ellie_C_mason1990
19-09-13, 13:20
I always find writing very therapeutic and it has helped me big time in my issues with anxiety, so I have recently turned my diaries into a little bit of writing. It is quite long but I always find other people's stories helpful especially if I can relate to certain aspects of their experience. I also have found it helpful to read other people's success stories as it is good to be reminded there may be a light at the end of the tunnel! So thought I would share mine..
“Courage does not always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, “I will try again tomorrow.”' Mary Anne Radmacher.
The morning before my last January exam in 2010, I woke up with a severe hangover. I was texting my friend who had gone home for the weekend as I was angry about a different flat mate. Calming down, I went online and talked to my boyfriend for a bit. Then the chest pains came; on the left side of my chest, hurting more when I breathed in or bent over. Panic swam over me and a wave of sickness provoked me to the bathroom. With nothing but bile leaving my throat, I lied down on my bed. Pain was still there. Sat up with the overwhelming dizziness. Putting my head between my knees didn’t help like I usually did and I became aware of an overwhelming chest tightness. Helpfully, I logged onto netdoctor.com and searched ‘Heart Attack.’ There it was; chest pain, chest tightness, feeling sick, feeling of impending doom. Call 999. I rang NHS Direct for advice and they advised the same; ring an ambulance right away.
However, I didn’t deem myself an emergency at that point (I am always aware of the reports of people ringing ambulances and wasting time) I went first to the Walk in Centre at Manchester Infirmary. A woman took my blood pressure and said as it was so high I should be seen in A&E promptly (looking back now my blood pressure was probably so high because of my anxiety.) Whilst waiting on a bed for a blood test after an ECG, my left arm began to go numb. Thoughts of her returning and finding me dead raced through my mind. The nurse blamed anxiety; pins and needles are common when anxious. I waited for the impending cardiac arrest. They had not taken enough blood to make a conclusion, but my ECG was fine and my blood pressure had dropped so why didn’t I pop back home and return if I felt worse.
Two days later I found myself in Pizza Hut with my head between my knees; trying to rid myself of the same chest tightness, faintness and nausea. Another NHS Direct call which ordered me back to A&E. ECG, blood test- all which showed no signs of anything seriously wrong. A doctor came in to give me an assessment; Have you taken any upper drugs? How much caffeine do you drink? How much alcohol do you drink a week? “What is in a big bottle of gin?” (I was a fresher!)
“About 40 units” (I later investigated and found out it is actually 26 units.) “Well, probably one of those, a little bit more a week.” She looked concerned, like all medical staff do when I admit my weekly units, then she left and I went back to the waiting room. She called me back. Her diagnosis was alcohol withdrawal. I was drinking so much, that when I was not I get these symptoms. “But please don’t stop alcohol completely as if you were to suddenly cut it out you could have a seizure. Would you be happy to come to visit the alcohol counsellor at the hospital so we can wean you off alcohol slowly? Okay we will call you.” I felt as if she was clutching at straws due to no other explanation, but I was tired and wanted to go back home so I thanked her and left. Through fear, I stopped drinking. She never called. I never had a seizure.
A few weeks later at 2am after a weekend of drinking , I stirred out of sleep and suddenly felt as if I was falling; my heart accelerated and I shot up. I was going to have a heart attack (I now realise this was a ‘Hypnic Jerk.’ I instantly rang my Mum, though it was hard to hold the phone as I was overcome by a tremor which controlled my whole body. Mum calmed me down and the uncontrollable shaking stopped but I slept a grand total of one hour that night; every time I closed my eyes it was going to be the last time.
On a Saturday in May just before final exams, my friend and I took the bus to Wythenshawe Hospital so my friend would be certain of her route to placement the next week. While there I picked up every leaflet about cancer I could manage and revised the symptoms. I noticed ‘A sore on the skin that does not heal in 3 weeks’ and asked my friend if I should be worried about the little pink lump on my left buttock which had been there for, well I couldn’t remember a time I hadn’t had it. She looked at me slightly shocked. Yes, I should. It could be a mole, you can get pink moles. When researching on the internet later, I discovered Nodular Melanoma; a small lump that can be pink which is the most aggressive form of Melanoma; which in turn is the hardest cancer to control.
