Quicksand

My near-escape from a sandy and watery death…

My near-escape from a sandy and watery death…

I was on holiday last month in West Wittering, renting a house not far from the stunning beach and scenic walks up on East Head. Given it was late November, the place was almost deserted and the tiny hamlet perched on the edge of the south coast felt more like a ghost town. For me, this only added to its charm. It was my second time here in as many months – I’d fallen in love with the place for its scenic walks and stunning sand beaches; as a Londoner this was something I’d always felt drawn to. In addition, I wanted to give my darling dog, Misha, as many fun experiences as possible and I he just loves the sea – not so much for swimming but for paddling and racing across the sand, spurred on by the crashing waves and high winds.

On our second day it poured, but by late afternoon the rain had eased off to a light drizzle so I set off on a long walk with Misha, and my mother, now in her late seventies. I was trying to follow a circular walk I’d found online, across East Head and down to the beach then back up to where we were staying through the village. After about an hour, I must have taken a wrong turn because there was no mention of quicksand or marshland on the trail. However, I couldn’t have gone very far out of my way and, shockingly, the way we approached at least, there was not a single sign or warning about the quicksand. Later, I’d discover that not only was this beach an area well-known to locals who knew all about its dangers, but people were constantly getting stuck there and having to be rescued: just a week before, two young women had needed to be rescued from the sand by the coastguard, and shortly before that an escaped cow and ended up there and had sunk all the way up to its neck!

To us, it looked like just another section of the beach – although there were some darker patches further out that I hadn’t noticed anywhere else and access to the sand was fairly difficult. There were lots of rocky and jagged pieces to walk across when we emerged from the woods and my mother didn’t want to get her trendy ankle boots wet so stayed back as Misha and I made our way out across the beach towards the line of the incomining tide. It was still raining lightly and beginning to get dark. Misha raced ahead and reached the sea in no time where he paddled and ran about quite happily. I was taking my time as the sea was still quite far out. I noticed the sand was starting to get very soft and sort of swampy as I moved forwards but my lack of countryside experience meant I thought that this was just due to the rain and that it was perfectly normal to suddenly find myself having to put considerable effort into pulling up each foot as I walked. Misha was still galloping about at the waterline and the sand looked far less murky and much, much firmer where he was, so once that walking like this became a real pain in the neck, it seemed to me to be more sensible to head for the firmer sand than backtrack all the way I’d just come.

And then very suddenly, as soon as I reached the sea’s edge, one of my Wellington boots disappeared into the sand as far up as my calf, and while I struggled to pull that boot up with my hands, the other boot did exactly the same thing. I kept losing my balance and falling over onto my hands until it got to the point where both boots were so firmly stuck that I couldn’t progress any further. I called out to my mother – now just a tiny spot in the distance – to give me a hand, but the wind was strong and she was so far back that she couldn’t possibly have heared me. Later, I found out she thought I was gesturing simply to get her to join me by the water’s edge, which she didn’t want to do.

I was getting annoyed at my situation by this point because my boots were now waterlogged with sandy water and I couldn’t remain standing upright because my boots were still stuck in a very awkward position. However, I didn’t realise how much danger I was in until I noticed my feet were not just stuck but actually still sinking, and that now I was on all fours with my backside in tha air, my hands and arms had started sinking as well. I had this sucking, cloying concoction of sand and water right up to my knees and elbows, so couldn’t even get up to gesture to my mother anymore, and the sea was now lapping all around me and it was getting properly dark. Worse, I could feel myself still sinking deeper and deeper. Then, I noticed the water around me was steadily rising – the waves were moving closer to me with each passing second. I remembered I’d checked the tides before we came out and that it would soon be high tide and completely dark. And at that point, I realised I was either going to drown as the water rose above me while I remained stuck on the sea bed, or I was gong to be buried by the sand.

That’s when I started to panic. I tried to pull my feet out of my boots but the sand and seawater had caused a kind of suction inside each boot making them absolutely impossible to dislodge (later, when we finally made it home, I had to cut my remaining boot off my leg the suction was so strong!). I scanned the darkening beach and woodland beyond – there wasn’t a single soul to be seen, the only sign of humanity was a house in the distance, with not a single light on – West Wittering is known for its abundance of weekend and holiday homes. We had walked so far and the weather was so bad that there was really no one out there for miles around and my mobile phone was now useless, swimming about in a pocket of sandy water. I could not move for the life of me; it was as if I had cuffs round my ankles and wrists and, as Misha came over to sniff and lick my face, I began to cry at the thought of him watching me die so horribly.

