Guest Post – Charlie

Charlie’s Blog on Depression


I must admit that I have been depressed at times of my life, but I am a schizophrenic and have a chip on my shoulder about people with depression. I am at war, yet at their mercy, because I have loved people that are bipolar or at least suffer from depression.

I know that this is a completely irrational view, and I hate it because really what I want to do is give them a big hug and tell them everything will be okay. But depression does not work like this; it is a vacuous hole in which we are sucked. And there seems to be no escape from the downward spiral.

They say, whoever they are, that there is a fine line between us. So I reach out to you and say help me and I’ll help you. We may be different, but we have at least one similarity: we both suffer.

I hold a mirror up to myself and I see all kinds of terrors in my mind. As someone who is depressed, if you hold a mirror up to yourself you see the same. But remember with balance comes light, and in that light comes form, shape and color. It is these things that will help you to lead a normal life, so I say to you “express yourself” in some way. It is through self-expression that we find catharsis.

I guess what I am trying to say is that we all hurt, but as an outsider to your darkness it hurts me to see you like this. And there seems to be nothing I can do, my helplessness is the seed for my hatred of your condition. I know you have to live with your condition as I have to live with mine, but we have to live with each other’s too. Therefore I suggest that I do not start a war with you, and you smile, because as we all know smiling helps a great deed!

I can’t see that I can say anything more, except that I am thinking of you; I think of you everyday when I find it hard to smile. For I get sad, terribly so, too. But I think that things are going to work out alright for us, I really do. Because life is for living so I reach out to you and say “no, it is time to step out of the darkness and into the light”. Easier said than done I know.

I cannot say anymore, funny I wanted to leave on a high note. I guess we all do, so here we go. No inspiration, it ceases.

Hey, look behind you. Nothing there, well it could be worse, much worse, it could be me smiling inanely and saying “smile your on candid camera”; was that a high note, no just an attempt to make you smile. Did it work? I guess not.

Goodbye for now,

Charlie Charles

Guest Post – Rose

My name might be fake but my story isn’t, my struggle with depression began when I was about 13.

another thing you should probably know is that I am diagnosed with an autism spectrum disorder, communication (especially verbal) is difficult for me and expressing how I feel was until my 16th or 17th nearly impossible.

When I got depressed for the first time I didn’t know what hit me, I was just a child so I didn’t know what depression was, I just knew that I felt bad, very bad.

It hit me in the spring, I was still going to school and doing what I had to but in the break times I mostly just sat on a curve away from everyone till it was time to go back into class. That summer-break the gloom that fell over me didn’t go anywhere, it didn’t go anywhere for about 2 years.

I was alone in this time, there must have been a million times when I wanted to let anyone know how I felt but the words never came past my lips. And how do you say, I don’t know why but I feel sad all the time, I want to die just to make it stop? I didn’t understand it at all so how could I explain ? I woke every day sorry that I woke at all, I thought about dying all the time and looking back I don’t really understand why I didn’t die.

I didn’t get help back then, no one knew. Some noticed I wasn’t all that happy but didn’t do anything to help.

Since then I have been dealing with these depressed feelings on and of for years, it mostly just lasted days maybe a week or two but I got more or less use to feeling bad every now and then.

In my last year of school I found some people online who seemed to understand how I felt and I found comfort in knowing I was not alone.

After school I went to work, in the first years I was, despite my problems, a good worker as I worked very hard. But in 2011 it went down hill, I got depressed again and this time it didn’t leave me for months. I couldn’t keep up the quantity or quality of work and my bosses started to complain, time after time they told me I needed to be better but I just couldn’t. After a kind of intervention of my bosses telling me to get myself together, it was Christmas-break and I was alone at home.

Being alone might seem like a good idea when you are depressed but it doesn’t make you feel better, just lonely really. It was the night before Christmas and I had gone to a film to kill the time and got a bit intoxicated and went home again. My bosses had suggested to me that I depressed everyone around me and I believed them fully hearted, how could I live with myself wile I was hurting others with my presence, I couldn’t.

So I took out a razor blade and put it against my wrist, I was fully intentioned to end it all when I suddenly remembered that it would be Christmas when people (probably my parents) would find me. I couldn’t ruin Christmas for those who I loved so I didn’t do it and went to sleep.

Both Christmas days I spent with my family and was feeling a bit better by doing that, so I decided to finally made an appointment with my GP the day after Christmas. Making that appointment was the hardest thing I have ever done, did the call and hang up thing about 20 times before I was brave enough to stay on the line long enough to speak to the assistant.