Every morning felt like a bad dream. I had Melanoma. I was going to die. I searched through well over a hundred websites, message boards, journals, photo galleries for examples, stories of moles. What was I expecting from this? I spent hours trawling through photo albums of abnormal moles, for reassurance? No idea why as I knew I was dying. I read stories and thought about what I was going to say when I eventually got the diagnosis. I assessed prognosis on Cancer Research UK’s website and planned what I needed to do in the next few months. I spent hours typing different combinations into Google: “Lump skin cancer,” “Melanoma on buttock,” “Can you get pink moles?” “New mole; should I be worried?” I read tribute pages of people who had died of melanoma and wondered how long it would be before I would be amongst them. What good did it do? None at all. I frightened myself with fatality stories and didn’t persuade myself with the photos of melanoma that looked nothing like my lump. My exams started the next week but I couldn’t revise when there was a lump I had to self diagnose.
Meanwhile, I was crying all the time. My degree required very little contact time, so with all my flat mates out at University, I was left alone in a room with my laptop and endless search engine opportunities. I was doomed. I was constantly on the phone to my Mum or counting down the hours until she finished work so I could cry down the phone to her. I cried on Skype to my Dad across the Atlantic in California. I cried when my flat mate got back and we had a cuddle in bed, claiming I was home sick as I did not want to admit the extent that this lump had taken control of me. I cried to my boyfriend, I cried so much I was shattered and had given myself a headache. I looked like a drug addict. I had been so stupid with my love of sunbathing and it was all my fault so I cried more.
I went to the walk in centre. For what? The Nurse prodded it and said it looked like a mole but I should go to the GP to get it checked out as it felt quite deep seated. I cried all the way home. In the end, I couldn’t wait 3 days for the appointment and woke up voluntarily at 7am (this is an achievement for me) and went to the ‘Emergency appointments’ on a Wednesday morning. It wasn’t an emergency for my physical health but certainly for my psychological.
My doctor took one look at the lump and answered “its just a bit of scar tissue from a burst boil” then sat back down. I put my clothes back on and joined him,
“Are you sure its not melanoma?”
“Yes, melanoma's are usually black.”
“Well can I get it removed?”
“ Why?”
“It's annoying..”
“It'll cause scarring.”
“I don't mind”
I returned back to the flat and the war of thoughts began; It's nodular melanoma, he just hasn't seen it before vs. he is an experienced doctor who wouldn't dismiss what could be serious due to being sued for malpractice. Nevertheless, I booked an appointment to have it taken off. When I arrived he said, “So, you still want it off?” His reluctance to perform the minor operation eased my mind; he really did not care. I signed a form which read that the lump would be sent off for a biopsy. I was going to get answers.
I got my answer two weeks later when he called me (I think he figured out my anxiety after I repeatedly asked questions about when I would get the results back, what the results could show.) The lump was benign, it was just a nodule, he wished me a good summer and that was that.
I was looking forward to returning to Oxford for the summer into the open arms of my family; cooked meals and complete relaxation. No more worries; reading books and seeing friends. However. I had more time to worry especially as my parents were at work and my brother was at school. I was sat home alone most days, with the internet, where I could search endlessly for irrational reasons for new physiological symptoms. My anxiety generally became more generalised too; including anxiety for the health of others. I began surreptitiously checking the skin of other people around me. I had horrible dreams where family members had died and I was walking around the morgue trying to find them. I was anxious when anyone went out; they were sure to be killed by something. I lived on the edge, jumping up to the window when I heard a car door slam as I knew it would be the police with the bad news; feeling my heart sink when the phone rang. I was anxious about life; what was I doing, what was the point? Impending doom had become a natural emotion to me. Anxious about myself; I needed to be a better person but I could never improve myself, I never would be able to and my life will end up being upset after upset that I have caused myself.
I needed to go to the doctors anyway to get more Yasmin and decided I was going to bring it up; I was sick and tired of feeling that way. When she asked me if my change to Yasmin had brought on any side effects, I said that for the past few months I had been feeling anxious. She said that this was not a side effect and thus proceeded to ask a variety of questions about the depth and type of anxiety. She gave me instructions to begin writing a 'worry diary' and said she would refer me to a clinical psychologist.