After a while, as if by some miracle, my mother showed up. I hadn’t even noticed her approach. Small and incredibly light, she managed not to get stuck in the sand herself by moving very quickly across it. For several minutes she worked on trying to dislodge one of my boots from the sand but it was just impossible. So instead she tried to get my leg out of the boot. It took ages and was a major struggle but she has always been freakishly strong, and somehow she finally managed to pull my socked foot free. After a lot of wriggling, I managed to free my other foot, with its boot still on. My mother was shouting at me to spread out my weight across the sand and crawl but by this time, my fibromyalgia had properly kicked in, making me suddenly feel desperately weak and exhausted. Shouting at me constantly to try harder – Hurry up! Come on! Faster! – my mother somehow managed to crawl at my side while maintaining a vice-like grip around my upper arm, pulling me after her. I remember looking up from the wet sand I was now crawling through and seeing the huge stretch of beach that ended with the rocky section which was firm ground, and it was like staring at the mirage of an oasis in the desert – not quite real but so desperately needed, and so painfully far away that I thought I’d never reach it. I was now sobbing with fear, pain and exhaustion, crying that I just couldn’t go on while my mother shouted insults at me in the hope that in return my anger would somehow fuel my energy reserves. I knew why: there was no way she could drag me to safety on her own so I had to keep on moving, and at the rate the sea was coming in, by the time she would have made it back to the village for help I’d be in a tomb of sandy water. But all the fear in the world couldn’t force my muscles to keep going and I remember thinking what a weird sensation it was to tell a muscle to do something and have it simply refuse. Crawling through the wet sand, I first felt the muscles in my forearms give up and suddenly landed on my elbows with my face inches above the water. Next, the muscles in my left thigh just went and I had to drag my leg behind me rather than use it to push me forwards. My mother is a master at staying calm in even the worst of situations, but I knew from the way she kept yelling at me to keep crawling and move faster that the situation was bad, very bad. And she had been brought up by the sea and knew most of its dangers. I remember, between sobs, shouting back at her, thinking she didn’t understand it wasn’t my fault that my muscles were refusing to work. And finally I remember reaching the rocks, my waterlogged clothes so heavy with wet sand, and thinking there was no way I could be expected to take a single step. But we had to. It was dark and I was seriously cold – teeth chattering and shivering so hard I could barely speak. My boot hadn’t been the only casualty, Misha’s lead had also been abandoned in the silt, so we had to unfasten one side of his harness to use as a tiny lead. It was almost all dirt track going back so the ground was covered with thousands of those tiny, sharp stones that cut relentlessly into my shoeless foot.

I was on the point of complete collapse when a van overtook us on the woodland path and we flagged it down to ask if I could have a ride. Despite the fact I was soaking wet and even my face was covered with grey silt, the driver graciously let me into his cab and dropped me off by the house. Misha and my mother weren’t far behind and that’s when we had to cut off my remaining boot with nail scissors, the only kind we had – because the suction caused by the sand and water inside was just too strong for either of us, and nothing else was going to get the boot off my foot by this point. I stripped on the outside porch, went inside and had the longest and hottest bath I’ve ever had, falling asleep in it six times before I finally managed to drag myself out and collapse on my bed. That night I was afraid I’d have nightmares but instead I slept, without waking, for sixteen hours straight! I was glad to be alive and incredibly grateful for my mother, without whom I would have surely perished out there. The rest of our holiday was untarnished and simply wonderful, but I had a newfound respect not just for the sea but for the sand, too, which I now knew could be incredibly dangerous. So if you ever find yourself walking on sand or mud and your feet begin to sink, my advice is to always turn around immediately, however firm you think the ground ahead might be!

Loss and Recovery – Part Two

The only problem with getting a dog was I didn’t like dogs. I didn’t particularly like any animals . . .

Saved by a Dog

The only problem with getting a dog was I didn’t like dogs. I didn’t particularly like any animals …

So there I was, at the end of my thirties – an invalid in bed, suffering from acute fibromyalgia, an ‘invisible’ disease that had gone unrecognised and disbelieved since my early twenties. I’d begun a career as an author – but the illness had caused me to renege on my latest contract and I was too unwell to write anyway. After leaving class teaching due to my health, I’d built up a name for myself as a tutor but now too ill to teach, I’d had to let my pupils go. I’d more or less lost the whole of my thirties to this disease, as well as to the painkiller addiction I’d developed as a result of trying to cope without help. Or even belief. And now that they did believe me, it just felt far, far too late. I just didn’t have it in me to fight anymore. I had come off the painkillers, out of rehab and through eight rounds of ECT, only to find myself in a world of exhaustion and pain – far, far worse than it had ever been before. I had absolutely no motivation to help myself, even though I knew I was going to end up an invalid for life if I didn’t. But all I wanted was to die. I was so sick of it all and had no resilience left to begin this new battle, which was clear I’d most likely be fighting till the end of my days. I just really, really didn’t want to live – especially not like this. So I contacted Dignitas. I spoke about it openly to my family and friends. This was, for a good amount of time, my one and only wish. It wasn’t fair of people to ask me to fight yet another illness in order to lead a life that I didn’t want back anyway. Dignitas accepted patients who suffered from chronic and debilitating depression that hadn’t responded to any medication or therapy. They also accepted patients who had painful chronic illnesses that were unlikely to ever get better, even if they weren’t terminal. Which made me a perfect candidate. I actually felt a tiny bit better once I’d found a sure-fire way out. There would be no mistakes, no unnecessary suffering, no botched jobs to further disable me and burden my family with, or to leave me in a coma for years. At last, I was in control. I had found a way to get rid of both diseases, even though it would cost me my life. But at least I wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. I’d really had enough. Well, at least physically, I’d never had much appetite for life anyway. Ill, there was no way I had the motivation to fight to get to get physically better, just so depression could be the one to run my life. So I spent a further two months just lying in bed. There was no point in getting up or doing anything or seeing anyone, even though I was finally well enough to. Now that my mind was set, I would simply wait to save enough money from disability benefits to be able to travel to Switzerland and pay for my final treatment.

