Don't Panic

I started on antidepressants on the 3rd August 2016 following a relationship break up and finally admitting to myself that I had a problem and I needed to get help with it

Within a week or two I noticed huge improvements, maybe it was a placebo effect, maybe I just was just so desperate to feel better that I convinced myself I was feeling better. Or maybe, maybe the medication was actually doing its job

I wasn't able to answer that question until a few weeks ago. At this point, on the advice of my doctor, I reduced the dose of antidepressants from 50mg a day to 50mg every other day. It took about 4 days for me to start feeling like absolute shit again. And within a week things took another turn, this time it was a panic attack

Of course I didn't recognise this feeling as a panic attack, I've never had a panic attack. It was only when describing the symptoms to other people that it became clear what was happening

I was at home, alone, and looking for a headshot photo for my first article in Man V Life magazine, the little picture that shows who wrote the masterpiece above. So I was looking through the 5000 photos on my phone, not an exaggeration, I actually have 5000 photos and that's only in the last year.....some great memories, some wonderful experiences and some heartbreaking images, reminders of what once was

It was at this point that I began to shake. Now I don't use the heating in my house when my daughter isn't here, I don't really feel the cold...plus I'm tight, so I initially put it down to being cold. But I wasn't cold. My eyes started to well up, I couldn't control the shaking, I felt like how I would imagine a heart attack feels. I had absolutely no control over my body, I couldn't move, I couldn't even clench a fist. It genuinely felt like I was about to die...and I don't say that lightly because believe it or not I'm not trying to be dramatic.

I felt worse than I had felt before I started taking the antidepressants, feeling completely lost and totally useless.

I'd reduced my medication on advice of a doctor, not a website or the opinion of a friend, of a friend, of a friend. And do you know what, the only person telling me to reduce it was the doctor. Everything else I had read or heard said I should have waited at least 4-6 months 'after' I started feeling better before even considering a drop in medication. So I went back to taking the pills every day

A few days later, sat at work, triggered by nothing, I began to shake again. It was 11:30 and I couldn't go anywhere until at least 12. I made 2 or 3 trips to the toilet, I went to the kitchen to wash up a glass that didn't need washing up (well it probably did, I don't wash it often) and I struggled not to drop it or just squeeze it between my hands.

At 12 o'clock I was out the door quicker than a Kwik-Fit fitter, I had to escape, I couldn't speak to anyone, I couldn't stop, I just had to get out. Now I've since read that the best thing for a panic attack is to sit still, breathe deeply, concentrate on breathing and trying to calm down. What did I do? I went for a 5 mile run, the quickest run I've ever done, I got home, had lunch, showered and went back to work. As if nothing had happened.

The next morning I couldn't get out of bed, I couldn't face the idea of going to work, I didn't want to see anyone, or do anything. This was the turning point when I realised I needed to go back to the doctors.

I walked to the doctors for 8am, I hoped that by getting there early I might just be able to see someone straight away. This was not to be, in fact the only appointment available was a 'sit and wait' appointment at 11am. So now I had 3 hours to kill, I guess I could have gone home and watched television, but I didn't, instead I walked, and walked. I walked just over 10 miles, listening to music, trying to take my mind off of everything.

At 11am, I saw a different doctor, I explained my situation and my circumstances. She immediately said I needed to increase my antidepressants not reduce them, she told me I needed some time off of work, and gave me some advice on other treatments that could help. I went away feeling like things were going to get better again

I've walked around 60 miles since that appointment last week. I'm far from the fittest person in the world, but I just don't tire from walking. A few months ago when things were finishing with my relationship, I went for a walk. I walked 26 miles.

So I've been off of since last week, I've increased my medication, I've started online cognitive behaviour therapy and I've finally reached the point where I am going to seek some counselling.

I actually started writing this blog last week. I've added bits here and there but mostly I'd forgotten about it. I am now finishing this having calmed down from another minor panic attack, this time brought on by the realisation that I was in the house on my own...a situation that occurs at least 3-4 nights a week. Why has it effected me tonight? I've no idea.

I'm definitely feeling better for increasing my medication, I've been exercising, ok my diet hasn't been great but I've been keeping busy, doing everything that I should be doing. But what you can't push into a few weeks is 'time'. Time to get over a past relationship. Time for medication to take full effect. Time to try and fix yourself after years of being broken.

As some of you may have seen, my first blog about depression was recently published in an online men's lifestyle magazine called Man V Life. The content resonated with the creator of the magazine and he deemed it important enough to share with the readers. I have since had more messages of support from people, telling me how brave I am, telling me how proud I should be of speaking up about this issue, but at the moment I'm still not sure....

See Amelia knows I am off of work, she stays with me 3 nights a week so she knows when I'm wearing jeans to drop her off to school that I'm not on my way to the office. But I haven't told her why I'm off. I haven't told her that I'm not well, because I don't look unwell. Im not being sick. I don't have the flu. But as brave as people might think I am to tell the world I'm depressed. As proud as I should be that I am prepared to tell people that I've had some really really bad days. I cannot tell my 7 year old that her Daddy isn't a superhero...

I cannot tell her that I get sad for no reason...

I cannot tell her that I've had days when I haven't been able to get out of bed because I've just felt so fucking useless

I cannot tell her that she is the thing that has kept me going...

I just can't