The Depression Card

Anybody with a history of depression will have been accused, either literally or implied (usually with one slightly-squinted eye), of playing The Depression Card. It's the stock response from people that are either afraid of, or simply too ignorant to try and understand, mental illness. It's how they think you are avoiding doing all the sensible and vital surviving that allows you to become a fully functioning member of the real world.

Problems at work? Use the Depression Card.

Don't fancy going out tonight? There's a Depression Card for that!

Dirty teeth and hair like an egret's nest? Slide that fucker across the table and just watch the look on their faces melt from smug 'judgemental' to bitterly resigned 'thwarted'.

It's your Get Out of Jail free card for pretty-much any unpleasant situation you wish to extract yourself from, and the beauty of it is NOBODY CAN TOUCH YOU FOR IT.

Let's get something straight right here. When somebody accuses you of playing The Depression Card what they are really accusing you of is being LAZY.

Problems at work? You could go into work if you really tried.

Don't fancy going out tonight? Don't be ridiculous. Of course you could put a dress on, and do your hair, and apply makeup, and get the bus into town and go to a party and be sociable and talk to people. You just can't be bothered.

Dirty teeth and hair like an egret's nest? You could stand in the shower and brush your teeth and rub shampoo on your head, then blow-dry it and put some clothes on. You just don't want to because you're lazy.

They could be right. All depressed people could just be incredibly lazy. That's why so many of them can't be bothered to go to work, or the shops. Instead of Depression Awareness days we could hold Laziness Awareness days instead. We wouldn't even have to do any work in advance. We could just yawn or cry at each other simultaneously over webcams and feel immediate solidarity with our lazy brethren.

When I was 18 I went a bit mad*. My parents were going away for two weeks and I knew I was too sick to look after myself. Instead of discussing plans of how I'd cope with them in advance I kept all my fears of 'Oh GOD I am going to DIE here on my OWN' to myself until the night before they left. Then I collywobbled all over the floor in a snotty mess, terrifying them. Mum was upset. Dad was furious. He accused me of playing The Depression Card. I was dispatched to my nan's.

Much later, when I was in my twenties and able to synthesise my experiences more successfully, I discussed this period in my life with my mum. Her response set me free. "I just looked at you - the state of your hair, your red eyes, your shaking hands and thought 'How can she possibly want to feel this way?'"

Yes, Mum. Bloody YES. How can I possibly want to feel this way? I honestly felt right there that my life's work was achieved. One person in my life knew how debilitating this was, and right there the Depression Card vanished before my eyes. Because nobody with depression would ever want to feel this way. Ask any of them if they want to feel so awful. ALL of them will say 'no'. That's why some even try to end their own lives. We are foot soldiers battling against the Black Dog, we need as much rest, sleep, understanding as we can get. And we don't ask for it lightly.

So (and this blog had to end on a 'so' didn't it? It's a Sesame Street-esque lesson, is what it is!) if you've ever been depressed, and you've read this: Please stop worrying that you're using your illness as some kind of excuse for not living your life as successfully as everybody else. You can't live your life like that right now. But you will, given time. And if you've ever (either directly or inadvertently) accused anybody of playing The Depression Card  at any point in your life I hope this has urged you not to do so again lightly.


*depressed. I was depressed. I just thought I was mad.

Zip, zap...

Hello!

If you've read any of my older posts you might be aware that I'm no stranger to antidepressants. In fact, I've been on them since the age of 16, when my GP prescribed a low dose of venlafaxine for me because 'everything kept feeling like it wasn't real' (baby's first panic attacks). Since them I've had (cue Hartbeat 'Gallery Music'):

Dosulepin - when I went a bit mad aged 18 and had to go and stay with my nan for a few weeks.

Sertraline - at uni, mainly for panic attacks.

Citalopram - because the sertraline didn't really work.

Fluoxetine aka 'Prozac' - when coming off the citalopram, which murdered my libido. I had a horrific allergic reaction to this stuff and wanted to run out of my own skin for about 24 hours.

Valproic Acid - mood stabiliser, when I had 'manic depression', made my hair fall out - which made me more crazy - came off after about a month.

Venlafaxine - cos it worked when I was 16 and is quite strong.  My highest dose was 150mg (when I was diagnosed with 'manic depression') but I switched down to 75mg about 3 years ago, and am hoping to come off this summer... This stuff gave me my life back when at times I despaired of ever having one.

This isn't a post about depression, cos I've done loads of those and am quite bored of them. I want to move forward with my life and I think that too much navel-gazing can be bad for you.

No, this post is just to record the fact that, after half my life on antidepressants, I'm coming off the venlafaxine. It's quite scary, because I can hardly remember being happy without it, but my life has stabilised and in the not-too-distant future I hope to get knocked up (venlafaxine taken when pregnant can cause harm to the baby, and cause neo-natal withdrawal). I'm also FAT, and think that part of that could be linked to the meds.