The worry diary worked at first; I recorded my dreams, worries and physiological changes of my body. Then came the mouth ulcer. I always get little mouth ulcers on my tongue when I am run down but this was a massive, painful ulcer underneath my bottom teeth. I had never had one there before- it had to be mouth cancer. I couldn't write any more in my worry diary; the mouth ulcer wasn't a worry, it was cancer. How stupid was I going to feel when after my diagnosis I read my worry diary and saw that once I saw it as a 'worry?' Alongside this, I did not have time to write in it, I had mouth cancer treatments and prognosis' to research. I needed to know what was about to happen to me and prepare myself for it.
The mouth cancer began to affect my daily functioning. One particular morning I got up, ate breakfast, then logged onto the internet. I began searching 'Survival stories' for mouth cancer victims to cheer myself up. I got survival stories but the majority of them spoke of severe face disfigurement and ongoing treatment. I was already late for work but I was crying so hard I spent a good few minutes vomiting up my breakfast. This became a trend. 3 weeks later, the mouth ulcer was gone.
There was anxiety over even more events after the mouth cancer. There were more mouth ulcers; probably as I was so stressed. Mouth ulcers that came with heart palpatations because my anxiety was sky high. I had Vulval cancer for a while; the abnormal results from the smear test I had earlier in the year were just cancer cells spreading up from my vagina. The reason my thrush was so reoccurring wasn't because of the 'preventing thrush guidelines' I paid no attention to, but it was cancer. Remember those pains I had down there? Cancer. (When thinking back now I believe it was still shooting pains from the cervical biopsy.) I had leukhemia after being covered in unexplainable bruises (after I night out, I might add.) I had skin cancer all over again when I found two moles on my arms. One which looked bigger than before and the other which looked as if the pigment had slid off. I got both checked with my doctor who said they were fine. Of course, this was not enough and I went through the familiar cycle of tears and internet searching. I wore plasters on my arms to stop me looking and always wore long sleeves. I could no longer take baths as it was time alone to inspect my body for moles and bruises. I spent a lot of time lying in bed, frustrated and so tired. I felt completely helpless. Even if I was thinking rationally, I knew that the next day or week there would be something else. Anxiety is like the game Whac-a-Mole; one you have got rid of something and hit it on the head, something else pops up.
What was the point in being happy when something was about to happen and death was imminent. Everyone I love was about to be taken away from me. I couldn't listen to music much anymore. Songs from the past made me cry. Happy songs made me guilty. Sad songs made me even worse. I wanted to spend all my waking hours in bed. I needed constant comfort. Being around people always made it a little bit better, until one day when my boyfriend was at my house I started crying (this was during the vulval cancer.) This was when I realised I needed some more help; I had never cried (soberly) in front of him before. I went to the doctors the next day and she prescribed me Citalopram. I experienced many side effects in the first week; nausea, insomnia and a dry mouth. It numbed me; though numbed all emotions. If something exciting happened I knew I should be excited but just never got those butterflies. But with relief I began to feel some sort of stability on my moods. I could read a book again. I stopped crying. I knew that I really needed therapy but the medication would do for now.
Seeing the Psychologist was a strange experience; suddenly having to talk endlessly and solely on my anxiety. She stated that it seemed as if I had a pre fixation to death; due to have experienced it throughout my childhood. She also concluded that my coping strategies for stress are under developed. My scores on the standardised measures indicated moderate difficulties with low mood and severe difficulties with anxiety. The conclusion was that she would write up a referral which I would take up to the counselling service in Manchester and take it from there.
I was expecting the worst but it wasn't so bad; I threw myself into work and helping Hashim, an Autistic boy, which gave me a focus. I was walking every day, eating well, drinking less and feeling optimistic. Crying seemed to cease although the physiological symptoms got worse; daily adrenaline rushes, nausea in the morning and chest tightness at night. I started CBT, although pessimistic about it actually working.
One Saturday evening in the middle of November, I was walking to Nando's where I was going to meet some friends and for the first time since the beginning of all of this, I actually felt happy. Happy with life, happy with the future and my current situation. I felt content with my lifestyle and optimistic about my academic and emotional future. But said happiness was like standing on the edge of a cliff; it was a beautiful, uplifting feeling however with the knowledge that any moment I could fall off.
