We lost our baby in the early hours of 16th February 2020. It’s now nearly a month on and, for the most part, we’re doing ok. But there are still dark moments and challenges that we didn’t know we’d ever have to face. But I’m learning that it’s just all part of this lonely, unpredictable, brutal process. And that everyone’s story is different.

This is our 3rd miscarriage in less than a year. The two previous miscarriages were tough but this one has taken us to the brink and back. The first few days were indescribably difficult. They didn’t allow for reflection or thought; I just had to survive them which, looking back, was almost a relief as all I could focus on was what was happening in the present.

Since then, it’s been a long and challenging month. The physical symptoms finally eased off about a week after I first miscarried. I didn’t expect it to go on that long or to be that uncomfortable but, after speaking to the hospital, I understood that I just had to be patient and that eventually the bleeding would stop. And it did. I didn’t know how heavy, relentless or painful the bleeding would be. But I also wasn’t prepared for how bereft I would feel once the bleeding stopped because it was only then that I could even begin to process what had actually happened. And that realisation was more painful than anything physical that I’d experienced up to that point.

The best way to describe it is that it’s like a hollowness that leaves you feeling vulnerable and lost. I didn’t know what to do with myself or how to be. I didn’t want to see friends as I just didn’t know what to say; how could I possibly sit and chat when I felt like a part of me was missing. It just didn’t feel right. So I stayed close to home. I avoided places where I might have to make small talk; I spoke only to my husband and my parents; I shopped online as I couldn’t bring myself to go into any shops for fear of having to speak to someone. I cancelled plans and spent all my time with my family. But it wasn’t all bad. I enjoyed the spring sunshine and found something hopeful and reassuring in the daffodils and the snow drops. Some days I’d feel guilty for feeling happy or blessed and other days I’d hold onto that feeling as tightly as I could. I tried to appreciate what I had and to let go of the guilt and sadness I felt surrounding the miscarriage. One thing that has really helped is going back to church. We now go to mass every Sunday morning and it’s my time to take a breath, to reflect without distraction, to take stock of my blessings and to pray for the baby that was never meant to be.

And I thought this was how the healing would continue until I had to take a routine pregnancy test to ensure that the miscarriage had been successful. I took the test three weeks after we lost the baby and it came back positive; not the result we anticipated. And for a split second after taking the test I thought maybe this had all been a mistake and that maybe I might still be pregnant. But the images of the initial miscarriage played on repeat in my mind until I had to accept, for the second time, that I wasn’t pregnant.

A further scan concluded that I still had ‘live’ pregnancy tissue in my uterus which hadn’t yet come away. And so nearly 4 weeks after the initial miscarriage I was booked in for an operation for the ‘surgical management of miscarriage’. It was strange being back in hospital; as they took me into the anesthetic bay, pre op, one of the doctors asked me how far along I was. It was so unexpected. I looked up at her and answered that I’d lost the baby almost 4 weeks ago; she was mortified and, more than that, I could see the pity in her eyes. I just needed it done.

After coming round from the operation, in the recovery bay, I burst into tears. I was inconsolable. I felt such loss, such relief, such emptiness. It was completely overwhelming. But once the crying stopped, I immediately started to feel better. It felt like I was finally able to start moving on; like I could finally let go of the last month or so. I know it’s not that easy but there was just this feeling of freedom that we hadn’t had before. A sense that we could move on and start to build back. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make up for the loss of the baby or let go of my memory of him after the initial miscarriage but I know that we will be ok. There will, of course, be further tests and perhaps they’ll find out why this keeps happening; maybe they won’t. Maybe we’ll decide to try again or maybe we’ll decide that enough’s enough. But whatever happens, I’ll talk about it when I need to, share my feelings when I can and continue hold onto and be grateful for what’s most important to me.

After experiencing two miscarriages last year I thought I knew the drill. I thought I knew what to expect and how it would feel. I thought that if, God forbid, it ever happened again I’d know the signs and I’d be able to deal with it.

