Experiences from the pit.

We were all completely shocked at the heart breaking news, last year, when we heard that Caroline Flack, beautiful, accomplished, successful Caroline Flack, embroiled in a media nightmare, had resorted to taking her own life.

For me, it was one of those 'do-you-remember-where-you-were-when-you heard' moments. I clearly remember my husband coming in from work and announcing it to me in the kitchen. And I also remember being distinctly annoyed at him for speaking about it in a 'did-you-hear-this' type of way. I didn't know Caroline, and nor was I even a follower of hers, but for some reason, I felt as though someone had punched me in the gut when I heard what had happened, and I cried. I cried for the pain of someone I didn't know. I cried for someone who felt there was no other way. I cried, because I recognised that pain. I recognised the pain of a heart that is broken. I recognised the pain of feeling totally apart from the rest of the world you know, and so desperate to feel something better.

I suppose now, I realise that I have had anxiety and depression most of my life. Perhaps it was down to having witnessed horrific domestic violence as a tender aged 7 year old, or perhaps I was always going to be like that. I don't agonise over those things now, but the dark shadow of mental pain has hung over me for decades.

As a young child, and then as a teen, I had crippling body dysmorphia, believing I was out of proportion, and not very attractive. I had anorexia to the point I stopped my periods for a while. I was able, eventually to recover on my own, but I still scrutinise myself in a way I would never do to anyone else. I can now laugh when I see the phrase 'I wish I was as fat as I was when I first thought I was fat.'

At university I developed horrific agoraphobia, and could only do my exams with a fairly empty stomach, in case my stomach made digesting noises. I was that terrified of drawing attention to myself. I took regular panic attacks, and just learned to under-eat to try to control the agoraphobia. I can still remember the feeling of claws climbing up from my stomach to my throat, blinding me with white fear.

It wasn't until my daughter was born, and I hit the lowest pit I had ever hit in my life, that I knew what was wrong. I had had quite a traumatic birth, and I do believe I had PTSD. That along with a history of mental health problems was catastrophic. I hated being a mum, and even hated the word 'Mummy'. I was terrified about this 'bonding' thing I felt everyone was talking about, and wondered why I didn't feel it. I became sleep-obsessed, worrying that I wouldn't sleep, and therefore wouldn't cope, so I became dependent on sleeping tablets, all the while obsessing over the fact that the GP had said they were for temporary use only. My mind raced about what would happen when they stopped giving them to me! I thought my husband would leave me, and that my child would be taken away.

I was terrified of side effects, and refused to take anti-depressants, but after waking in the night, and deciding lying in front of the cars was my best option, I knew I had to face it. My health-visitor was a life-saver, as was my female GP. They both gently encouraged me to try Citalopram (other brands had made me suicidal, actually), and one day, I did wake up, as my Health Visitor said, and I did feel 'different'. I was less haunted, less frantic, my heart was steady, and I began enjoying my baby girl!

Suddenly, the new mother who felt it was a waste of time going out, was never in. I took my pram everywhere, and I was free.

This is certainly not an endorsement for anti-depressants, but a piece of hope for those who have been in the pit of despair. I now help others, through my church, and through everyday life. I recognise the haunted look, and I reach out. I know what it feels like, and I know what to say, and more importantly, what not to say!

I wrote a poem about my experiences. I hope you like it:

Trailing, not Covering.

Leaving the black sheet trailing,

It no longer covers me.

Stifling my breath, blinding my vision,

Causing my poor, broken heart to beat wildly.

I breathe now, freely.

I embrace the light; no longer

Trapped, in the heavy, sticky,

Exhausting fear.

No longer cast out to sea, adrift,

Losing myself to deep despair. Insanity,

Terror. Grief. For myself and who I was.

I was innocent, now seeing too much.

Seeing only the losses. Seeing only

What I had to endure, and never beat.

Seeing what changed me.

Night-time would stand like a razor-toothed nightmare

creature in the doorway.

Its looming, inevitable presence would cause my fluttering, exhausted heart to beat frantically.

I was terrified of the long hours awake.

My pulse like an angry hornet in my ears.

The creature in the doorway is silent and unseen for now,

but never completely gone.

Medication makes me tired at times,

but rather be slightly heavy than

beating against the window panes of terror like a frightened bird.

The black sheet trails behind me,

never left behind, but still,

just trailing.

For now.

Deborah Robinson.