When you Feel Weak but it Turns Out You're Strong
Written by Casey Douglass
The following post
won’t teach you how to throat sing in easy listicle fashion (I hate
listicles). Nor will it be some tasty piece of fiction with monsters
and gore and an ending that stays with you for the rest of the day.
All this post will do is tell you more about me, and only you can
decide if that tickles your curiosity or not. The reason behind it is
that I’ve been absolutely slaughtering myself about where I am in
my life, and in a rare moment of what seems to be good sense, I’ve
remembered the value in looking back at things and rooting out the
positives besides the negatives. This post is what came of that
moment of clarity. I decided to post it too, as any thing I tend to
do like this just gets thrown to the wayside once I’ve finished,
and promptly forgotten. Posting it might help it stick. Who knows.
When I was at Junior
school, I felt held back a little. I was the kid who actually asked
for homework when we still weren't at the stage of our education
that warranted it. I was the only child who turned up at science or
computer club. I was a geek, and that’s fine by me. I wanted to get
on in life and I enjoyed learning. I even had a couple of girlfriends
during my time in Junior school (not at the same time, I was and
always will be a gentleman in that regard), but for a geeky fella
back then, I did alright.
I was around ten or
eleven years old when my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder emerged,
derailing the person I was and sending me into a hell that seems to
forever be snapping at my heels. OCD is an anxiety disorder in which
the sufferer becomes obsessed with some urge or fear, e.g. a fear of
germs is one common example, and feels the compulsion to do something
to alleviate that anxiety, e.g. washing their hands. The insidious
thing is that by giving in, the OCD wants more from you next time.
Washing your hands once, to keep with our example, won’t cut it the
next time the fear arises, so you might do it twice. This is the
birth of an obsessive compulsive loop, and they can form around all
kinds of things, issues and fears.
I wasn’t diagnosed
with OCD until I was sixteen, so five or six years of mental anguish
was my companion as I worked my way through high-school and my GCSEs.
Schoolwork was one of the easier things for me, even with this other
distraction taking up lots of my time. I was in the top set for most
subjects, a position that gave the opportunity for my Maths set to
take our GCSE a year early. This I did and got an A. I also collected
a host of A stars and As in the rest of my GCSEs, with a few
exceptions, but I was broadly happy. When I hit college for my Maths,
Physics and Computing A-levels, I felt like I’d hit a brick wall.
I was receiving
treatment for my OCD at this time, was on anti-depressants, and was
also seeing the college counsellor too. I was body building at the
gym with enjoyable 2.5 hour fully body workouts twice a week, and
mountain biking about 20 miles each weekend too. Everything came to a
head, and the strain of my anxiety and a couple of other factors
ended up with me attempting to kill myself. It was after this that I
realised that I didn’t want to go to university, not instantly
anyway. My grades wouldn’t have got me there anyway, so I thought
about having a gap year, maybe going to Australia for 6 months, that
kind of thing.
When I left college, I
went through the usual run of shitty jobs people go through. It was
during the second one of these that I fell ill with glandular fever,
and was fired not long after, because I was still on a trial
period. It was absolute bullshit and it made me regret struggling to
work with a double chest infection only about three weeks previous to
that. Bastards. Anyway, I seemed to slowly get over the glandular fever,
but then went down hill again and haven’t picked up again since.
That was almost two decades ago, and it led to my diagnosis of
Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (also called M.E at times).
CFS is horrendous. I
thought OCD was hard, but the exhaustion I feel every moment of the
day is something I’ve never really gotten used to. Also, the stuff
about “exercise being helpful” when it comes to anxiety became a
cruel joke for someone who struggled with just getting up the stairs. As I write this
now, my hands are shaking, my head hurts and my eyes are heavy and
gritty. I’ve already rested once before starting this article, and
will have to rest frequently all day, just to stop myself sliding
down into flu-like symptoms that take even longer to diminish. As you
might imagine, this makes living what people might deem a “normal”
life next to impossible. It is also where a lot of my self-directed
animosity strikes home.
When I’d been unwell
for about six months, I decided to do a correspondence course in
fitness instructing, even though going to the gym or any kind of
exercise was out of the question. My thinking was that I could do the
theory stuff and then get the other half of the certificate, the
physical exams etc., once I was better. The course was something
that, pre-illness, would have taken me a year I’d estimate. The
biology it contained was GCSE level material at best, the exercises
and movements stuff I already knew pretty well. Due to the fatigue,
it took me the whole three years allowed to complete the course, which was a
sign of how my illness was affecting me. I got my diploma but never
did do the other part sadly. Incidentally, I’ve casually taken the
odd I.Q test since being ill (by casual I mean I was half watching
TV) and tended to score around 120, so I don’t think my mental capacity has
slid too much, which is something.
After this, I began to
get into photography, thinking that I could maybe make some kind of living
snapping interesting pics. I learned html and built my own website to
display my work, studied the art of photography as best I could, and
generally tried to get myself into a position where I felt I could
start earning money. It didn’t happen, largely due to how limited I
was in getting out and about. Anything close enough to me to snap,
I’d already done multiple times. That dream died a death basically,
although it’s something I still dabble with for fun.