Every time I felt a hint of feeling any better, the next day I would plunge to the lowest yet. While I was picking up my prescription in Sainsburys, I started reading a book about bowels. After reading the page about inspections for bowel cancer I cracked. I bawled my eyes out down the phone to Mum and couldn't leave the house. When clearing out a cupboard I felt a massive lump in the back of my throat return (after researching found out its medical name 'Globus..' which is very common in people suffering from anxiety disorders.) I stood on the step ladder clutching the cupboard crying and wretching. Back home at Reading week, I planned to go and visit my friend in Leicster however in the morning, impending doom loomed. I was going to die over the next few days. I couldn't get on the train, I couldn't go to a new place because I was going to die.
It felt like everything I loved I was clinging on to with a piece of thread. Even though I had this feeling for nearly a year; nothing has occurred, I was still certain something bad was about to happen. The feeling is hard to explain but it tightened me up, made my head heavy and my stomach sink. The bags under my eyes felt like they are about to burst with tears; sometimes I could feel a little pleasure in songs, books, a bit of shopping but most of the time I wanted to go home and cling onto my parents.
My perception of CBT was fluctuating. I cannot doubt it completely. Thanks to my excessive need to please people, when my counsellor said we were going to work on checking behaviour this week, I was able to eradicate it completely in order to please her. From checking to reassurance seeking, I managed to decrease negative behaviours which ultimately led to an increase in mood. My problem with CBT was the way it dealt with thought processes. Filling out sheet after sheet of Thought Processes, where I wrote down evidence for and a more rational approach against; I realised this was all it was. CBT doesn't deal with the problems, just how to deal with them. The thoughts would still be there, just I would have to deal with them differently. To me, this was frustrating. Some of my thoughts couldn't be rationalised on a piece of paper, when I am freaking out on a bus I couldn't see how an automatised thought process sheet in my head would rationalise that overwhelming terror. (Eventually, I found it helpful as when I had a negative thought, I could look back at the massed of Thought Process sheets I had already devoted to the same thought and confirm to myself that none of these thoughts had ever come true, they were just products of my anxiety).The phrase “It's a feeling, not a fact” provided helpful and made its way onto many post it notes around my room, but was not a source of help during times of intense panic.
Alongside this, I was scared to get better. These feelings and way of life was all I had known for the past year. I didn't know what to do when I was happy. During the good days I had, I found it hard to accept I felt ok and just expected the worse. I felt something was wrong because I wasn't unhappy, as the expected norm had become unhappiness and anxiety. CBT finished and I felt like I had been thrown into a lion pit with a tiny shield.
CBT had helped for my health anxiety but I kept feeling sad. It was continually up and down. There were some horrible days where I had unmentionable thoughts and was constantly crying. However, there were good days. My friend recommended me to read 'Eat Pray Love' which helped me a great deal, giving me a load of inspiring quotes and ideas on how to get through. I took up Yoga and Meditation. On happy days, I couldn't understand how I could ever have been so sad when I could find happiness in these practices. On sad days, I couldn't even bring myself to get out of bed, let alone open a book on some “spiritual nonsense.”
Eventually, after reading into and practising Mindfulness Based Cognitive Therapy, I began to feel much better. I learnt that instead of trying to fight the distressing thoughts, I should notice them but remind myself they will pass. I realised that it was a waste of time pontificating about things I could not change. I realised that anxiety would always be present in my life and that my job now was to keep it at bay, My focus became moment orientated and slightly hedonistic. Instead of worrying about trivial matters, I focused on the beauty around me, in the things I enjoyed and what I could do on each day to make myself happy. I covered my walls in inspirational quotes to live by such as “But why think about that when all the golden land’s ahead of you and all kinds of unforeseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you’re alive to see?” (Jack Kerouac) and “People live totally in the past or in terms of what they expect in the future, which amounts to fear, generally. Live in Now for a change, in the present, become aware of your bodies and all the information your senses bring, shelve your fears and seize the moment” (Fritz Perl). Alongside this, a full time job also did wonders; T.S Eliot once said the all people of nervous constitutions should have full time work- he worked as a bank clerk to keep his anxieties at bay! Most importantly, I have the engrained knowledge that whenever I have another 'existential crisis', it won’t last forever and there will be a time when I will be ok again.