I made a point of saying what was wrong to her because I knew that it would have been even more difficult to say with the good doctor (who I saw on my own for the first time) staring pitiful at me.

It was very hard to say “I think I’m depressed” to someone, I couldn’t tell you where I was exactly afraid of but afraid that I was. The appointment went about how I thought it would, I was unable to really speak, managed to answer a few questions and that was about it. As I was clearly in a very poorly state the GP prescribed some anti-depressants for me and made a follow up appointment in two weeks time. I was glad he took me serious enough to help me and the next day I started my first dose. The GP did forget to mention 2 things, 1 anti-depressants don’t work instantly and 2 you get the worst side-effects before they work (in the first week). I am not saying not to get on them but do recommend that you let someone know that you are on them, someone who can help you through it all because its worth it but its also very hard. I had (still have) a very good friend who kept reminding me that it was important to stay on them and that was mainly the thing that got me to take them every day.

They did help, for a couple weeks but then it went downhill again.

I informed my employers of my depression but they where not all that understanding, they kept pressuring me to get better soon and I couldn’t make them understand that it would take time.

After increasing my dose it became clear that I needed more help then I was getting and I got a reveal to a psychiatrist. The intake is pretty much answering a whole lot of questions, the questions where not even asked by the psychiatrist himself but by a GP in training. Some of the questions made me wonder how crazy do they think I am ? But they are just the standard questions everyone has to answer. Then she went to the psychiatrist and they talked alone for a wile before I was called back in. he said I was indeed depressed but also probably lonely and he had a point there, so he said I should talk to someone, I was reluctant to do so as talking isn’t exactly my thing. But I agreed to make an appointment with a psychiatric nurse, was a little disappointed to find out that the waiting time was 6 weeks, 6 weeks is about a lifetime when you are feeling badly. I cried my eyes out when I left the office, it had been very tiring and nothing was solved yet.

Later that day I called them again and told them that I wasn’t coming to the next appointment, then it seemed just too much effort at the time but they didn’t let me go that easy, later I was called back by the GP in training and she convinced me to at least try the talking thing.

So, I waited the 6 weeks and showed up by the psychiatric nurse. She was kind and all that we could really talk, it helped me to take a note with me with the things that where bothering me so we could talk about it. Even though the talks where nice, I got just more depressed and it was decided that my meds didn’t do the trick. The psychiatrist changed them but before I could start the new anti-depressants I needed to get off the old once. This would also be something you need someone by because withdraw symptoms will make a bad time worse.

It was when I was completely off meds for a week and my nurse was out for two weeks that I really couldn’t cope any more, I was crying all the time and just a mess really. Because my employer had said that I wouldn’t be believed if I called in sick again and if I wasn’t doing better soon I would be fired I was afraid to stay at home. My father made the call and told my boss to leave alone.

I called the psychiatric office to get to see the replacement nurse but she wasn’t working that day, so I called back the next and she made an appointment with me for the next day.

When I got there I did something I never thought I would, I allowed them to admit me. I made that choice because I couldn’t predict what would happen if I went home again, I was suicidal

I was in the psychiatric ward of the local hospital and being in an unfamiliar place with people I have never met was a very scary thing for me. I was trying to cope with it all really and it went okay the first day because I was left alone that day. The next however I was woken up then after breakfast I was told it was time for the day-opening, no idea what that was I went with the nurse who told me that and was sat in a room with a group of other patients and they all went round telling how they have slept and how they felt, it seemed very weird to me not knowing that a wile later I would be doing the same, everyday.

Then there was on the program “movement on music” I was like what? I have to do stuff in the hospital? My idea of an hospital was lying on bed mostly and maybe reading a bit but the psychiatric ward just doesn’t work that way. After the therapy hour “movement on music” I had enough, I wanted to go home again but when I told a nurse that the answer was just NO. I was very upset by this but there seemed to be nothing I could do about it. Then I was told I was being moved to another hospital because for some reason the psychiatric ward in this one would close during the weekend. I wanted still to go home but even my parents thought it was better if I just stayed for a wile so I did. It took a wile for me to settle but I went with the program and the routine was quite nice. I started at K1, the critical care unit, the program there was a bit more relaxed then the other group and was easier in my condition to follow. Then after about a month I think I went to the K3, something I fought at first because I can’t handle change very well but after a wile I settled again and it became like a second home. It was nice to have people around me and stuff to do everyday.