But it doesn’t work like that. I’m currently sat in A&E with heavy bleeding, clotting and serious abdominal pain. I’m nearly 12 weeks pregnant. I thought this time we might be ok. I’d experienced some bleeding earlier in the pregnancy; we had two scans to check everything was ok, and it was. A little foetus, with a healthy heartbeat, kicking around with the strength of a baby who wants to cling on. But it just wasn’t meant to be. As I look back I realise the signs were there. The sporadic bleeding, the inconsistency of the typical first trimester symptoms, the gut feeling that something just wasn’t right. But I hoped with every fibre of my being. I tried to stay positive. I let the detection of a positive heartbeat lull me into a false sense of security. And I guess that’s normal. But as I sit here now, I’m kicking myself for letting my guard down.

***

When I wrote the above I didn’t know for sure that I’d lost the baby. But I know now. It’s been a hellish 24 hours, during which I’ve had to say goodbye to my tiny little baby boy. He wasn’t able to hold on anymore. I caught a glimpse of his tiny little hand as I stood in the bathroom, just after I lost him, paralysed by grief and shock. The hospital staff were incredibly kind; they hugged me and reassured me that, given time, I’d be ok. But that feeling of loss is insurmountable. It’s something I don’t think I’ll ever fully process.

I was trying to describe the moment I lost the baby to my husband and all I could manage was that it was like an immediate, physical hollowness. I just knew. And in that moment I let myself feel however I needed to feel. I screamed, I cried, I fell to my knees. I let the nurses hug me and I listened to their kind words. I felt the hurt.

It’s such a strange and painful process; your body almost takes over and you find yourself on auto-pilot, going through the motions. Physically, there’s an incredible amount of bleeding caused by the uterus contracting. In fact, it’s so overwhelming that it’s all you can think about. The loss takes a temporary back seat as you muddle through the bleeding, the doctor’s examinations and the pain. It’s like the body’s way of protecting you from the emotional trauma by giving you something more immediate to focus on.

Eventually the physical extremes subside and the reality of what happened becomes more apparent; it’s like a shadow that starts to shift back into focus.

***

It’s been about another 24 hours since I wrote the above. I was discharged from hospital yesterday evening. Leaving the hospital was more emotional than I had anticipated. I was scared to be back in the real world; the thought of having to speak to anyone was particularly difficult because what could I possibly say? It also felt like I was leaving a part of me behind; like I was abandoning the baby. I know that’s not the case and that it might sound completely irrational but that’s how I felt. While I was in hospital the baby, wherever he was, felt close by. Suddenly, I became acutely aware that this was it; that we were leaving behind everything that could have been. It was heartbreaking.

The physical symptoms of miscarriage have been more intense than anyone could ever have prepared me for. The labour-like contractions, the cramps, the bleeding. It’s relentless and although the pain has started to ease off I think I’d actually rather deal with the physical pain than the emotional trauma of what’s happened.

Immediately after I lost the baby, I was consumed by an overwhelming sense of guilt which followed me around for the next few days. I couldn’t work out what it was that I wish I’d said or done to make things better and that sense of remorse really troubled me. But as the hours passed, I realised that what I wanted to say, as the nurses took away that tiny little life was, ‘please be careful with him’. That’s it. That’s all I wanted to say. And just acknowledging that has brought with it a sense of peace that I wasnt expecting; of course they were going to be careful. The hospital stepped in to protect him when I couldn’t and that’s ok; I’m not to blame.

