Caroline Church - I Blame The Hormones - A raw and honest account of one woman’s fight against depression

The first couple of days, I sat on a window ledge and gazed over the green while silently crying. I remember feeling so upset that my world had come to this, which was exacerbated by what was going on around me. Sometimes the patients would freak out and the nurses would wrestle them to the floor before one of them administered an injection. The nights were absolutely awful, and I would often lie awake, rigid and scared, while some other poor soul whimpered long into the early hours of the morning. One particular day, I found a soiled pair of underwear on my bed, which did nothing to help my increasing paranoia, as I believed it was a deliberate attack on me and I was being watched. It was a sorry place to be and I felt more and more disturbed while I was there, which naturally hindered any chance of recovery. As the days went on I couldn’t wait to get out of there. In comparison to what was happening around me, I just felt I was in the wrong place and so very, very alone.

When it was visiting time I could see the pain and confusion in my parents’ eyes – my poor mum looked so worried. I had done such a good job of hiding my depressive state that they had no real idea of how bad things were; they had possibly even thought it was a desperate attempt to gain attention. I had tried to shelter my mum from what was really going on, as she had the girls to look after, and anyway, it would mean that I had failed in my quest to be an independent woman, which I had so desperately wanted to be. What I should have done was return home to the sanctuary of my family, but instead I just moved further away from them, towards the internal struggle that would go on to dominate my younger years and had already begun to ruin my life.

Once I left the unit, still none the wiser and without a firm diagnosis, I moved house quite quickly, thinking that it would help with my increasing symptoms. I started wondering if my illness was a lifestyle problem, and I thought that if I could move, it would make things better and I would find a miraculous cure. However, the stress of the move only created further problems, and I started to spend more time at the doctor’s with various ailments, which were by now becoming physical as well as emotional. I was referred to another unit where I would receive help for my increasing alcohol dependency and health anxieties, as the doctors felt that my various neuroses were all part of the same ‘personality disorder’. As much as the health professionals were blaming my issues on a psychiatric element, I felt sure that there was something physically wrong with me, but my hunch was dismissed and I even started to believe that I was becoming a hypochondriac, questioning whether I was indeed ill or if it was all part of my imagination.

Despite this, I was experiencing extreme lower-back pain and severe restless legs. I felt sure my health problems were related to my menstrual cycle but it hadn’t yet been proven. I had a number of exploratory operations in the hope that a cause could be found. I had period pains even when I had no period, and the vomiting and fainting was relentless, even though I had been prescribed the contraceptive pill to help me. I had sporadic episodes of shaking and had developed a tremor in my hand, which was exacerbated by the amount of alcohol I was drinking to calm my symptoms. Eventually I was detoxed, in the hope that it would stop me feeling endlessly unwell both in body and mind. I seemed to be going round and round in circles, and was in therapy at every opportunity, trying to gain some control over my life.

As I approached my early twenties I started to experiment with cannabis, using recreational drugs to attempt to rid my body of the acute tension that was with me day in, day out. I was still in therapy, but I was now on stronger antidepressants and sometimes tranquillisers as well, in the hope that they would save me from the negative feelings and internalised pain. If things were really bad I would use a mood stabiliser, and then I would use Ecstasy at the weekends too. At one point I was using so many different concoctions and potions, trying to find anything to help me, it’s a wonder that I was able to function at all. If I was really wired and agitated I would use alcohol, drugs and even sex to decipher my feelings and help me cope with the day-to-day misery of what the doctors had convinced me was a general depressive illness, which didn’t have a physical element at all.

The problem with using recreational drugs and smoking cannabis was that they worked extremely effectively at controlling the feelings of tension, so by the time I was in my early twenties, my life had spiralled out of control. I was regularly feeling suicidal and permanently manic, and I was starting to experience delusions and wild imaginings, often believing that there was somebody living in my apartment with me. I would rush wildly around and then crash, sometimes for days at a time, while feelings of imminent doom and terror would wake me from the deepest sleep. I had a panic disorder that would cause me to imagine someone was following me, and I was on the edge of despair most days, believing that there was something living under my bed waiting to grab me. Sometimes I thought it had moved into my airing cupboard, and I would move past as quickly as possible in case it jumped out to get me! I was so filled with adrenaline I would run from task to task, even in my own flat, and I would imagine endless scenarios over and over again. I still had a preoccupation with death and would manage to convince myself that I was dying, my family was dying – and that someone was going to murder me.

The incessant chatter would drive me to my absolute limits, and I would use anything to try to quieten my mind, which invariably meant chemicals. I felt that they were the only way of putting an end to the turmoil within and relieving me of the feelings of acute stress and tension dominating my thoughts. I would use drugs to calm me down and then medicine to help me stay up, and that was the way it was throughout my early twenties. I was living in a state of perpetual fear – frightened even in my own home – and in a cycle of ill health, which was an appalling way to be. Sometimes I would lie in my bed with my face constricted tight, wishing that someone would put an end to the torturous world I inhabited alone.

During the early Nineties fate intervened – I was offered a new job and a career in Spain. I had become disillusioned by nursing, and although I was working only sporadically, I wondered if my job was to blame for my worsening condition. I seemed to be continuously looking for a reason to explain my depression. No matter what I did or how I did it, I desperately wanted to pull myself together and gain some clarity and control over my life. I had answered a job in a newspaper for a travel consultant and felt sure that it would answer all of my problems. There was also scope for working abroad, which hastened my application, and I couldn’t wait to have a new start.

Within a few weeks I had secured a position in Menorca and was confident that this would be my geographical cure and an end to my situation, which was deteriorating daily. Apart from the illness that was dominating my life, I was in a relationship with someone who had begun to use heroin. Given that I had an addictive nature, I was naturally concerned that I would be next to succumb to the drug, and I couldn’t wait to get away from it all and the people around me. My drinking was getting worse, and I would have memory blanks in which I was violent with anyone who happened to be around me. This, of course, was mortifying and would leave me feeling incredibly ashamed and embarrassed, as I genuinely couldn’t remember what had happened. I was filled with self-hatred over my actions, and this fuelled my sense of inadequacy and, of course, increased my low mood. Sometimes I would be on the phone to the Samaritans long into the night, just desperate for help, and sometimes I would wonder where else there was left for me to turn as my situation grew more and more hopeless.