In total I was in hospital for 3 months, did get out during the weekend on leave and later I worked 2 afternoons a week but I always came back “home”. I began to like talking to the nurses that I got to know pretty well and was generally feeling better. But then the doctors wanted to sent me back to

the other hospital, I didn’t want that because of the change and so I refused and went home instead.

At first it was weird being home again and having to well entertain myself again, in the beginning I missed having people around me all the time and that there was always someone (day or night) where I could talk to.

I am 25 now and I wish I could say that my fight is over but it isn’t, I still talk to the psychologist once a week and am under treatment of a psychiatrist who is specialist for people with autism.

I went through several psychiatrist in a year and even though changing wasn’t my wish it has learned me an important lesson, not every psychiatrist is the same. My first talked as much as I did so that where very quiet sessions and the second never seemed to have enough time. What I want to say is that not every healthcare worker is going to be right for you, you need someone you can trust and who you feel understands you.

Tomorrow I will increase my dose of anti-depressants again in hope that I will feel better. I still often think that I will feel this way forever and that I never get better but that is what depression does to you, it makes you believe that it will last forever.

It won’t, depression is a horrible disease but it also very curable, you just need to stay alive to see it and that is very very hard I know. The choice to die is one I can always make but I just want to make sure I tried everything before I do cause there is no taking back death.

Rose can be found on twitter here

Guest Post – An Other



I decided to set up a Facebook page after suddenly being confronted with things that I had long ago buried in my past. Let me explain…. I grew up in the care system from the late seventies all the way to the late eighties early nineties. ‘Care’ as it is laughingly called was actually just as abusive, if not more so than the family I was removed from.

My last children’s home was the first one to hit the headlines and at the time we were all over the place, reporters camped outside, radio talk shows, even an I.T.V. documentary was made on the subject. An inquiry happened and the place was closed down.

As time went by that particular children’s home was forgotten about as more and more cases came to light and then mid nineties it seemed to stop altogether.

Recently however, with the whole Jimmy Savile expose happening and as his connections with care homes has become apparent, some well meaning but ultimately unthinking individuals have decided to jump on the bandwagon and join the ’cause’.

I was all of a sudden faced with press clippings and reports from my last children’s home being all over the net. Some of them mentioned me by initial, some by a case letter/number and some even put my first name with an initial for my surname.

I didn’t at any point give my permission for some very personal details about my life to be put out there, I certainly didn’t give my permission for people to discuss me as if I was only an initial or case number. I have been transported back, through no choice of my own, to a time I tried to forget.

Worse than that was seeing the comments underneath the articles.People arguing with each other, tut tutting about how terrible it all was, posturing and ultimately stroking their own ego’s seems to be the norm.

They purport to be fighting for people like me when in fact they are doing anything but. If I wanted my details and my life to be put out there then I would have done it, I didn’t want it so I didn’t do it. It was done for me by people who seem to be so blinkered by what ever cause they are fighting they are not stopping to think about the collateral damage they are leaving behind.

The overriding thought that kept going through my mind when reading all of this was ‘you are not doing this in my name, you are not doing this in my name, YOU ARE NOT DOING THIS IN MY NAME!!!’ Hence the name of my page. I feel there is a fine line between fighting for a cause and stamping all over peoples lives and feelings whilst you do it. We are REAL people they are talking about, we are here, we are alive and we didn’t give our permission for our stories to be told and to be picked over like vultures over carrion.

If you are as disgusted about this as I am, even if you believe in the cause but can also see that this approach is wrong, PLEASE like and comment on my page so that we can wake people up to the effect their actions are having on the very people they say they are talking for. Thank you for listening and a MASSIVE thank you to Garry for giving me the space to talk.

The page can be found here

Guest Post – Petula

As a blogger I often go back and read my old posts. The ones that catch my attention the most are about how I feel regarding my physical and mental issues. I’m often surprised by the depth and truth of my emotions and thoughts. Some of that surprise comes from realizing I’ve revealed more to the world (uh, you know, wherever my blog reaches) than I remember and the other part is pure amazement: I can be deep.

In a world where fibromyalgia and Sjogren’s syndrome are in the forefront and multiple myeloma simmers in the background, I have to have some type of sense of humor. Sometimes I think it’s an invisible illness deflection; laugh so no one knows how crushed you feel on the inside. I fight depression and anxiety every day… Although I like to think depression isn’t a part of my life anymore it tends to show up just when I would rather be left alone. It has been awhile since I’ve talked about it without covering it up with pretty, vague words, which is why I answered the inquiry about writing a guest post here at The Depressed Moose. So many people shy away from the topic of depression, but it’s something that needs to be recognized and discussed regularly.