The enormity of the situation continues to take my breath away. I genuinely don’t know where to start to process what’s happened. But what I do know is that it will be ok. I know I have to reach out when I’m struggling – to my husband, parents and friends who all want to help. In time, I will speak to a professional who can help me find a more long-term sense of perspective and acceptance. But, above all else, I will try to be patient and kind to myself. I’ve lost a part of myself over the course of the last year or so as we’ve battled with miscarriage, loss, recovery and pregnancy. I need a break. I need to practice some self care. So, I’m going to take that spa break and book that fancy meal. I’m going to finish my counselling course and organise a weekend away with friends. I’m going to give myself time. And, most importantly, I’m going to try and live in the moment. To give my beautiful little boy a hug at every possible opportunity and to keep reminding myself that things will, eventually, be ok.

I don’t know if it’s ok to talk about this. It’s one of those subjects that we, as a society, seem to avoid. We might admit to someone, even close friends, that we’ve experienced a miscarriage but that’s it. No detail. Some awkwardness. Shaking off the loss with a, ‘these things happen’, type response. But the reality, at least for me, is that I feel bereft, hollow and like I want to shout my grief from the rooftops to anyone who’ll listen.

After all, that’s what we’re encouraged to do – to talk about our grief. Yet this is an area that seems to be kept off the agreed social agenda; the elephant in the room.

Until I had my first child, and I met a group of mothers with their own stories to tell, I didn’t realise how common miscarriage was. Up until that point I’d been lucky. I’d never experienced it and, although I was sympathetic, I didn’t really understand how it might feel. I suppose, like anything, until you experience something yourself it’s difficult to imagine the reality.

I suffered my first miscarriage a couple of months ago. I was in the very early stages of pregnancy, (which I know, if it was ever going to happen, was a blessing), but it made me feel like the loss was, somehow, less valid. I didn’t feel like I had the right to grieve. I was only about 4 weeks along when I noticed things were changing; I wasn’t feeling as nauseous or as tender. I tried not to assume the worst but I knew. That same night I started to miscarry and, to be honest, it lasted a lot longer than I ever expected. The physical impact was tough but the emotional impact was even tougher. I felt empty. Like I’d failed. Like I’d let everyone down.

I didn’t expect to feel like that.

And I certainly wasn’t prepared for the immense sense of loss that I felt. And I know that in many ways I had it relatively easy – that many women have experienced something so much worse. But, whatever your story, nothing can prepare you for the stark reality of miscarriage: the industrial sized sanitary pads, the cramping, the pain, the unpredictability. The sheer loneliness of it all. And with all the thousands of books, articles and apps for newly pregnant women, you’d think information and support about miscarriage would be a lot easier to find.

And then it happened again a few months later. I was about 7 weeks pregnant this time and I’d been feeling really good; like this was the ‘one’, until I noticed I’d started spotting and then, within 24 hours, everything had changed. And this time it hit me harder.

After an urgent, yet inconclusive, trip to the hospital I went for a scan at a private clinic. You know, one of those places full of balloons and teddies and excited couples, desperate to see a black and white scan of their little miracle. And then there was us. We knew something was wrong and that it was likely to be bad news. I tried to avoid making direct eye contact with the other couples; instead, I gazed at the pink and blue celebratory balloons and I prayed that maybe we were wrong, that everything would be ok. Initially, the scan didn’t reveal very much; it certainly didn’t give us the clarity we so desperately needed.

Maybe it was too early to identify the foetus. Maybe I’d already miscarried. Maybe it was an ectopic pregnancy. They didn’t know. So they sent us home and told us to wait until we could be seen again at the hospital a few days later. My heart broke. Walking back through the clinic, couples staring at us and praying that they weren’t about to experience something similar. Pity. Relief (that it was someone else and not them). Fear.

We drove home and waited for nature to take its course, which it, inevitably, did. It was agonising, raw and, ultimately, heart-breaking.

And again, I know how much more horrendous miscarriage can be depending on the situation. This is just my story. And I’m only telling it because there are so few stories out there and sometimes it can help to hear about someone else’s experience. If nothing else, at least we can support each other and work together to end the unrelenting silence on such a brutal, isolating and lonely issue.

I’m still working through my most recent miscarriage but I’m ok. Or at least I will be. I guess, for me, being honest is the first step towards moving on so here it is, whether it’s ok to talk about it or not.