“He says that everyone of us is frightened. He says that everyone of us has to find a way to live with fear. He says don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid. Look, feel, let life take you by the hand. Let life live through you.” Roger Keyes
“Courage does not always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, “I will try again tomorrow.”' Mary Anne Radmacher.
The morning before my last January exam in 2010, I woke up with a severe hangover. I was texting my friend who had gone home for the weekend as I was angry about a different flat mate. Calming down, I went online and talked to my boyfriend for a bit. Then the chest pains came; on the left side of my chest, hurting more when I breathed in or bent over. Panic swam over me and a wave of sickness provoked me to the bathroom. With nothing but bile leaving my throat, I lied down on my bed. Pain was still there. Sat up with the overwhelming dizziness. Putting my head between my knees didn’t help like I usually did and I became aware of an overwhelming chest tightness. Helpfully, I logged onto netdoctor.com and searched ‘Heart Attack.’ There it was; chest pain, chest tightness, feeling sick, feeling of impending doom. Call 999. I rang NHS Direct for advice and they advised the same; ring an ambulance right away.
However, I didn’t deem myself an emergency at that point (I am always aware of the reports of people ringing ambulances and wasting time) I went first to the Walk in Centre at Manchester Infirmary. A woman took my blood pressure and said as it was so high I should be seen in A&E promptly (looking back now my blood pressure was probably so high because of my anxiety.) Whilst waiting on a bed for a blood test after an ECG, my left arm began to go numb. Thoughts of her returning and finding me dead raced through my mind. The nurse blamed anxiety; pins and needles are common when anxious. I waited for the impending cardiac arrest. They had not taken enough blood to make a conclusion, but my ECG was fine and my blood pressure had dropped so why didn’t I pop back home and return if I felt worse.
Two days later I found myself in Pizza Hut with my head between my knees; trying to rid myself of the same chest tightness, faintness and nausea. Another NHS Direct call which ordered me back to A&E. ECG, blood test- all which showed no signs of anything seriously wrong. A doctor came in to give me an assessment; Have you taken any upper drugs? How much caffeine do you drink? How much alcohol do you drink a week? “What is in a big bottle of gin?” (I was a fresher!)
“About 40 units” (I later investigated and found out it is actually 26 units.) “Well, probably one of those, a little bit more a week.” She looked concerned, like all medical staff do when I admit my weekly units, then she left and I went back to the waiting room. She called me back. Her diagnosis was alcohol withdrawal. I was drinking so much, that when I was not I get these symptoms. “But please don’t stop alcohol completely as if you were to suddenly cut it out you could have a seizure. Would you be happy to come to visit the alcohol counsellor at the hospital so we can wean you off alcohol slowly? Okay we will call you.” I felt as if she was clutching at straws due to no other explanation, but I was tired and wanted to go back home so I thanked her and left. Through fear, I stopped drinking. She never called. I never had a seizure.
A few weeks later at 2am after a weekend of drinking , I stirred out of sleep and suddenly felt as if I was falling; my heart accelerated and I shot up. I was going to have a heart attack (I now realise this was a ‘Hypnic Jerk.’ I instantly rang my Mum, though it was hard to hold the phone as I was overcome by a tremor which controlled my whole body. Mum calmed me down and the uncontrollable shaking stopped but I slept a grand total of one hour that night; every time I closed my eyes it was going to be the last time.
On a Saturday in May just before final exams, my friend and I took the bus to Wythenshawe Hospital so my friend would be certain of her route to placement the next week. While there I picked up every leaflet about cancer I could manage and revised the symptoms. I noticed ‘A sore on the skin that does not heal in 3 weeks’ and asked my friend if I should be worried about the little pink lump on my left buttock which had been there for, well I couldn’t remember a time I hadn’t had it. She looked at me slightly shocked. Yes, I should. It could be a mole, you can get pink moles. When researching on the internet later, I discovered Nodular Melanoma; a small lump that can be pink which is the most aggressive form of Melanoma; which in turn is the hardest cancer to control.