Spring was round the corner but I was still in bed in my darkened room. Despite my best efforts, it was impossible to stay asleep continuously and the hours spent lying awake were torturous. I couldn’t even bear watching TV. I would just stare at the darkness and think about death. I knew that the only alternative to that was to start walking – just to the end of my street – and then build that up by a minute or so each week. But I couldn’t think of anything more frustrating or boring, except perhaps lying here in my own self-made purgatory. Everyone was telling me the same thing – I had to get up and start moving, it was the only cure for muscle atrophy and the only thing that was going to keep me out of a wheelchair. But there was just no way I could force myself to do that everyday, even if I did somehow find the strength to give life another try. Depression had swallowed every iota of motivation and I hadn’t had much to begin with. I might have managed a few days, even a week if I chose to fight, but I knew I’d never be able to do it every single day. Lying in bed for so long did, however, give me lots of time for thinking. After a while it even begin interesting to play the what if game, just to have something to think about. So, what if I really had no choice other than to walk every day? What if someone forced me to do it? Realistically though, nobody was going to come with me and force me to do it, even if they thought they could succeed. At least certainly not every day. Other people’s lives were carrying on, despite mine having stalled for good. And it was my life. If I was completely determined to waste it and throw it away, nobody could stop me.

Although … the what ifs didn’t stop coming. There were some people who really did have to go out and walk, every single day, usually for many years, often for most of their lives. Normal people, living all around me; people who weren’t trying to recover from muscle atrophy or some horrid illness. And if they felt tired, or became unwell, they usually still had to do it, and often more than once a day … People who had dogs. People who had dogs had to walk. It was that simple. You couldn’t have a dog and not take it out for daily, or twice-daily walks. Not to do so would be unimaginably cruel. The only problem with that idea was I didn’t even like dogs. I didn’t particularly like any animals. I’d adored them as a child, but when, aged eleven, I’d been given a baby rabbit, I’d instantly fallen in love with only to have to watch it die painfully the very next day. I’d been heartbroken and deeply shocked. Even now, the memory of seeing something so sweet and so young, die such a painful death, haunts me. It had been separated from its mother too young, given lettuce to eat when it should have still been suckling on its mother’s milk. The vet could do nothing. He should have put the poor rabbit down rather than send us away only to have it die with us on the way home. It was, I now realise, a traumatising event in my childhood and it wasn’t the only one involving animals I’d experienced back then. Ever since, animals had come to represent pain, loss and death to me. To such an extent that I’d become really squeamish about them and wanted nothing to do with them. I felt slightly better around dogs because they seemed stronger than most domesticated pets but I was always worried they might suddenly turn aggressive and become dangerous. It had always felt safer to leave the animals to the animal lovers and experts. Getting a dog was a ridiculous thought, anyway. Almost ludicrous. Who got a dog because they were too lazy to go out for a walk? I was the last person I could imagine with a dog. Anyone who knew me would have laughed at the idea. For a start, you need to adore animals, or at least dogs, in order to own one, otherwise what was the point? The idea stayed with me though. Looking back, I realise now that I was searching hard. Searching for a reason to stay alive. By now, I clearly didn’t want to die anymore, at least not unless I really could find no alternative to getting better again. Maybe I wasn’t completely and totally run down by life. But I was very afraid. Afraid of staying sick, of never recovering. Afraid of more pain to come.