Not only is it cathartic for the sufferer, but it can be revelatory for those on the outside looking in. Sharing how I feel or think or revealing the true essence of the problem doesn’t come without pain and insecurities. There are normally two reactions I get when (if!) people find out about my depression and anxiety treatment: encouraging and ignorant. That is a bit harsh and generalizing, but it’s fairly accurate.

There are those who are supportive, encouraging and pleased that I have shared – some of them finding permission in my words to reveal their own secrets. Then there are the others who give pat responses and feedback: Just choose to be happy, all you have to do is XYZ and so on.

For instance, an old friend of mine said they don’t read my blog very often because – something to the affect of – it’s not up or happy all the time. On one hand I was hurt by those words and on the other I was angered. My blog is called “It’s a woman’s world” and I write about everything that goes on in my world. I pride myself on being down to earth, honest and completely open. My hope is that my words will speak to someone and ultimately help them in their lives and it’s also very liberating for me. (If they were my friend they’d respect and understand that, right? Not try to make my blog/writing into something that is not “me.”) And, friend, if you’d read my blog on a regular basis you’d know there is way more to me than that and I even right about.


My most recent adventure into the deep, dark world of depression and sadness comes and goes on a regular basis right now. Meaning there seems to be a lot of small things that make me sad. There is, however, a good side to this. Uh, that is if “good” is the correct word in this instance. I’m aware of it and I keep trying to figure out exactly what is making me sad. Wait, I know what it is, but I just don’t know the why. And anyone who suffers with depression knows that it’s the why that’s important because that one reason is making everything else horrible. Yup, I’m now sad about everything and if I can’t be left alone then I’m annoyed and angry.

What a combination.

When I come back later to read this post, I hope I am as pleased with it as I am while I write it. I want to feel pleasure in knowing that I was open and honest as well as pleasure in the hope this post touched or helped someone.

I hope you’re that someone.



Petula is the writer behind the “It’s a woman’s world” ( blog where she describes herself as “blogger, writer, mom and… uh… woman.” She’s mom to four and granny to one, somewhere in Georgia.

Posts where she talks about depression: 

Guest Post – Shelley

D Day…

It was a normal sort of day, I’d got up after a restless night of new ideas early, well early as is the norm when you live with two five year olds, a husband and a hungry cat.

The children were lively this morning which always makes for an interesting ride. A combination of tiredness and the fact they’d eaten too many sugar puffs. I dressed them, combed their hair and found their shoes while making a mental note to polish them at some point. I didn’t feel anxious but rather a little apprehensive as I drove them to school to deposit them for a day of free babysitting.

Once back in the car, my thoughts turned to the day ahead. My tummy had butterflies, not the little fluttery kind but the kind you see in museum drawers from tropical shores. Today was the day that I was to return to listen to my mental health assessment. My psychologist was a lovely lady but it didn’t stop me wondering what lay ahead as I boarded a train to the big city. In my bag was my packed lunch and large notebook which I had taken to carrying everywhere for my next idea. I had lots of ideas, usually at 4am in the morning and usually that came to nothing.

Once on the train, I sat by where the doors were opening so I could feel the cool air at each station in an attempt to reduce my anxiety. I amused myself by writing people’s life stories in my head as they got on and off the train.
Once in the big city, I made my way up what seemed like endless escalators to emerge into a bright sunny day. The city was extra busy today as the schools were on half term and the incessant chatter of little people was everywhere. It held some attraction for me, especially if I was having a busy head day. I made my way down Bold Street, which amused me as today I felt anything but bold! Glancing at the time on my phone, I realised I was ridiculously early, not my best record but not far off. I’d reserved that honour for a two hour earliness in a car park in Colwyn Bay some months earlier. I was early enough to wander into a cathedral across the road for a few moments of quiet before my appointment. I’d been into the cathedral many times, but it still took my breath away when I looked up at the amazing stained glass windows and quiet yet ginormous open space.

I found a coffee shop and sat for half an hour, enjoying the stillness and quiet in the middle of the big noisy city. All too quickly my time was up, I went into the bathroom and caught sign of my own reflection in the mirror. Would I be different after today? Would I still recognise myself? I came to the conclusion that whatever today held, I would still be me, still hold the same values and beliefs and hopefully people would still love me for that.