Every morning felt like a bad dream. I had Melanoma. I was going to die. I searched through well over a hundred websites, message boards, journals, photo galleries for examples, stories of moles. What was I expecting from this? I spent hours trawling through photo albums of abnormal moles, for reassurance? No idea why as I knew I was dying. I read stories and thought about what I was going to say when I eventually got the diagnosis. I assessed prognosis on Cancer Research UK’s website and planned what I needed to do in the next few months. I spent hours typing different combinations into Google: “Lump skin cancer,” “Melanoma on buttock,” “Can you get pink moles?” “New mole; should I be worried?” I read tribute pages of people who had died of melanoma and wondered how long it would be before I would be amongst them. What good did it do? None at all. I frightened myself with fatality stories and didn’t persuade myself with the photos of melanoma that looked nothing like my lump. My exams started the next week but I couldn’t revise when there was a lump I had to self diagnose.
Meanwhile, I was crying all the time. My degree required very little contact time, so with all my flat mates out at University, I was left alone in a room with my laptop and endless search engine opportunities. I was doomed. I was constantly on the phone to my Mum or counting down the hours until she finished work so I could cry down the phone to her. I cried on Skype to my Dad across the Atlantic in California. I cried when my flat mate got back and we had a cuddle in bed, claiming I was home sick as I did not want to admit the extent that this lump had taken control of me. I cried to my boyfriend, I cried so much I was shattered and had given myself a headache. I looked like a drug addict. I had been so stupid with my love of sunbathing and it was all my fault so I cried more.
I went to the walk in centre. For what? The Nurse prodded it and said it looked like a mole but I should go to the GP to get it checked out as it felt quite deep seated. I cried all the way home. In the end, I couldn’t wait 3 days for the appointment and woke up voluntarily at 7am (this is an achievement for me) and went to the ‘Emergency appointments’ on a Wednesday morning. It wasn’t an emergency for my physical health but certainly for my psychological.
My doctor took one look at the lump and answered “its just a bit of scar tissue from a burst boil” then sat back down. I put my clothes back on and joined him,
“Are you sure its not melanoma?”
“Yes, melanoma's are usually black.”
“Well can I get it removed?”
“ Why?”
“It's annoying..”
“It'll cause scarring.”
“I don't mind”
I returned back to the flat and the war of thoughts began; It's nodular melanoma, he just hasn't seen it before vs. he is an experienced doctor who wouldn't dismiss what could be serious due to being sued for malpractice. Nevertheless, I booked an appointment to have it taken off. When I arrived he said, “So, you still want it off?” His reluctance to perform the minor operation eased my mind; he really did not care. I signed a form which read that the lump would be sent off for a biopsy. I was going to get answers.
I got my answer two weeks later when he called me (I think he figured out my anxiety after I repeatedly asked questions about when I would get the results back, what the results could show.) The lump was benign, it was just a nodule, he wished me a good summer and that was that.
I was looking forward to returning to Oxford for the summer into the open arms of my family; cooked meals and complete relaxation. No more worries; reading books and seeing friends. However. I had more time to worry especially as my parents were at work and my brother was at school. I was sat home alone most days, with the internet, where I could search endlessly for irrational reasons for new physiological symptoms. My anxiety generally became more generalised too; including anxiety for the health of others. I began surreptitiously checking the skin of other people around me. I had horrible dreams where family members had died and I was walking around the morgue trying to find them. I was anxious when anyone went out; they were sure to be killed by something. I lived on the edge, jumping up to the window when I heard a car door slam as I knew it would be the police with the bad news; feeling my heart sink when the phone rang. I was anxious about life; what was I doing, what was the point? Impending doom had become a natural emotion to me. Anxious about myself; I needed to be a better person but I could never improve myself, I never would be able to and my life will end up being upset after upset that I have caused myself.
I needed to go to the doctors anyway to get more Yasmin and decided I was going to bring it up; I was sick and tired of feeling that way. When she asked me if my change to Yasmin had brought on any side effects, I said that for the past few months I had been feeling anxious. She said that this was not a side effect and thus proceeded to ask a variety of questions about the depth and type of anxiety. She gave me instructions to begin writing a 'worry diary' and said she would refer me to a clinical psychologist.
