I really am a terrible blogger. I go through such peaks and troughs which so closely align with how busy my “real” life is and how my mental health is doing! I probably should be ashamed that it’s been eight months but in the spirit of living in the present, I’m not going to succumb to that kind of thinking.
The last eight months has been pretty amazing truth be told. I’ve finished up at uni and got an amazing job where I legitimately say I am a professional feminist. G has started school, E & N have moved into new classes, F is now in second year and will make his subject choices this year. They constantly amaze me with their capacity to love and to learn.Our Scouting life has progressed too and I now lead a small but perfectly formed local group. Life is good!
Yet amongst that, the old and familiar nagging of poor mental health. I sometimes contemplate a life where I don’t recognise that I am unwell and ponder if it would be a more blissful existence, to simply not know. I think I am at peace now with feeling that – for me – being in a position to experience and feel the real highs of life, the joys of success and happiness balance out with also experiencing the crushing lows in such a profound manner. A few weeks ago I found myself in that hopeless, unable to contemplate leaving the bed fug that a few years ago triggered my worst period of mental ill health, and I contemplated the value of accessing help because my previous experience was negative to say the least. Do I need help? If I recognise I am unwell, is that enough to self-treat with CBT and a step back off the gas? And – if I am able to have such discourse, am I truly unwell or simply having an off period?
A longer conversation for another day perhaps, but as much as I am glad to live in an era where discussing mental health is less taboo it comes with an overwhelming sense of disappointment that attitudes to treatment are still so appalling.