Flashback to 3 years ago:

It was May 2016 and I was in a very dark place. Guilt had forced me to resign from my job. I was afraid to leave the house unaccompanied. I was still suffering numerous daily panic attacks. I’d been referred to an out patient clinic for psychotherapy treatment. I was too embarrassed to meet up with friends. Things were tough.

But I’d also just got married and, in a twist that superceded all expectations, I didn’t have to deal with anxiety at all for a few days. I was allowed to enjoy my wedding day; it was proof that I could eventually feel happy again. It was a welcome ray of hope in an otherwise terrifying time in my life.

However, being anxiety free didn’t last very long. In fact, a few days after the wedding I was riddled with it again and couldn’t face leaving the house. It was heart-breaking. I really thought I might have already come out of the other side; that I might have beaten it. That’s the thing about mental illness. Because you can’t see it, progress and recovery is difficult to measure. Trust me, it can have you believing you can conquer the world one minute and then convince you that you’re worthless and that the world would be a better place without you, the next.

During those long, post-wedding days I felt so lost. It was slowly beginning to dawn on me that maybe I wasn’t going to solve this on my own. That maybe I was actually quite ill; that maybe I needed proper help. I didn’t want to admit it. I believed a positive attitude could solve anything so why wasn’t it working now? I was battling harder than I knew I could so why wasn’t I winning? Why wasn’t my usual mantra of, ‘powering through’, working anymore? As I continued to feel like I was losing a grip on reality, I became more and more afraid of the things around me that were out of my control.

Noise, for example, was a huge trigger. We were in the New Forest on our mini-moon. We’d just had a lovely meal and I genuinely felt ok. I knew I wasn’t myself but I was functioning, I was grateful to be well enough to take the trip and I had my husband there to help me if I needed him. But once we eventually went to bed that night my anxiety started to take hold. I could hear music playing in a nearby pub. It wasn’t very loud and, of course, it’s their right to play music on a Friday night but I couldn’t cope. I felt like the music was searing through my soul. It was devastating. Painful. Intolerable. I wanted to scream. It was all I could think about. I was crying, begging my husband to find a way to make it stop. I’d lost all perspective and I knew it, but I couldn’t change it. Not in the moment.

Time had a similar effect. I became afraid of it. I think it stemmed from counting down the hours before work each morning when I would have to leave for school. I became obsessed to the point where we had to remove all of the clocks from our house. I was tormented by a constant awareness of time; it felt like it was mocking me. It was a continual reminder that my life was on hold while the anxiety took over. Even checking my phone became an issue. I’d have to close my eyes when unlocking my phone so as not to be confronted by the time and would desperately try my hardest to avoid seeing the time when checking emails, or social media etc. It became another unrelenting, irrational, unnecessary, but very real, battle. And in the end I avoided using my phone or my laptop, further cutting myself off from the world around me.

Flash forward to May 2019 and life couldn’t be more different. I still have moments of anxiety but that’s all they are: moments. They don’t consume me anymore, not like they used to. I’m much more aware of how I’m feeling and will speak up if I start to feel anxious. I don’t hide it; I try not to let it fester as, in my experience, that’s what gives it power. I no longer take my negative thoughts at face value; I challenge them and look for the facts hidden beneath my negative self perception. It’s all a process. But I’m a better person now; to those around me and to myself. I feel so much more, authentically, ‘me’ and that’s pretty liberating. We even have clocks in the house again! Don’t get me wrong, it didn’t happen overnight and it continues to take a lot of work but things are good.

What I’m really trying to get across is that you can beat mental illness. And the reason I continue to write and talk about it is because I really needed to hear about experiences like this when things were at their worst. They say time’s a healer and it’s true. But, when it comes to mental illness, talking about it, normalising it, asking for help and being kind to yourself is just as powerful.