But still, I couldn’t be serious about the dog thing. It was just to pass the time, I told myself as I picked up my mobile from my bedside table and started familiarising myself with the different breeds. Just a silly distraction. However, when I came to a picture of a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, the breed my mother had grown up with, I felt something. A slight thaw. As a child, my mother had been given a Cavalier as a reward for passing the 11+ and had named her Plus. There were still photos of her around the family home and my mother always spoke of her with such affection, I’d felt like I’d known her. I tried comparing her breed to others in the list but everything in her temperament fit what I was looking for. Great with children – that was a prerequisite as, if I ever got well enough to tutor again, I’d have primary aged pupils coming regularly to my home. And every Blenheim (tan and white) Cavalier I saw online looked so familiar. As I had nothing better to do, I thought I might as well read articles on how to get a dog and what to expect; how to look after, train and care for them. Might be useful for some novel I might someday write … But something took hold. As the days melted into nights and nights faded back to days, I slept sporadically, ate snacks and read and read, on my mobile, still in bed. At least it made the time go faster. When, for fun, I started scrolling through ads for Cavalier puppies, I immediately felt myself melt. But everyone went gooey over puppies, right? And dogs didn’t stay puppies for very long. But even the adults were adorable. They had such bright, intelligent eyes and kind, smiley faces. They looked quite different from most other breeds – almost a species unto their own. In videos those tails just never stopped wagging; they were quite overwhelmingly friendly; they seemed delighted by all other dogs and all humans and everything in the world around them. Their temperaments were the exact opposite of mine in every imaginable way. There was something familiar, something comforting and just so special about them. And they held quite a singular power over me – they just couldn’t stop making be smile … It was a while before it really hit me. But then it did, hard. Maybe getting a dog wasn’t a completely ridiculous idea. Maybe, if I fell in love with a dog, I’d not only be forced to go for walks every day, but I might find a new reason to live.

Barely a month later, I was on a train. Dazed by the spring sunshine, the noise of the passengers, the speed of the countryside flashing past, I sat beside the window for the entire three-hour journey, clutching a canvas puppy travel bag on my lap with a soft blanket, a few toys and a teddy inside. In my rucksack was a heated pad, another blanket, training pads, a bowl and drinking bottle, and some treats. I was headed to Wolverhampton to collect my new eight-week old puppy – an absolutely tiny little Blenheim boy I’d decided to call Misha, the Russian diminutive of Mikhail – or Michael. I’d been to see him once before when he was only 5 weeks old and he’d been a warm, soft, sleepy little bundle of tan and white fur, the size of a baby rabbit that fit neatly into the palm of my hand. But I’d been kept abreast of changes via photos and videos and I knew he was now almost three times the size – although still no bigger than my foot – and that when he played with his toys or his siblings, his tiny tail wagged so fast that it became a blur. I was still very weak and dressed in dark winter clothes as I hadn’t realised it was so warm already and my summer clothes were still packed away. Everything around me felt magnified and I was shell-shocked at the brightness, noise and hustle of life around me. Not only did this day mark one of my few outings since my hospitalisation nearly two years ago, it was also the very start of my recovery. Fibromyalgia might be with me for the rest of my days but my muscle atrophy, which still made climbing a few steps a shaky experience, or standing up for more than a few minutes almost impossible, was being reversed from this day onwards. Lying in bed all day would be a thing of the past and going for walk – not too far at first – would become a big part of my daily routine. Waiting for us back home was everything a puppy could need and more – I had used the interminable three week wait since I’d first chosen Misha to read and watch every dog book and documentary I could lay my hands on, and to shop online for absolutely everything my new puppy might need. When the train finally pulled into Wolverhampton, I could hardly breathe. Most importantly of all, this day marked the most exciting, most anticipated day of my entire life – way above my wedding day; way above the first time I walked in, as newly qualified teacher, to a classroom full of 5-year-olds; way above – something I’d thought impossible till now – even way above the day I first held my first published novel in my hands. This day, I knew, would be utterly life-changing. Nothing would never be the same again …

And I was going to make damn sure that my boy had a good life – the very best I could give him. My purpose was suddenly crystal clear. For the first time in seemingly years, I had a reason to be alive. The depression would come back of course, in stubborn fits and spurts, and there would be some tough physical and mental challenges during the first year of my puppy’s life. I wouldn’t particularly recommend going from two years in bed to buying a puppy! The start was intense. Although I had fallen deeply in love, my drained and weakened body struggled desperately to keep up with the boundless energy of a small, very curious and terrifically active puppy. There would be times I’d think I could no longer manage. But somehow we always pulled through. And it has been so, so worth it. Those deadly, incapacitating and life-threatening bouts of suicidal depression gradually left me, my body grew stronger by the day till my walks to the end of the street gradually increased to rambles in the park or countryside.

He arrived during my deepest, darkest hours, when death felt like the only escape from a world without kindness, or mercy. Like a little burst of magic, he rushed in and restored love, happiness and laughter to my walled-in life and thoroughly iced heart. I no longer live for me and for what I want out of life but for Misha, for whatever he needs, desires and everything I think would make him happy. It’s a much, much simpler life. A much healthier life too. And a much easier way to be. There is no ‘I‘ in my life anymore – there is only ‘we‘.

Loss and Recovery – Part One

All I want to do is sleep and sleep – everything else is just so unbearable . . .