I started halving my dose two days ago and coming off has been slightly unpleasant. My brain feels like it's being zapped by a laser for about three hours a day and I'm a bit dopier than usual. Otherwise everything else seems to be going okay. I've got off lightly, if all the horror stories about venlafaxine withdrawal on the internet are to go by. Google 'venlafaxine + withdrawal' and all you'll get are reams and reams of results about excessive vomiting, suicide attempts, hearing voices and chronic insomnia. This stuff has a seriously short half-life, so your body starts freaking out when it realises it's not going to get its fix.

Going to update again when I stop the pills altogether. Hopefully not from my sickbed!

Baby's First Risotto!

How have I reached the age of 30 without ever making a risotto? Probably because I am afraid of cooking rice. I always over-boil it, even if I time it, and it turns to mush.

Sitting in the freezer were some lovely scallops and prawns and I wanted to do them justice; cooking them simply with very simple flavours. Risotto just seemed right.

Being a kitchen MAVERICK I followed a recipe for a completely different risotto to the one I was making (pea and pancetta), just to get the technique. This is how I did it:

Scallop and Prawn Risotto

300g risotto rice
750 ml chicken/fish stock
150ml white wine
Big double handful giant prawns
Big handful scallops
Zest and juice of 2 lemons
50g butter
1 clove garlic
Bunch spring onions - chopped
Handful parsley - chopped

1. Shell the jumbo prawns and remove the veins (actually their digestive tract but, oh well). This is LONG, but it stops them from being gritty. Shelling prawns is really easy, twist the heads off (WARNING: brain juice will explode on your fingers), remove the legs and peel the shell off from the bottom up. I leave the shell on the tails cos it's pretty and they do it in posh restaurants. Take a sharp paring knife and cut down the prawn's back, you'll see a manky brown/black vein. Pull it out. Wash the prawns and put in a bowl in the fridge.

2. Fry the garlic, lemon zest and spring onions in the butter for approx 2 mins until soft.

3. Add the rice and cook in the butter mix for 2 mins, stirring constantly (this bit FRIGHTENED me, I kept expecting it to pop/explode or burn - told you I was afraid of rice).

4. Add the white wine and boil, stirring constantly, for 2 mins. This bit smells lovely.


5. Add the stock, a bit at a time, as the rice absorbs it gradually (or you can chuck it all in, I suppose, I got bored halfway through and did just that). This process should take about 20 mins. After that time the risotto is more or less done. Stir it regularly to prevent the bottom burning.

6. About 5-6 mins from the end fry off the scallops. Put the raw prawns into the risotto. Stir.

7. At the end add the scallops, lemon juice, parsley and seasoning and serve. Nice.

I'd add a picture here but I ate it too quickly. Soz.

Mediocre Mediums

A Groupon offer caught my eye this week: 30 min psychic reading for £10 (instead of usual £45). Now, please don't think that I believe in clairvoyancy, tarot, angels, fairies etc, I was just really curious as to how these people made their money. My grandmother has spent many years chucking money at what I believe to be charlatans and I wanted to have a little slice of it for myself.

On finding out that I could spread my 30 mins across various readings I decided to conduct a little experiment (kinda, sorta an experiment...). I chose four mediums and told them the following information:

• My D.O.B.
• My mum died.
• I have a boyfriend.

The rest I left up to them. This is what they came up with...

The First Psychic: Male. A little Richard Madeley-esque in that he was condescending. ('This is your first psychic reading, isn't it?' ) Attempted to contact the spirit world to make a 'connection' for me. Failed. Apologised. Hung up. FAIL.

The Second Psychic: Middle-aged, cheerful, voice like me nan's. Told me that mum was reluctant to come forward, that she was 'hiding' and that she'd 'dragged her out' because she was hiding behind her maternal figure (Who? My nan? Who is very much alive? FAIL.) Saw a 'big contract' for my 'funny boyfriend' coming up in the near future and a curly-haired baby girl. 'But what about conception?' I ask.Then proceeded to lecture me about healthy eating 'You've got to get enough fruits and vegetables' for about five minutes, while I gnawed on a Kit Kat.

The Third Psychic: Made of much sterner stuff. Saw a tall nurse with white hair around me. FAIL. Kept asking me for a number between one and ten. Chose 7 - 'The World', packing boxes in my future, apparently. Then chose 5 - 'The Magician', I'm going to be 'decisive' and 'charismatic' this year. I took decisive action and terminated the call.

The Fourth Psychic: Brief. Advised me to go to my local spiritualist church because my mum was 'all around me, always' and that 'When people pass to the spirit world they don't remember the pain of their passing'. I ask how she can be so sure of this. 'Well, you can't remember being born, can you?' Then told me my mum had 'mid-length sandy hair' - FAIL. 

Not one of these people came close. Not one of them told me anything I didn't know already, or couldn't get from a horoscope or self-help book. 

Conclusion: I was right all along. I wasted £10. I FAIL.

Typical day...