To get to this point had been no mean feat, I’d tried over the years to access mental health services but consistently came up against the same barriers, “You can’t be ill cause you’re still in work” “But you seem like such a happy person!” To have to fight for something when you feel least like fighting is the hardest thing. 17 years after I had first presented at my GPs with depression and anxiety I was finally being listened to.

88 Rodney Street was a grand Georgian house and as I walked into the reception area, I was greeted by dark oak panelled walls and chandeliers, in stark contrast to my everyday life!

I didn’t wait long before I was called into room eighteen, a consulting room on the top floor of the building behind a physiotherapist and a back specialist.

I recalled the room from the previous appointment when I had completed all my assessment forms. As I settled into the wing back leather armchair I began to listen to my life contained in 5 sides of A4 paper. It was strange to hear, being reminded of my over reactions to everyday events, my depressive moments, and my times when I had been so low I had thought there was no way out of my black hole. I squirmed a little as it was read out. My psychologist luckily recognised I was having difficulty with the waiting so in an effort to reduce my anxiety, at the end of the first page, she paused and said; “I believe Shelley to be bipolar” She paused after she had said it and asked me what I thought. I expressed my relief at there finally being a word I could associate with and waited for my reaction to her diagnosis. But there wasn’t a reaction. The room was silent, I felt relieved but other than that I was ok.

I wasn’t devastated at being a little bit different to the general populace, I hadn’t fizzled up into a few grains of sand and I was still sat in the same wing back arm chair. The cars outside hadnt paused in response to my diagnosis and the sun was still shining through the Georgian windows. An unbelievable stillness come over me and I think for the first time ever, I felt something that may have been contentment or hope. I continued to listen to my assessment and finally made my way out of room to step back out into the street.

I wandered down the street of Georgian town houses that were once elegant homes. They were almost all consulting rooms that had sprung up in response to our modern illnesses and wondered how I would have been treated years previously.

I was the great grand daughter of a man who had spent 15 years in bed, a man who had gambled away his family’s inheritance on nags and dogs before hiding from the world. He was one of the lucky ones, he had a family who loved him so much they cared for him for fifteen years, while the unlucky ones were sent away to live in secure institutions for the rest of their lives. As I turned a corner, I thanked my lucky stars that I lived in 2013. A time when people were beginning to challenge stigma and discrimination around mental ill health, not that it was anywhere near perfect but it was a good start.

Twelve months previously I had become a volunteer for Time to Change Wales. As an educator I went out to talk to people about my experiences of mental ill health. I had had many different reactions, mostly positive but there were still the odd instance where I would hear the audience discussing the merits of keeping “people like that” in secure medical hospitals.

Who did they mean? People like my great grandad? People like the many thousands of others who overcome mental ill health on a daily basis? People like me?

Two weeks post diagnosis and I still feel incredibly relieved more than anything. I believe people around me have struggled to come to terms with my diagnosis much more than I have. Maybe for a fear of change, fear of the future for them and me. Maybe I’m wrong and my diagnosis hasn’t sunk in yet, but I do firmly believe it is a part of my personality, it’s what makes me, me, and hopefully as I learn to understand it, I can become more confident in my own abilities.

Ultimately I believe that from understanding will come acceptance and at the end of the day if I can look in a mirror and the reflection looking back is me, I’m doing ok. (Well, assuming its a good day!)

Until then, I’ll carry on wearing purple knickers every day, writing a novel a week and embracing my individuality.

Shelley Moorfield

Shelley can be found on twitter here

Guest Post – Emily

Living with depression

Mental illness is an ongoing and controversial source of debate. Psychologists and doctors must consider how it should be treated, while the philosophers out there question whether a mind can even get ill. However, be it an illness or not, depression is a serious and unavoidable affliction which is incredibly hard to deal with since no pill, injection or operation can provide an instant remedy. There are no visible symptoms and most people will fail to notice or refuse to believe that someone they know is depressed.

The origins of depression are numerous, but it is important to remember that not everyone who suffers these ’causes’ will become depressed and much depends upon the ingrained mindset of the individual. Traumatic experiences from the past can lead to depression later in life. These include abuse (physical, sexual, emotional), losing a loved one, witnessing an accident or death or fighting off a life-threatening illness. Some surprising events are found to incite depression, including marriage, graduation and getting a new job, while other periods are more predictably difficult such as getting divorced, being extremely ill, losing a job or retiring. Often it is a case of not recovering from the hard times, through which friends and family were there for support but over time they have lost the motivation and energy to stay positive in the face of depression. The following isolation deepens the depression making it even harder to cope with.