Fibromyalgia

All I want to do is sleep and sleep – everything else is just unbearable . . .

I have written and spoken at length about my struggle with mental illness (see About Me), mainly because most of my books centre around this topic. However, I’ve also been battling another illness, this time a physical one, that’s had a similarly devastating effect and in many ways, the two are closely entwined. Fibromyalgia, a type of ME or chronic fatigue syndrome, has been part of my life for a long time now and has co-existed with my depression since my early twenties, although I’ve only been able to actually give it a name over the last five years. The two have fed off each other – depression almost always sparks a fibromyalgia attack and vice-versa.

It is hard not to get circumstantially depressed when your body limits you in so many ways that you have to rely on others for help and can’t be fully independent anymore. I don’t want to get too technical about fibromyalgia, as that is not the main point of this post, but if it interests anyone I can write a seperate post about it in more detail. However, I will give you some information about this disease, and then try to explain the impact it’s had, and still has, on my life.

According to the National Fibromyalgia Association, 3-6% of the world’s population has fibromyalgia syndrome. That’s somewhere around 300 million people worldwide who suffer from the condition. The NHS believes that 2-4.5% of people in the UK may have fibromyalgia syndrome – between 1.2 million and 2.8 million people. 75-90% of people with fibromyalgia syndrome are women.

Firstly, no two days are the same. I can have a good day, which means that I’ll be awake and out of bed for about 8 hours (good quality sleep is impossible with fibro so I’m usually in bed for about 14 hours, waking every hour, and often awake for long periods of time). During that time awake I’ll do far less than the average person, and if you’ve ever read or heard of the Spoons story in connection with Lyme Disease, then it absolutely explains this illness too. If I manage to have a shower, I’ll need to lie down and rest for about an hour or so straight after, as I’ll be too exhausted to do anything else. I’ll be able to take the dog for a short walk and maybe manage to do some work for a couple of hours after. Or, instead of working, I might be able to meet up with friends for a couple of hours instead. But then that will be it. I might still be awake, but I will be lying down on my bed or the couch, watching something on Netflix, or if I’m really tired, something mindlessly funny on TV. I might be able to read for an hour before bed. I might be able to pick up a few things from the shop and play with Misha on the carpet for half an hour. But that’s basically a good day. For medium days, I might be able to walk Misha but then nothing else, not even read. Or someone else might take Misha out for me and I’ll be able to give just one lesson (I also work as an English tutor), then lie down again straight after. On bad or very bad days, it’s a struggle to get down the corridor to the bathroom. Getting up and dressed is out of the question. I hurt all over. I can’t regulate my body temperature so I’ll either be far too hot or shivering with cold. I have a terrible headache and often stomach ache too – I have sharp pains in certain ‘pressure points’ all over my body. My skin seems to burn. Even rolling over in bed is too painful and too difficult – I don’t have the energy for it or anything else. I can’t even have a conversation. I can’t watch TV or listen to audiobooks – I feel too unwell to bear the sound of either. All I want to do is sleep and sleep – everything else is just unbearable. It is almost exactly like having really bad flu. Except instead of it happening once a year or less, my bad flu happens every couple of weeks and often more. But it wasn’t always like this . . .

I was about 22 and had been going out with my boyfriend for six months. I knew it wasn’t really working and this wasn’t the right relationship for me, even though he was a really good, kind person. We had a difficult breakup and at the end of it, he developed Glandular Fever. He was so unwell with it, he even had to be hospitalised briefly. For him it was very severe, but ended very quickly – about a month in total. He told me to get myself tested, which of course I did. GF is often referred to as ‘the kissing disease’ (‘mono’ in the US) because it’s so easily transferred through saliva and usually affects people in their late teens and early twenties – university students are often its victims. So I was really relieved and quite surprised when I rang through for my results a week later and was told that I was clear. What I didn’t know, however, was that the person on the other end of the line had made a mistake. You have to be very careful to rest and recuperate and build yourself back up slowly with the help of a good diet and extra vitamins, when you have GF. Most people know that. What they don’t know, however, is that if you ignore the signs of GF, don’t slow down or worse, go through increasing amounts of stress, not only do you not recuperate but you go on to develop something much more sinister: as in my case, fibromyalgia, or GF led fibromyalgia, which has a much lower recovery rate of 15%.