As anyone who’s read my blogs will know, it’s been 3 years and a bucket load of recovery since I was last in the classroom. When I look back at who I was then, the teacher version of myself, I just want to scream at her to take a breath. To know that it will all be ok. That needing to be consistently outstanding for fear of disappointing those around you just isn’t sustainable. That the students you teach will do just as well if you contribute 80% as opposed to 100%. That you don’t have anything to prove. That it’s ok to say no.

I used to have to attend meetings with the sole aim of diarising future meetings. Often these meetings would take place at 7am because that was when I got to school, (as it was the only way of getting through part of what I needed to do before the teaching day began), and that became the norm. It was part of the culture. The earlier you arrived, the more dedicated you were. It became a competition. Underhand comments were often made about those who turned up just before 8.30am; they were considered less didicated and, embarrassingly, I started to buy into it. Yet they were the ones who picked up a coffee on their way into work. They had time for breakfast. They had time to catch up with family. They had energy. They had the right idea. They HAVE the right idea. It’s not a competition.

I would be sent an agenda before every meeting and would be expected to turn up with forms filled out, data analysed, minutes pre recorded. Just so that there was a paper trail of every meeting and so that each meeting ‘served a purpose’. And I didn’t question it. I was drowning in admin but I made sure I completed every task. I was told I helped ‘set the standard’ and that was enough for me to justify the workload. In fact I often went above and beyond. But all that did was create a rod for my own back because each time I did that, it became the new norm. It was a vicious cycle.

I don’t think it’s any one person’s fault; I think, in some cases, schools can become so fixated on achieving, ‘outstanding’, that the drive behind certain decisions can become skewed. Often with the best intentions. For me, it meant that iniatives came thick and fast and, each time, I had to try and sell them to my team. They were already under so much pressure that I just felt like I was adding to it. Which, in turn, made me feel guilty and added to my sense of inadequacy. But I didn’t speak up. I chose to fight fires without dealing with the source; I didn’t know how or where to start.

The thing is, I hear about this happening a lot. More than it should. And you wonder who’s actually pulling the strings? Who are we all desperate to impress? Schools in this situation are drowning; it’s not just the staff, it’s everyone. And no one wins. The ultimate accolade of achieving ‘outstanding’ is short lived and it doesn’t change anything on a day to day basis. And if the government must insist on a criteria by which to judge all schools, regardless of the socio-economic climate, the political climate, the ethnic diversity, the funding, then perhaps it’s time that the ofsted criteria was adaptable and reflective of these external factors. More importantly, if we continue down this inspection route, there needs to be a way of assessing staff wellbeing. Because without it, I struggle to believe anything can achieve outstanding.

People can function with a mental illness for years, undetected. In fact, they might not even realise it themselves. But, whether or not you know someone’s struggling, we have to be human before we can be anything else: line manager, boss, teacher, inspector. Yes, the pressure’s on all of us from every angle but that’s not an excuse to take advantage, push for unrealistic targets or make someone too afraid to ask for help.

We often hear these two conflicting opinions in education:

‘This job would be so much easier if we were left to do what we do best. Teach.’

‘Accountability is key.’

I agree with them both but surely there has to be a happy medium? And, ultimately, we have to be accountable for our own wellbeing which, sadly, still seems remiss in many schools. Whatever job we choose to do, we have to be held accountable. Of course. That makes sense. But when every aspect of your profession is under scrutiny it can become suffocating and, in my own experience, you reach the point where you feel like you can’t breathe.

I’d been in my new school for a couple of months and I was drowning. No one knew. I was considered an outstanding teacher. I met all of my deadlines on time. I impressed at open evenings. My staff were happier. Things seemed good. But I couldn’t breathe.

This became more obvious to me after a ‘wellbeing day’ that was organised for the benefit of all staff. In the morning we sat and listened to a talk given by an external motivational speaker who had succeeded in the face of adversity. His message was clear. Whatever you’re going through, other people have been through worse. Positive mindset and determination are the only way to keep going. It broke me. I was doing that. I was always trying to be positive. To focus on the good. To remind myself how lucky I am. Why wasn’t it working? What was wrong with me? It sent me into a spiral of self doubt; I wanted to scream.