The worry diary worked at first; I recorded my dreams, worries and physiological changes of my body. Then came the mouth ulcer. I always get little mouth ulcers on my tongue when I am run down but this was a massive, painful ulcer underneath my bottom teeth. I had never had one there before- it had to be mouth cancer. I couldn't write any more in my worry diary; the mouth ulcer wasn't a worry, it was cancer. How stupid was I going to feel when after my diagnosis I read my worry diary and saw that once I saw it as a 'worry?' Alongside this, I did not have time to write in it, I had mouth cancer treatments and prognosis' to research. I needed to know what was about to happen to me and prepare myself for it.
The mouth cancer began to affect my daily functioning. One particular morning I got up, ate breakfast, then logged onto the internet. I began searching 'Survival stories' for mouth cancer victims to cheer myself up. I got survival stories but the majority of them spoke of severe face disfigurement and ongoing treatment. I was already late for work but I was crying so hard I spent a good few minutes vomiting up my breakfast. This became a trend. 3 weeks later, the mouth ulcer was gone.
There was anxiety over even more events after the mouth cancer. There were more mouth ulcers; probably as I was so stressed. Mouth ulcers that came with heart palpatations because my anxiety was sky high. I had Vulval cancer for a while; the abnormal results from the smear test I had earlier in the year were just cancer cells spreading up from my vagina. The reason my thrush was so reoccurring wasn't because of the 'preventing thrush guidelines' I paid no attention to, but it was cancer. Remember those pains I had down there? Cancer. (When thinking back now I believe it was still shooting pains from the cervical biopsy.) I had leukhemia after being covered in unexplainable bruises (after I night out, I might add.) I had skin cancer all over again when I found two moles on my arms. One which looked bigger than before and the other which looked as if the pigment had slid off. I got both checked with my doctor who said they were fine. Of course, this was not enough and I went through the familiar cycle of tears and internet searching. I wore plasters on my arms to stop me looking and always wore long sleeves. I could no longer take baths as it was time alone to inspect my body for moles and bruises. I spent a lot of time lying in bed, frustrated and so tired. I felt completely helpless. Even if I was thinking rationally, I knew that the next day or week there would be something else. Anxiety is like the game Whac-a-Mole; one you have got rid of something and hit it on the head, something else pops up.
What was the point in being happy when something was about to happen and death was imminent. Everyone I love was about to be taken away from me. I couldn't listen to music much anymore. Songs from the past made me cry. Happy songs made me guilty. Sad songs made me even worse. I wanted to spend all my waking hours in bed. I needed constant comfort. Being around people always made it a little bit better, until one day when my boyfriend was at my house I started crying (this was during the vulval cancer.) This was when I realised I needed some more help; I had never cried (soberly) in front of him before. I went to the doctors the next day and she prescribed me Citalopram. I experienced many side effects in the first week; nausea, insomnia and a dry mouth. It numbed me; though numbed all emotions. If something exciting happened I knew I should be excited but just never got those butterflies. But with relief I began to feel some sort of stability on my moods. I could read a book again. I stopped crying. I knew that I really needed therapy but the medication would do for now.
Seeing the Psychologist was a strange experience; suddenly having to talk endlessly and solely on my anxiety. She stated that it seemed as if I had a pre fixation to death; due to have experienced it throughout my childhood. She also concluded that my coping strategies for stress are under developed. My scores on the standardised measures indicated moderate difficulties with low mood and severe difficulties with anxiety. The conclusion was that she would write up a referral which I would take up to the counselling service in Manchester and take it from there.
I was expecting the worst but it wasn't so bad; I threw myself into work and helping Hashim, an Autistic boy, which gave me a focus. I was walking every day, eating well, drinking less and feeling optimistic. Crying seemed to cease although the physiological symptoms got worse; daily adrenaline rushes, nausea in the morning and chest tightness at night. I started CBT, although pessimistic about it actually working.
One Saturday evening in the middle of November, I was walking to Nando's where I was going to meet some friends and for the first time since the beginning of all of this, I actually felt happy. Happy with life, happy with the future and my current situation. I felt content with my lifestyle and optimistic about my academic and emotional future. But said happiness was like standing on the edge of a cliff; it was a beautiful, uplifting feeling however with the knowledge that any moment I could fall off.