I struggled for years. My life became a nightmare. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. The doctors didn’t know what was wrong with me. I went for test after test. I decided it had to be all in my head since nothing was coming back positive. One private doctor I saw over a few months told me I was describing the exact symptoms of fibromyalgia. He was adamant that fibro was the cause. Unfortunately, there is no treatment for it, no cure and I couldn’t afford to keep seeing him. Subsequent doctors claimed that this illness, at the time referred to as Yuppie Flu, didn’t exist. I was appalled. I felt like I was dying and now I was being told that my illness was a fake one invented by malingerers! By now I was working full-time as a classroom teacher for 5-6 year olds and, unlike the other teachers, I wasn’t just exhausted. I was constantly ill. I spent weekends, half terms and holidays in bed. I didn’t even have the energy to make myself a meal in the evenings. I was taking more and more time off work. And then finally, in a desperate attempt to hold on to my job, I started taking painkillers. At first a normal dose, but I was taking it every day. It helped a lot. Then gradually the effect wore off. So I took more. And more and more and more. My addiction to OTC painkillers wiped out most of my 30s. By the time they were ending and Hurt was published, I was taking three entire packets a day. I’d tried to come off them a hundred times but it was too hard. The withdrawal effects, on top of the flare ups of my chronic illness, were just too ghastly to endure. I finally ended up in rehab and got off the stuff but it was then that the true nature of my physical illness, no longer masked by pills, became apparent. I was also at the time, more suicidal than I’d ever been in my life. So, at the same psychiatric hospital, I finally agreed to try the world of psychiatry’s very last resort – ECT (electroconvulsive therapy or electroshock therapy). And so in April 2014, five years ago now, I underwent 8 courses of ECT – given a general anaesthetic and then fed electricity into my brain through wires attached to my head while I convulsed.

The ECT didn’t work. It left me with some major short-term memory problems and word retrieval problems (the worst thing for a writer!), but what really affected me were the general anaesthetics. Although I didn’t know it at the time, a general anaesthetic often causes a major relapse, or worsening of symptoms, in people who suffer from illnesses that fall beneath the chronic-fatigue umbrella term. I now know so many people with CF who, after having an operation with general anaesthetic, spent more time in bed recovering from the effect the general anaesthetic had on their CF symptoms than from the operation itself. And that’s after just one operation. I’d had the equivalent of eight.

I spent a year in bed. Thankfully, my psychiatrist had just returned from sabbatical after taking a year off to care for her two teenage daughters. They were so unwell that they’d had to drop out of school, resort to homeschooling and at times could barely walk. After a barrage of different tests, they had been diagnosed as suffering from chronic fatigue syndrome. And my psychiatrist had come back from sabbatical after researching her daughters’ disease for a year, now almost an expert on the condition. Despite feeling painfully sorry for those two young girls (thankfully now doing much better), it was one of the best coincidences of my life. My brilliant psychiatrist not only became the doctor of my mind but of my body too. Thank God, as there were, and still are, medical professionals out there who refused to believe that these chronic fatigue illnesses even exist.

Despite there being thousands of patients in the UK, like the ones visited by my psychiatrist during her research, who live permanently bedbound, often unable to even lift their own head from the pillow, diagnosed with no other illness than the one I suffer from, there are still some medical professionals and large portions of the general public who refuse to believe it is a genuine illness, or that it even exists. Because there is, as yet, no clear test to prove that a patient suffers from CF, ME or Fibro, many people would rather believe that all those suffering from it are malingerers, choosing to live half lives or to stay in bed the entire time. It is such a cruel, shocking, stupid and uncaring reaction – but it’s one that has a major impact on us sufferers – even at times costing us funding needed into proper research. I have had days when I didn’t even have the strength to roll over in bed. Or have sat stuck on the floor, totally incapable of getting to my feet. To be unable to live and do things that others take for granted and that you used to, too, and then be told that you’re just malingering or that it’s ‘all in your mind’ is something I find and will always find impossible to accept.

Depression and Me

The prospect of death was always terrifying but when you are that depressed, you see it as the only way out . . .

The prospect of death was always terrifying but when you are that depressed, you see it as the only way out.

I was inspired to write books about mental illness because it is something I have experienced first hand, something I have grown up with, something which came very close to destroying me. As a child I hated school and spent a lot of time writing stories when I should have been listening in class. Although I didn’t realise I was depressed back then, I found the daily routine stifling and wanted to spend more and more time on my own. By the time I reached secondary school I would lock myself in the toilets at break time just to get away from people. I felt increasingly alienated from my friends around me and out of step with the rest of my peers.

I knew there was something wrong but I didn’t know what it was and I blamed myself for not being more like the others. Finally, things reached breaking point, and I quit school completely at the age of fourteen and did my GCSEs and A levels by distance learning. It was around this time that I started to write – books about mental illness and suicide – a reflection of my deeply troubled state of mind. I studied French Literature at King’s College London and although I found the freedom of university easier to cope with than school, I was still desperately unhappy. My depression peaked in my final year and, just after graduating, I found myself walking around campus, looking up at the tallest buildings, trying to work out which one would guarantee me a fatal fall. In the end I chickened out, wrote a suicide note, and instead went to bed with several bin liners tied over my head which slipped off during the night, sparing me my life.