In the afternoon we had to choose a wellbeing session to attend. I couldn’t bear the thought of having to make small talk with anyone as I knew, if they looked closely enough, they might see what was really going on. So I chose yoga. But half way through the class I started to cry. I excused myself and by the time I reached the toilets I was convulsing in tears. It was so confusing. I couldn’t understand why something that should’ve been so relaxing was creating so much distress. It didn’t make sense to me.

But it does now. Yoga. Cooking. Origami. Music. They’re all great for wellbeing when you’re well. But focusing on wellbeing isn’t about a quick fix. It’s about the whole person. It’s about asking the difficult questions. It’s about recognising when you’re asking too much of someone. It’s about letting staff know you trust them. It’s not about an hour’s yoga class, despite the best intentions.

It’s also about giving people time to breathe. At around the same time as the yoga class, I remember confiding in an assistant head that I was struggling to keep on top of things – it was the only time I flagged it to anyone – and she replied by saying, ‘But we work this hard during term time because we get some reprieve in the holidays. It’s a small price to pay.’ And then she walked off and I was left wondering what was so wrong with me and why I couldn’t seem to manage.

When I realised I wasn’t coping I knew I needed to see a doctor so I asked my line manager if I could leave ten minutes early one Friday afternoon; I’d only be missing tutor time and I’d make sure I had something ready for whoever was covering. He wasn’t impressed. He asked me to fill in an official form and get it signed off by one of the assistant heads and himself. It then had to go via the Head before it could be approved. I had never taken time off and I had never asked for any extra support. This was the one and only favour I had ever asked for. And with everything else I had to deal with on a daily basis, it felt like an extra, unnecessary hoop to jump through so I didn’t bother. I stayed for tutor time and I missed my appointment. I did see the doctor, eventually, but that was once I was no longer well enough to make it into school. At all.

We need to show compassion. We need to see beyond the targets and the data. We need to see the person sitting in front of us asking for help. Begging for help. If we see the person as opposed to the teacher, we can support them at every level. And what’s great is that you hear about this happening more and more in schools. People are supported and listened to and trusted. That’s the way forward for all of us. I’ve witnessed and experienced it first hand; it’s the people around you that make all the difference. Yes, we have to be held accountable but we’re all still human and we all deserve to be treated as such.

Mental and physical illness are inextricably linked. One doesn’t often exist without the other. Yet we, as a society, are so quick to try and distinguish between the two, usually at the detriment of the psychological symptoms. But they’re both equally as valid, as real and as worthy of understanding and treatment.

Panic attacks are the epitome of how mental illness struggles to exist without physical symptoms. Sometimes when people hear the term, ‘panic attack’, they might simply envisage someone breathing heavily into a paper bag. And for some, that’s the reality. However, for a lot of people, me included, panic attacks are all consuming and completely debilitating. They affect every aspect of life in a very physical way.

The onset of a panic attack can be different for everyone but there are always signs. For me, I initially feel an overriding sense of fear. My heart starts to race and my senses become confused. Everything becomes amplified and completely distorted until I feel like I’m either going to throw up or pass out. And that’s usually when the panic starts to take hold; the psychological makes way for the physical.

Three years ago, the attacks were at their most relentless both mentally and physically. In fact, they became so bad that I started to fear leaving the house. I’d often walk 5 minutes into town and would have to turn back because I could feel an attack coming on. I’d get in the car to make a 10 minute journey and I’d have to pull over within minutes as I’d begin to recognise the signs. Or I’d be trying to get out of the front door to get to work and everything would start to collapse around me. It actually got to the point where I couldn’t leave the house on my own. A successful trip to Sainsbury’s was considered a ‘win’. I was trapped both mentally and physically and it was terrifying. The house was my safe place. Anything outside of that was unpredictable and, therefore, threatening. The illness was winning.