While most illnesses come with physical symptoms, depression is harder to recognise unless the sufferer frequently cries and is easily distressed, dramatically gains or loses weight, or reports pains which usual treatment does not cure. It is only through talking to a doctor or psychiatrist that a patient can be diagnosed and directed towards relevant treatment. People with depression experience a variety of mood-related symptoms, including feeling perpetually sad, anxious, helpless, guilty, worthless or just empty, taking no pleasure from their usual activities. Other symptoms include sleeping excessively or not at all and overeating or the total loss of interest in food. These effects are detrimental to health and well-being, further increasing the feelings of depression. It is extremely difficult to live with someone with depression as there is almost nothing to be said or done which seems to help. Outbursts and suicide threats are extremely distressing for close friends and family, who often back away for self-preservation reasons, making the depressed individual feel even lonelier, hopeless and miserable.

So how does anybody escape this vicious circle of loss, grief, depression and isolation? Initially, sessions with a psychiatrist or counselor can help alleviate some of the tension by talking through a troublesome period. It may help identify a cause which had not previously been considered but was always under the surface. However, it is not a way to find somebody or something to blame, since every person must take some responsibility for their situation, or they cannot hope to get out of it. Some doctors prescribe drugs containing serotonin, the happiness chemical, which relieve the feelings of sadness. These are not a permanent cure and should be accompanied by some form of psychotherapy which can help alter negative thought patterns and improve peoples coping methods, leading to an overall improvement in well-being rather than a temporary and false dose of happiness. Ultimately, if an individual really wants to feel better, they will take the guidance and treatment seriously and work hard to develop a new perspective and positive attitude, making their life and consequently those of their friends and family much easier. There is no immediate solution but immediate action will set the ball rolling towards a better future for everyone concerned.

This article was written by Emily Banham on behalf of Living At Choice, a counselling Brighton and psychotherapy Brighton based practice.

Guest Post – Jess Returns!

Following on from her previous post Jess has returned!

I recently got a tattoo of a serotonin molecule on the inside of my wrist. It’s widely believed that this is the chemical which, when imbalanced, can be one of the causes of depression.

While I was having the tattoo done, I explained to my tattooist what it was and why I wanted it done. I told him I had been suffering from depression for 5 years now, but am feeling the best I have for years thanks to this little chemical being kept in order by my meds. While we were talking, he brought up the subject of self harm, now this is something I have never done, and I feel very lucky that I’ve never felt the need too nor have I ever felt suicidal.

Kieran jokingly said in reply “tattoos are enough pain for you then.” Thinking about it as he said it, he was right, four of my six tattoos – I had done when I was feeling low, or was just coming into a high. I don’t know why, but I like the idea that I have replaced self harm with tattoos.

This time last year, I was at my lowest point. I took 6 weeks off work (something I usually enjoyed) and upped my meds to 40mg a day. A few weeks after being signed off work, I also started my first session of CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy). My new mental health worker was a big, typical straight talking Yorkshire lass, who herself suffered from depression and anxiety. This gave me some comfort, and for the first time since being diagnosed I felt I could talk openly about the effects depression really had on my every day life. I had my first panic attack during one of our sessions, I was terrified but she helped me through and explained what was happening inside my brain.

For the first time, there was someone to reassure me that it wasn’t just me. It wasn’t just me that felt like the whole town was staring as I walked through the centre, or that the group of women at the other side of McDonalds knew something was wrong with me and were definitely laughing about it. Or that it wasn’t just me that questioned whether my friends actually like me, or just don’t have it in them to tell me to piss off and leave them alone.

I got discharged after around 5 or 6 weekly session of CBT. During the session when she discharged me, I filled out the questionnaire (yes, that bloody questionnaire), and was shocked to be told by my mental health worker that, when I first came to see her, had this been 15-20 years ago, when the questionnaire’s were used to decide whether or not somebody needed to be sectioned, then I would have been sectioned there and then. In fact, my “score” was well over the total that in years gone by, justified sectioning. (For non-suffering readers, this questionnaire I speak of is basically a load of questions on how you feel, how long you have felt it, whether you avoid certain situations etc.)

I’ve just been for an unplanned visit to my mental health worker (well, it was unplanned 2 weeks ago) this evening, and I realise how lucky I am to have an NHS employee in these times that will see me in 2 weeks or less when I unexpectedly call. I’m not feeling particularly depressed, in fact I’m very happy right now, even more so after the support and kind words I’ve received from my friends and family (most that didnt know about my depression) since my first post for the moose.