However it wasn’t until I was twenty that I finally made the link between the horror of my existence and the term depression. I remember wanting to die for a very long time. In fact I think that wanting to die is the wrong expression. The prospect of death was always terrifying and completely final. But when you are so depressed that life is completely and utterly intolerable, you see it as the only way out. It’s like being stuck between a rock and a hard place – you’re terrified of dying, of never seeing your family again, of destroying your family as well as yourself, of the pain, of the terrible irreversibility of it all – but you know you cannot go on living. Being alive is simply, totally and absolutely unbearable and you get to the point where you would do anything, and I mean anything to make it go away.

I finally found the courage to speak out about my depression in my twenties and went to seek help. The first doctor I saw to told me I was not depressed at all. Like most severely depressed people I had become expert at hiding my emotions and so the doctor told me that there was no way a depressed person could smile and chat and be so eloquent. Instead of offering me help, he offered me a job! Being told my depression was a figment of my imagination was like a fist in the stomach. But I went on to see other doctors and was referred to counsellors, psychologists and psychiatrists. Over the last fifteen years I have tried many different types of therapy and more than twenty different anti-depressants, many in combination, as well as anti-psychotics and mood-stabilisers. In 2014, I even agreed to undergo ECT (electroconvulsive therapy). Some medication I’ve had to quit due to intolerable side-effects, some have made my condition worse, many have had no effect whatsoever. Occasionally a drug has helped for a while before wearing off. However, my official diagnosis is ‘severe refractory depression with bipolar tendencies’ which is rare. Most mood disorders respond well to drug and/or therapy.

Although the illness is always there, these days I am so much better than I’ve ever been at any other period during my life (see my other post Loss and Recovery). On the whole, writing about my experiences through fictional characters has proved an amazingly cathartic experience. It has also allowed me to share what I have been through with others. Even though all my books are fictional, I draw heavily on my own experiences and this has definitely helped me make my writing more real. Whilst in the throes of depression, I often force myself to sit down at my computer and write down exactly what I’m feeling, the exact thoughts that are going through my mind. Later, I try to incorporate those sections into the book I’m writing. Since my very first book came out, so many people have contacted me to say ‘I went through that’ or ‘it was like reading a book about myself.’ This allows me to talk to them about my own struggle with clinical depression and for readers to tell me about theirs. It has been an absolute revelation to discover there are so many people who suffer or have suffered from some form of mental health problem and it has been so reassuring to realise that not only am I not alone, but I am actually in extremely good company! Mental illness is alienating by definition. Breaking out of that bubble and making contact with other sufferers is an enormous and crucial first step.

It has been a long road, shuffled from doctor to doctor and from therapist to therapist and trying just about every medication in the book. However, I still hold out good hope that I will eventually be free of this illness: advances in the treatment of mental health conditions are being made all the time. Nowadays, the vast majority of people who seek help get better very quickly and there really is a lot of help available out there if you have the courage to speak out.

Originally published in SANE’s magazine, Your Voice

Mental illness is still a taboo subject, however it is a biologically-based brain disorder which cannot be overcome through willpower and is not related to a person’s character or intelligence. The simple fact is that mental illness is rapidly on the increase and is fast becoming a massive problem in today’s high-pressured society. A staggering one in four people suffers from some kind of mental illness, 20% of all deaths of young people are by suicide, and suicide is the most common form of death in men under 35. In this country alone, there are estimated to be 24 000 cases of attempted suicide by adolescents each year, which is one attempt every 20 minutes. If you think you or someone you know may be suffering from depression, there are many sources of help available. Depression is an illness, and like most illnesses it can be treated and cured. But you really do have to speak out. This is the only way to get help. If you often feel unhappy, you need to speak to an adult. You could speak to a parent, a guardian, a foster parent, a teacher, a friend’s parent, a doctor, a school nurse, an adult you trust, or contact one of the organisations listed here. Millions of people in the UK and all over the world suffer from a mental health problem. You are not alone.

Welcome to this Blog

This is a new path I’ve decided to take, and I hope you’ll be willing to come along with me . . .

This is a new path I’ve decided to take, and I hope you’ll be willing to come along with me . . .

I’ve been thinking about starting a blog for quite some time now – partly because in the past, I always kept in touch with my readers via Facebook, but now that I hardly use it anymore, I need to find a new way. Partly too because I don’t want all my writing to always be restricted to the confines of a novel. And finally because I thought it might be interesting for readers, writing enthusiasts and others to find out in greater detail all that goes into planning, writing and publishing one’s own book, as well as how all that fits into an author’s general life. I am also very aware that due to illness and good old writer’s block, it’s now been a whole six years since I’ve had a new book published, and I feel I owe my readers something else while they wait, as well as regular updates on how that latest book is progressing.