Once the attacks started happening on a more regular basis, the mornings before work were definitely the worst. It was a mental and physical onslaught. I usually woke up at around 5.30am and would, mentally, cling onto every minute between then and when I would have to get up. Each minute that passed was a minute closer to battle. My heart would race and my husband would try and talk things through with me in an attempt to help me see that it would all be ok. By this stage I often suffered with paralysis which meant, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t physically get out of bed. So I’d roll out onto all fours; it soon became the new norm.

Once I’d controlled my breathing I would crawl across the landing to the bathroom and my husband would help me get into the shower. I’d continue to get ready but it was a fight. A battle of wills; physically and psychologically. Eventually, I’d make my way downstairs, put my coat on and collect my bag. But often, by this point, I was exhausted and struggling to breathe. That’s when an attack would spot its opportunity and take hold. But I’m not one to go down without a fight so I’d keep battling. If it meant crawling to the front door I would. If it meant getting my husband to help me to the car because my legs would no longer support me, I would. If it meant being sick and unable to speak, I’d deal with it. Just so that I wasn’t admitting defeat. But, as is now blatently obvious, this wasn’t sustainable. And the physical impact of the illness became stronger than me.

I have always underestimated and played down the physical impact of anxiety. It’s a mental illness after all so the physical stuff is largely arbitrary. Except it’s not. In fact, I think the physical symptoms of any mental illness are there long before the illness makes itself known psychologically. You can’t separate them. But, equally, being aware of their two prong attack is fundamental to understanding and beating the illness: both mentally and physically.

Since writing the blogs and opening up about my experience with anxiety I’ve had a lot of people asking how to support someone they know who is struggling with mental illness. Unfortunately, there is no right answer. But, from my experience, the most effective way to help them is to see the illness as separate from the person, which is a lot easier said than done.

What I mean is; if someone had a broken leg, would you consider the injury to be an extension of their personality? Probably not. The same goes for mental illness. Asking how they are might not be as helpful as asking how their anxiety/depression is. For the person who is suffering, this will help to reinforce the fact that the illness exists as a separate entity; that they aren’t the cause. Of course I’m oversimplifying, but such a small shift in our approach can make a huge difference.

It’s important to continue to see the person behind the illness. They don’t suddenly become someone else. They are still there; it’s just that the illness can start to infiltrate their day to day lives and convince them, and everyone else, that they have fundamentally changed. They haven’t.

Anyone who is struggling needs to be reminded that they are strong, that they matter and that they are not a burden. Someone with a mental illness might struggle with decision making, or socialising or even leaving the house but it’s important not to assume that they can’t do something. Ask how they are before making decisions. Ask about the broken leg before assuming they’re in too much pain to walk. Most people who are dealing with depression or anxiety already feel like a burden so treating them like they are incapable of doing anything for themselves just exacerbates that feeling. The simplest thing to do is just to be there and listen. They might not be able to talk about how they’re feeling; the pain in their leg might be too acute in that moment, but that’s ok. Talking it out can help. Distraction can help. Sometimes just sitting in silence with someone can help. Just don’t force it. Try not to tell them that being inside for days on end is wrong or that they’re making it worse by hiding away; if they could be outside, there’s a good chance they would be.

It’s so difficult for anyone in the support role; sometimes it can feel like all you’re doing is saying and doing the wrong thing. But, I can almost guarantee, that being honest about how you feel is more helpful than avoidance or deflection. It’s such a difficult situation. And every situation is different but I think remembering that the person behind the illness is still very much present is critical. Otherwise their loss of identity, purpose and value is reinforced without question.

I think it’s also important to remind them that the feeling that comes as a result of the illness won’t last, even if they don’t or can’t believe it in the moment. Of course, it will never disappear completely but it will dissipate and, eventually, it won’t be all consuming.