No, in all honestly, I needed that appointment to talk about the anxiety I was feeling towards my future (going to uni, moving out etc) and just to get the big kick up the arse that I need to get my motivation, positive thinking and assertiveness back.

Over the last year, I’ve gotten a lot better at spotting the signs of my mental health deteriorating, and these are the three main ones. Although admitting I need a bit of support again is still hard, I managed to pick up the phone and book an appointment before my depression got unmanageable. In the words of my mental health worker this evening after filling in that chuffing questionnaire – “We’ve got it just at the right point, I’m glad you rang when you did.”

It’s amazing how a few drunkern chats on a weekend and 40 minutes sat in a room with somebody can make you feel so much more positive. The hardest part for most people is talking, but it’s often the best medicine.

I’ve never really been one to talk openly about my depression, in fact most of my family members that knew before my first blog for the moose, only knew because my mum or brother had told them. I can only think of a handful of people I have actually told myself, face to face. Saying that, I found writing my last blog a massive relief, I was very surprised with the reaction I got from both people that know me and those that don’t, in fact even a coach that took my FA level one course, and is head of the youth academy at my beloved Rotherham gave me positive feedback on the blog. For that, I’m grateful – to everyone that read my post, and everyone that showed support. Not only that, it’s given me the confidence to talk to my friends about what really goes on inside my head, as now they know about it.

So thanks again for reading, and thanks again to the moose for letting clog up his blog with my ramblings and gain an even better support network.

Jess – @jesstemps92

Guest Post – Elizabeth

7 Surprising Signs You Are Stressed to the Max!

We already know that an upset tummy and symptoms of Irritable Bowel Syndrome are sure signs of being stressed to the Max…yet, there are many other surprising signs that our bodies give us letting us know that we are in a full blown Stress-A-Thon!

Stress is a Killer! I’m not kidding…stress not only leads to digestive distress but also to high blood pressure, stroke, depression just to name a few problems I’m sure you don’t want to experience.

While there are many ways to reduce stress…some of my favorites are: meditation CDs and deep breathing exercises. However, watching out for sneaky stressors is still as important as taking that first deep relaxing breath…Ahhh!

Surprising Sign #1-Weird or Recurring Dreams
You know you are burning the candle at both ends when your stress takes you into SlumberLand. If you routinely dream of missing the bus or your house is burning down, two of the most common stress dreams, then you know it is time to learn how to let go of your stressors.

Surprising Sign #2-Tight Muscles
Turns out that stress causes our muscles to tighten up…leaving us in a more vulnerable spot for injury. It’s time to take a Deep Abdominal Breath in…ahhhh!

Surprising Sign #3-Twitching
While we are on the topic of spasms, have you ever experienced an eye twitch or your calf twitching…then you know yet another sign that you are stressing.

Surprising Sign #4-Tooth Trouble
Grinding your teeth as you sleep or even clenching your jaw while you are awake without realizing it are both ways of “chewing over your problems”, however, these behaviors do not unstress you. Quite the opposite, they cause lots of pain and discomfort.

Surprising Sign #5- Changes in Your Menstrual Cycle
Women commonly complain of unusually bad cramps or even a missed period when stressful times are paramount. When your stress subsides, your menstrual cycle will most likely return to normal.

Surprising Sign #6- Losing Hair or Going Grey
We have heard people say that a stressful or traumatic situation turns you grey…but it is also true that people commonly lose hair, literally the hair follicle becomes lose when we are stressed. Amazing that stress wreaks havoc over EVERY part of our body.

Surprising Sign #7- Super Sniffles
Stress plays an impact on our Immune System lowering our defenses and making us twice as likely to catch a cold over other times we are not as stressed. It all has to do with cortisol, the stress hormone. When cortisol is elevated, the inflammatory response is suppressed  Therefore, when we are exposed to a virus, our body cannot fight it like other less stressful times.

Boy! That is quite the list! I am sure all of you have experienced one of these symptoms before in your life. I am hoping that has subsided for you…and if it hasn’t ..this list may be enough to trigger another stress attack! That’ ok…start breathing deeply…it will pass in no time!