I do feel guilty towards my readers at times. At least towards the very faithful ones who have read all of my published books and who have patiently been waiting for me to give them a seventh since my last book was published in 2013. They are the ones who mean so much to me, since they have been sending me messages through my website and Facebook account for years, and hung on to me as an online friend even when my posts went from regular writing updates and snippets from my seventh book, to just the occasional post about my puppy, Misha. Especially when many of you may have absolutely no interest in dogs at all. But even if you haven’t continued to read my posts there, perhaps you have still continued to hope that I will someday write another book, and for that I am extremely grateful. Grateful, too, for those who haven’t read any of my books but have discovered me online nonetheless, perhaps through a shared interest in writing or creating, and have become my friends, even though we may have never met. In starting up this blog it’s for you guys that I write, because you have supported me over the years and many of you who’ve read my books have taken the trouble to write to me. And I write here because I also have things to say which don’t always fall neatly into the structure of a novel and also because, in a strange way, I feel as if I owe it to you.

However, I should underline the fact that this blog is not here to replace my novels. A blog can’t do that, anyway. It’s here to keep those interested up-to-date on my writing. It’s also in order to ask you questions, so that you can help me with my writing. I’m not only going to be posting about my work-in-progress, but if that’s all you’re interested in then that’s absolutely fine. Just do please subscribe to this blog all the same and feel free to delete the posts you are not interested in straight out of your inbox when they arrive. I won’t be able to let you know on Facebook every time I post here, as those of you who are still following me closely know that I’ve completely fallen out of love with FB, that I hate all the ads and the way the newsfeed gets so cluttered. So in a way, this blog is to replace how active I used to be on FB too. I promise not to flood anyone’s inbox, though. I don’t know yet precisely what my upload rhythm will be, but I will work it out very soon and let you know – once or twice a week should suffice. In addition, as most of my posts will be non-fiction, it shouldn’t be too problematic for non-English speakers to use Google Translate (see bottom of the sidebar). I know I have many readers from abroad who only know me from Forbidden in translation (11 languages now – yay!) and you have been so good and so patient with me that I really want you to be able to access this blog too. Feel free to write comments in your own language and I will just use the translation tool on my side to understand and respond.

So what is this blog actually going to be about? Well, it’s an important question but not one I can give a precise answer to yet. As you can see, I’ve already written three posts in three different categories, but there are going to be many more categories than the ones you see now. Writing updates about Book 7 are a promise and in my first post in that category, I shall attempt to explain why I haven’t published anything since 2013. It’s for more complicated reasons than you might think. A lot of things in that area of my life have changed, making it far, far harder for me just to get my work published now. But I’ve also not tried to get anything published since 2013, mainly because of health problems. But I’ll explain it all, I promise, and will give you regular writing updates as well as excerpts from my current book. I will also be asking you for some help with the plotlines and even the subject matters that I write about. I think it’s going to be fun! However, the reason I can’t give you a more precise answer to what the blog is going to be about is that, for the moment, this is a new path I’ve decided to take, and I hope you’ll be willing to come along with me. I will be guided by your interests as well as my own. I will let you tell me what you would like to read about and I will write about any topic that takes my fancy! So yes, you can expect to find quite a few puppy tips and dog stories – my 2 y.o pup Misha is the only reason I’m still here after some of the mental and physical health hurdles I’ve had to endure in the last few years – so he is such a huge part of my life that it’s impossible to separate the two. Eventually I may even try writing some fresh, new fiction just for this community – short stories without too much plot which are mainly to help you get into a better head space, a more relaxed and calm state of mind. I will also be writing about mental health in general and will share everything that has helped me in my recovery; I will welcome other people’s stories as well as any questions.

Since my own terrifying journey through depression began, when I was only seventeen, I have finally reached a place where I am more stable and recovered just about enough to be able to look back and discuss the subject with more objectivity. Although it still lives with me, it’s not such a live fuse in my life anymore, no longer waiting in the shadows to be ignited by some unfortunate incident or a torrent of negative thoughts. I don’t know if that’s due to wisdom come with age, or the many different pills I still have to take, or just the fact that I’ve learned to be more observant of the very simple things in life that we enjoy. But the last couple of years have been the most peaceful and stable I’ve had in my life so far. I’m not cured of course, I am still mildly depressed most of the time and I struggle with many things people usually take for granted. I still have to be very careful about the situations I put myself in, about what I read and watch, about my thought patterns, about getting enough rest and sleep. But my simple daily routine with Misha, which forces me to be out in nature for a couple of hours every single day and gives me someone other than myself to focus on, has somehow calmed my thoughts and brought me back to a much slower pace of life – one where there is the room and time to notice and be grateful for all the small things which we so often take for granted. And a lot of these things are ones that I strongly believe would be helpful to everyone – or at least everyone who leads a life that is not quite perfect, or who finds themselves getting down, stressed or overwhelmed from time to time. So that is what this blog will be about too.

So yes, I’m better. And looking forward to going on this new journey with you.