There was a time when I didn’t believe that the anxiety would ever subside but, now, I’m able to understand it better, write about it and even explore ways of supporting people who are facing their own battles. I’ll never be rid of it but that’s ok. It’s something you learn to live with but it’s not who you are. I’m not preaching. In fact, I owe it to my husband who has always seen me, the person, before he sees the anxiety. Even when I couldn’t see myself.

Anxiety and the need for perfection often go hand in hand. However, as we are all well aware, perfection doesn’t exist; it’s a futile ambition. But it’s one that can drive us beyond what’s achievable to a place where nothing we do feels good enough. This in turn feeds the anxiety and gives it space to grow; overcompensating becomes second nature.

It’s a vicious cycle and one that I often find myself trapped in. I can trace the connection between anxiety and the need for perfection back to my first year at primary school. I was a good student; I was academic and diligent from the outset but, to me, that wasn’t enough. I obsessed about not being good enough, about letting people down: teachers, friends, classmates. Everyone. Even at that age, I felt the need to compensate for, what I considered to be, my failings. I was friendly to everyone. Always smiling. I worked harder than most. But I questioned everything.

I worried about everything to the point of irrational behaviour. I would often set myself little tests that, if I passed, would mean everything was going to be ok. For example, at break time I might walk the length of the playground with my eyes closed. If I managed to get from one end to the other without stepping on the grass, it would be a good day. If I didn’t, I expected something bad would happen and, if it did, it was inevitably my fault. It was exhausting. As I got older I continued to rely on irrational logic to determine what kind of day I might have. It was a coping mechanism; a way of deflecting responsibility and undermining the anxiety. Of separating the outcome from myself.

A fundamental characteristic of my anxiety is self-criticism and blame. If something bad happens I automatically assume that it’s a consequence of something I’ve done. As a result, the guilt starts to eat away at you and the anxiety continues to tell you that everything is your fault.

But it soon becomes ‘normal’. And you learn to manage it. You learn to hide the paranoia and the fear of disappointing people. You start to think that everyone feels the same. And that’s what happened to me. For years. I look back at it now and it seems so obvious. The constant worry for the wellbeing of my family and friends when I was very young, the lack of self confidence in my teens, the depression and eating disorders in my early twenties. It all makes sense. It was my way of controlling the anxiety. I had no idea that it was an illness because no one did. People didn’t talk about mental health twenty years ago. It was considered a weakness, something to hide. So I hid it – very convincingly.

In my twenties, my crutch was teaching. It gave me a purpose. It gave me a sense of achievement. I was good at it and I loved it. But when the illness started to encroach on that too, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. My need to overcompensate became debilitating. If a lesson wasn’t outstanding, I considered it a failure. If my students didn’t walk into my classroom excited or leave with a spring in their step, I hadn’t done my job properly. And anyone who works in education knows that these are impossible standards to maintain. I set myself up for failure. And the more positive feedback I received, the higher my expectations became. Until they were impossible. Nothing was good enough. I wanted to walk in a straight line without stepping on the grass. My approach had become irrational and unhealthy.

Fortunately, I don’t feel like this anymore. Or at least, I recognise the signs. I’m more honest with myself about how I’m feeling. I try not to set myself impossible goals. I try not to overcompensate for flaws that only exist in my mind. Sometimes it’s not that easy. But at least I’m aware of it now and can talk about it without guilt or shame. Because it’s all the symptom of an illness, not a personal flaw.

If you’ve never experienced anything like this, I’m guessing it probably sounds a little crazy. But if we don’t talk about it then we won’t know that there’s another way of thinking, of living. We need to own our feelings – without judgement. That’s what I want my little boy to know. If he ever has to go through something similar, I want him to talk about how he feels without the fear of disappointing anyone, including himself. I want him to know that it’s not a failing and that he has nothing to compensate for. Ever. No shame. No judgement. No fear.