It was after this that
I came to revisit my love of writing. Writing is something that I’ve
always enjoyed, and often pestered my teachers to ask “When can we
write a story again!” I did an introduction course with the Open
University and managed to pass that. I then decided to go for a full
diploma in literature and creative writing. This I did over the next
two years. I created this website and began getting my writing out
there in an unpaid capacity, mainly by way of fiction contests and by
writing posts for geeky websites like Geek Syndicate and Generic
Movie Blog. I built a portfolio and hoped for the day when I might
feel ready to try my hand at being a self-employed freelance writer.
From the diagnosis of
my CFS, until a few years ago when I came off it and went
self-employed as a writer, I was on ill health benefit. I just want
to say that it truly is the system of incompetence and backstabbing
that various news stories over the years have painted it as. I did a
lot of the things that the benefits system wanted well before they
became compulsory, like seeing a disability adviser etc. etc. Let’s
just say that they couldn't help and agreed that I was doing all I
could. This however meant nothing when your next medical came around
and you had to appeal the decision to stop your benefit. I HATED
being on benefit. I REALLY hated it. When I did leave the system to
pursue my writing, it was after a failed benefit review. I lodged my
objections and tore apart the bollocks they had come up with line by
line, but it changed nothing. I used the push to make the jump into
writing and trying to earn, and almost had a breakdown in the
process. I’d rather die than go back on benefit again, and I’m
sure I’m not alone in that sentiment. I’m sure the government
won’t mind that one bit though, one less person to support.
My CFS and OCD went
into overdrive with the stress of trying to find my way with
freelancing. An example of this is that I used to enjoy burning
candles or jossticks in my bedroom. I always did it safely, but
became preoccupied with the threat of sparks or leaving things
burning by mistake. Before I went for a week long break at the coast
a few months later, I spent two hours checking around my bedroom for
any sign of sparks, smoke or fire, even though I knew
it was my OCD. Under my bed, around the table, under my chair, in my
friggin’ cupboards, even in some of my DVD cases, checking that the
discs weren’t warm. My heart was hammering the whole time and I was
drenched in sweat when I’d finished. You’d be amazed at what your
mind might take for a spark if your body is already sensitized with
anxiety: sunlight reflecting off things, the flash of my mobile LED
when a text came, etc. If it happens at the edge of your vision,
whether you react or not, it still gives you an anxiety spike. This
was the worst period I’d suffered with my OCD since before my
diagnosis, and no-one knew. I told no-one how bad things got. This
was mainly due to already having had treatments, such as cognitive
behavioural therapy (CBT), for OCD and knowing that nothing new could
be said or done to help me. I did it all myself and pulled myself out
of the mire once again. My life is full of episodes like this,
although not often so severe.
In
the time I’ve been self-employed as a freelance writer, I’ve
never made a profit. I’m lucky enough to live with my parents who
are very understanding and don’t pressure me to pay my way. I still
find that I beat myself up about my lack of progress though. Well,
not a total lack of progress. In the intervening couple of years,
I’ve been published in more places, I’ve made some
money, even if it’s just enough to cover my bank fees, and I have
pushed myself to expand my comfort zone, appearing on podcasts, using
social media when all I want to do is crawl into a hole and be quiet,
and generally trying to move forwards.
I
have limited time each day in which I can work, due to symptom
management and other considerations, yet I still graft and do work
that either doesn't pay at all, or pays so little that it may as well
not pay. This adds a kind of hopeless stress to the things I do, but
it is what it is at the moment. I feel trapped in a lot of ways, and
the only way I feel things could possibly move on is if I can start
to earn a little more and be more self-sufficient. Again, more
self-imposed stress. I beat myself up about not pitching more ideas
to more potential clients, for not reading the stack of Writing
Magazines I have yet to touch because of some kind of block, and
myriad other things. I know this kind of self-talk isn’t helpful,
but it’s so overwhelming when deep in depression, that when I
struggle to brush my teeth some mornings, anything else just doesn't
seem worth doing, including living. But I go on.
In
the time I’ve been ill, I’ve read countless self-help/mental
health/psychology/philosophy/ spirituality books, from CBT to ACT,
from mindfulness to the Satanic Bible, from Osho to Alan Watts, from
Shamanism to The Sedona Method. I’ve worked to get a handle on the
things that I can, and to be accepting of the things that I can’t
change. I’ve improved my skills in a number of areas and even when
I feel dead inside, I can still find the drive to help other people
if I can, even if I don’t feel like it. This all counts for
something.
This
is the crux of what this long post has been about, trying to show
myself that I’m not the weak coward that I always paint myself as
when I fall into the spiral of hopelessness that I sometimes do. I’m
never good at complimenting myself or bigging myself up, but at the
very least, by reading back what I’ve just written, I can see that
these words don’t depict someone who isn’t trying to do what he
can with what he’s got. I think one of my biggest fears is failing
at something that I then look back on and wish I’d tried harder,
which is a way of thinking I could find myself in about anything
really.
I
don’t mind failure, I do mind if I feel I could have done more to
give myself a better chance at things. To some degree, this post has
helped me see that that feeling of wishing I did more, if it does
happen that writing isn’t a thing I can do to sustain myself, might
not feel so bad, knowing that I have tried, and that’s pretty much
enough.
If you are struggling with anything like the issues I've mentioned, you have my complete sympathy, and I hope you will seek help if you haven't so far, either by seeing your Doctor or talking to people like the Samaritans. It might help. It's worth a try. If you'd like to chat with me about anything I've written too, you can find me on social media or use the contact me page by clicking below. If you want to throw money at me to write something, please feel free to do the same. Thanks for reading.