Every time I felt a hint of feeling any better, the next day I would plunge to the lowest yet. While I was picking up my prescription in Sainsburys, I started reading a book about bowels. After reading the page about inspections for bowel cancer I cracked. I bawled my eyes out down the phone to Mum and couldn't leave the house. When clearing out a cupboard I felt a massive lump in the back of my throat return (after researching found out its medical name 'Globus..' which is very common in people suffering from anxiety disorders.) I stood on the step ladder clutching the cupboard crying and wretching. Back home at Reading week, I planned to go and visit my friend in Leicster however in the morning, impending doom loomed. I was going to die over the next few days. I couldn't get on the train, I couldn't go to a new place because I was going to die.
It felt like everything I loved I was clinging on to with a piece of thread. Even though I had this feeling for nearly a year; nothing has occurred, I was still certain something bad was about to happen. The feeling is hard to explain but it tightened me up, made my head heavy and my stomach sink. The bags under my eyes felt like they are about to burst with tears; sometimes I could feel a little pleasure in songs, books, a bit of shopping but most of the time I wanted to go home and cling onto my parents.
My perception of CBT was fluctuating. I cannot doubt it completely. Thanks to my excessive need to please people, when my counsellor said we were going to work on checking behaviour this week, I was able to eradicate it completely in order to please her. From checking to reassurance seeking, I managed to decrease negative behaviours which ultimately led to an increase in mood. My problem with CBT was the way it dealt with thought processes. Filling out sheet after sheet of Thought Processes, where I wrote down evidence for and a more rational approach against; I realised this was all it was. CBT doesn't deal with the problems, just how to deal with them. The thoughts would still be there, just I would have to deal with them differently. To me, this was frustrating. Some of my thoughts couldn't be rationalised on a piece of paper, when I am freaking out on a bus I couldn't see how an automatised thought process sheet in my head would rationalise that overwhelming terror. (Eventually, I found it helpful as when I had a negative thought, I could look back at the massed of Thought Process sheets I had already devoted to the same thought and confirm to myself that none of these thoughts had ever come true, they were just products of my anxiety).The phrase “It's a feeling, not a fact” provided helpful and made its way onto many post it notes around my room, but was not a source of help during times of intense panic.
Alongside this, I was scared to get better. These feelings and way of life was all I had known for the past year. I didn't know what to do when I was happy. During the good days I had, I found it hard to accept I felt ok and just expected the worse. I felt something was wrong because I wasn't unhappy, as the expected norm had become unhappiness and anxiety. CBT finished and I felt like I had been thrown into a lion pit with a tiny shield.
CBT had helped for my health anxiety but I kept feeling sad. It was continually up and down. There were some horrible days where I had unmentionable thoughts and was constantly crying. However, there were good days. My friend recommended me to read 'Eat Pray Love' which helped me a great deal, giving me a load of inspiring quotes and ideas on how to get through. I took up Yoga and Meditation. On happy days, I couldn't understand how I could ever have been so sad when I could find happiness in these practices. On sad days, I couldn't even bring myself to get out of bed, let alone open a book on some “spiritual nonsense.”
Eventually, after reading into and practising Mindfulness Based Cognitive Therapy, I began to feel much better. I learnt that instead of trying to fight the distressing thoughts, I should notice them but remind myself they will pass. I realised that it was a waste of time pontificating about things I could not change. I realised that anxiety would always be present in my life and that my job now was to keep it at bay, My focus became moment orientated and slightly hedonistic. Instead of worrying about trivial matters, I focused on the beauty around me, in the things I enjoyed and what I could do on each day to make myself happy. I covered my walls in inspirational quotes to live by such as “But why think about that when all the golden land’s ahead of you and all kinds of unforeseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you’re alive to see?” (Jack Kerouac) and “People live totally in the past or in terms of what they expect in the future, which amounts to fear, generally. Live in Now for a change, in the present, become aware of your bodies and all the information your senses bring, shelve your fears and seize the moment” (Fritz Perl). Alongside this, a full time job also did wonders; T.S Eliot once said the all people of nervous constitutions should have full time work- he worked as a bank clerk to keep his anxieties at bay! Most importantly, I have the engrained knowledge that whenever I have another 'existential crisis', it won’t last forever and there will be a time when I will be ok again.
“He says that everyone of us is frightened. He says that everyone of us has to find a way to live with fear. He says don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid. Look, feel, let life take you by the hand. Let life live through you.” Roger Keyes