’t good for my mental health either. My wife and her family (we lived on her father’s farm) were sympathetic but I was deeply ashamed. I have tried to lose that sense of shame but shame and guilt are difficult opponents and they refuse to go away. Sometimes they disappear only to return twice as large.

Now depression really sensed its opportunity. I felt I had let everyone down and that I had no future. I felt a failure and an embarrassment. I also started to get the idea that I was cursed somehow and that the world was deliberately designed in order to exclude me and to prevent me from earning a living wage.

I was able to work some hours and earn a small amount of money on the farm (an occupation for which I was equally as unsuited) but I still felt only shame, guilt, fear, depression, isolation, hopelessness and just about every other negative emotion I can think of. There I was, a highly qualified student of poetry, shovelling shit in someone’s stable. There I was, the least practical person imaginable, with no common sense whatsoever, fiddling about with things technical and mechanical, understanding not the faintest thing about whatever job it was that I was being asked to do or trying to help with. That in itself was depressing and humiliating.

I can look back rather sentimentally now and picture myself driving tractors in the warm summer sun, watching an owl quartering the field in front of me on a late summer evening as I was turning the hay; driving the old grey Fergie’ (Massey Ferguson) from the fifties that I liked to chuff along on; lying on top of a trailer full of hay as we set off down the road, watching the white clouds in the blue skies above me with my hands underneath my head; drinking wine on summer evenings under the apple tree we had strung white lights in; walking in the fields with my dogs and looking after my goats and sheep.

However, the fact is that I was seriously ill and wanting to die.

I was seriously depressed and suffering with crippling social anxiety. When I walked through the sheds I saw thick ropes, meant for tying hay and straw securely onto trailers, and I couldn’t help but think of hanging. When we went up to see the majestic cathedral that dominated our landscape I only thought of jumping from it.

Just imagine wanting to harm yourself to that extent. We are hard-wired to survive and yet there I was contemplating ending it all by throwing myself off a tall building. That is how severe mental illness can be. My daily struggle was so awful that I was prepared to smash myself to bits or choke myself to death. I used to wake up in the morning (if I had actually managed to sleep that is) and my first thought would be to despair that another day was upon me. There was virtually no respite and nothing that anybody could do for me.

I didn’t help myself by denying that I had a problem and pretending to be a ‘normal’ person wherever I went. I expected a lot of myself and that only increased my burden. At that time I was learning about myself and my illness. I was learning what my capabilities were, what I could and could not cope with and how to look after myself. I got it very wrong for a long time by expecting too much and not being kind to myself. Knowing what I know now would have made my life much easier.

It was a secret illness. Nobody could see inside my brain. I often wished I had cancer or some other physical ailment that was visible to everybody else. Many other sufferers out there must know the feeling. We all end up being our own doctors, recognising symptoms, monitoring ourselves and trying to get the right treatment.

I began to spend as much time as possible on my own and I only left the house when I absolutely had no other choice. This only made my social anxiety worse. I found some solace in song-writing and losing myself in music but it was a seriously bleak period.

Those five years were really tough. They were hell.

 

Recovering

Clinical depression is a morbid illness. It kills people. It killed my grandfather – even the Nazi’s couldn’t do that. It tried to kill me.

I have spent most of my life wishing for death.

I have stood on the edge of a sheer drop, my toes over the edge, palms sweating and heart thumping.

I have a strong primal instinct for self-preservation. I fear pain. I suffer from vertigo. When you stand on the edge of that drop your mind says jump but your body says stop.

My suicide attempts were all failures. Some were half-hearted cries for help. Some were the only way I could be taken seriously and get some treatment at last. Some were meant to kill me and some very nearly succeeded.

And I’m still alive.

And what’s more, I’m feeling better than I have for many years. I’m recovering.

Clinical depression morphed into anxiety and I ended up in an acute hospital. I rolled around the floor of a deserted corridor having one panic attack after another. The staff just left me to it. I could barely eat. I couldn’t lift my fork to my mouth. I lived on pieces of melon. I couldn’t sleep. I was scared of being murdered in the night by psychopathic patients. Every moment was a hell words cannot describe.

When they let me out again I saw a private psychiatrist for a one-off consultation. She prescribed anti-psychotics instead of anti-depressants, as none had ever worked, and she gave me tablets to help me sleep and to quieten my out of control nervous system.

I slowly began to learn how to function again.

And so here I am: a survivor.

My new diagnosis of BPD is unhelpful and, yes, anxiety is a daily battle but I can actually feel again. Instead of a flat-line low mood occasionally dipping into crisis I can now enjoy the good things about my life and my mood can go up as well as down. I have a wonderful wife, two amazing children and my faith.

Standing on the precipice I never would have believed that I could feel so well or have so much to live for. So I say don’t give up. It’s never too late for things to change.