Elizabeth has her own website and can be found on twitter here

Guest Post – Dawn

This post is not about depression stats or the links found between growing up in dysfunction and
an individual’s potential to be depressed. I don’t know about you but I don’t need a university
study to tell me that depression is tragic.
I know it is because, like you, I live with it everyday.
Depression is my baseline.
So, in this post I am taking a different approach. Today, I’m doing some riffing and bitching on
depression. That’s right I’m talking some major trash!
Below, I’ve put together a list of the 10 things that I can’t stand about this beast.
1) Depression sucks every last bit of life out of you. Am I right? I’m talking down to the
quantum level. It has more suction power than a Dyson & a Dirt Devil combined.
2) It does not come with an instruction manual.
3) There are no magic wand solutions or 10 easy steps that you can implement to be happy and
depression free.
4) It makes me dread the most beautiful, sunshiny days. Why can’t it just rain when I am
5) It makes time stand completely still when all you want is the day to be over. Hopefully,
tomorrow will be better.
6) Medication – You go on medication to feel better but the side effects from the medication
make you sick. So now you are depressed and sick.
7) It’s fickle. You are either:
• tired or you can’t sleep
• stuffing your face or you can’t eat
• lonely as hell but don’t want to be around people
8) It makes it impossible to “get it up.” To get excited, get involved, get outside, get out of bed
or get in the shower. Unfortunately, there is no Viagra for depression.
9) It’s all pervasive, it rattles every last corner of your life.
10) And finally, you know I saved the best for last, the things that you could do to feel better
when you are depressed are the exact things you will not do because you are depressed. Try
being around other people when you don’t even have it in you to brush your teeth.
I am frustrated and I feel discouraged. I just want to understand. I do my best to reel myself in
when I feel that mood coming on but I am often defeated. I promise myself that no matter what
happens the next time I get depressed I will force myself to be happy. Maybe if I buy the right
magazine or read the right book or write a long enough gratitude list? Maybe if I switch
medications or run for 2 hours on the treadmill I will just sweat the mood out. I don’t know,
whatever it is that will cure this little bug eating away at my brain, I haven’t found it yet. Until I
do, I will keep riffing and bitching.

Dawn writes her own blog Growing up Chaotic which can be found here

she can be found on twitter here

Guest Post – Marq


I used to wonder if you could catch it like a cold or a bug but more often than not I’ve come to realise it is just in you, part of your genetic make-up, hereditary. I have depression as does my sister, my grandma, I only found out years after she died, suffered badly at the hands of this dark pest.

As close as we were I never realised, she hid it so well and clearly thought it was the one thing she couldn’t bring herself to tell me. I guess it was even more taboo back then and I can’t help but wonder how many people knew or if she just suffered in silence.

Depression takes many forms, people talk of a great weight or a darkness, a shadow or a black wave. Mine I guess is like a loyal dog, following me round biting at my heels, sometimes I throw it a stick by doing something amazing and it’s in these moments when its furthest away that can almost feel happy, but inevitably it always comes back. Sometimes, just like a real dog, it will simply sleep in the corner of the room but I know it is always there and on waking it will want to play.

I say this because people think that depression is all doom and gloom but as with anything it has a balance, you can’t have such extreme lows without also experiencing at times false highs. In these moments you can feel indestructible, capable of anything and everything which will often lead to you doing something stupid that ultimately will aid the speed of your downward spiral even more when you finally come crashing back to reality.

This behaviour also goes hand in hand with addiction, I pushed the self-destruct button twenty years ago and have been constantly trying to deactivate it ever since, self-medicating with whatever to combat the thoughts, to numb the pain, to help the brain do something other than think.

Of course we all know that substances aren’t the answer and really just add to the problems, but that numbness is so appealing at the time, the self-loathing and regret after not so much. Over thinking plays a huge part in it all and although nothing was achieved when I had therapy we did have great conversations because we had read all the same books. I went through a phase of trying to figure out my depression I filled my world with every book and essay on the subject desperate to find an answer, hopeful of a cure that never came.

After all avenues have been exhausted its back to the prescription pills and the gruelling day to day fight. I hate my depression with a passion, I hate the way it stops me doing the things I enjoy, I hate the way it won’t let me get out of my own bed some days, I hate the way I can’t be alone with it, that it pushes me to extremes in an effort to dilute its power.

Like anyone I have good days and bad and I am grateful that I am so much more in control now than I was. My depression cost me relationships, friends, jobs and for a while threatened to take my life. I am now at an age where I realise I will always have it, it will never be fully gone, but I am I hope better equipped mentally to deal with all the things it can throw my way.


Marq is available on twitter here