Form time (am): Equipment check, over 25% of kids have no pen. Register taken. Lecture delivered to class regarding expectations for this week. Always late kid arrives late. Berate her. 

L1: Yr 7. Class arrives hyper on Powerade. It takes 10 minutes to calm them down. Kid reads Demetrius so beautifully I think I'll weep… … then proceeds to spend the rest of the lesson calling other students 'shag-haired villains'. Explain that 'shag' in this instance means scruffy, not 'sex'. Kid shouts 'SEX HAIR'. Students write mini essay.

L2: Yr 9. Fourteen year old has full on tantrum for receiving a 'satisfactory' level 5. Forgets both book and homework at the end.

L3: Yr 10. Class are 5 mins late (PE). Spend ten mins explaining that their essay q does not require discussion of Lady Gaga's gender… … still, half write 'Lady Gaga has a dick' in their books. Headteacher comes in with visitor. Pray to Gods to let kids behave. Gods on my side today. GCSE assessment tomorrow! Woo! 

L4: Yr 11. "Who's Tiny Tim?" asks student who's been studying A Christmas Carol since December. Consider purchasing gun and shooting self in mouth. One kid calls Tiny Tim a 'retard'. Another tells me he refuses to read the novel because 'it's of no relevance to my life'. Throw book at him and shout 'READ'.

L5: Yr 8. Class takes ten mins to settle (Powerade and Haribo, again). Class task: to describe Portia. 'Elegant' 'Desirable' 'Big Nose'. Child has epileptic episode in class. Class take five mins to calm down. Sullen child refuses to write, look me in the eye or hold a pen, then realises it's a colouring task and participates with gusto.

Form time (pm). Half of my form have not completed their homework. 20 minute detention + 40 mins to call home and inform parents.

SO YEAH, I WENT HOME AT 4.10. FUCK YOU GOVE, I WAS TIRED!

Love me, love my Mooncup!

I'm one of many thousands that have scoffed at the Mooncup ads on the backs of doors in health centres and festival loos. "Ha ha ha!" I said, "A plastic egg cup to collect your PERIOD BLOOD! Nyuh nyuh nyuh... GROSS."

That was when I was young.

Now I am thirty and, quite frankly, getting bored of my periods. Sixteen years of paying tax on tampons. And remembering to buy them. BORING. So when I discovered that a close friend used a Mooncup I quizzed her like a Mastermind contestant. So if you're at all curious, below are the questions I asked. And my own answers. Reader, I married it.

How do you get it up there?

Like this:
 

This is officially called the 'Labial Fold' but to make it more interesting I like to call it 'Rosebud' in a whisper. You can fold it like an 'M' or an 'S' shape, but trust me, this is the best way to make it as small as possible. Unlike tampons (which sit quite high) it only sits about 1-2cm up your vagina, so really it's no more difficult to insert than a non-applicator tampon (which I can't insert, btw). Once it's in it pops open (if you remember the 80s, it's a bit like this), creating a vacuum, and your vag muscles hold it in place. Done.

Can you feel it?
No more than you can a tampon. Unless you don't trim the stem. I did this straight away because I don't relish the idea of sore bits.

Does it leak?
Mine leaked, a tiny, tiny bit, once, when I put it in sleepy as hell and smacked off my tits on co-codamol, at 4am. This was the only time and it was no more than any tampon ever did. Honest.

How do you get it out?
Most internet horror stories about using Mooncups cite this as the most horrific part. But this bit is FUN. It simply involves the art of BEARING DOWN. This just means squeezing your vag muscles, although having a wee will do a similar job. If you've never squeezed your vag muscles before (why wouldn't you? It keeps them taut!) then just have a wee before you try to take it out, the squeezing during the weeing will do half the work for you. You grasp the bottom, and give the base of the Mooncup a little squeeze until you hear a delicious slurping sound (this is the vacuum breaking). Then you just pull it out, keeping it upright the whole time.

Can you pee/poo with it in?
Yes. The fanny vacuum makes it easier to wee and poo with one of these babies in than a tampon, which is basically just floating around in your vag. I could never pee with a tampon in, I'd end up birthing it into the loo halfway through. Ditto number twos. The Mooncup is stuck up there like a plunger, dude, urinate away. If it comes down a bit just give it a gentle push up.

Isn't it GROSS when you empty it?
Underneath, and all around the outside of the Mooncup it is clean and dry. I just want to reiterate this fact: CLEAN AND DRY. Thank the fanny vacuum. It is cleaner than a manky tampon cord. It is cleaner than a sanitary towel. Your hands needn't touch blood at all during the entire process. Yes inside it will contain a small amount of period blood, but to date I have never even hit the 5ml mark, and I thought I had heavy periods. Tip it down the loo. Rinse your Mooncup under the hot tap. Admire how clean it is before inserting it again.

That's it. It's not foul at all. You see no more gore than you do with tampons. So calm down, ladies, and embrace the fanny vac. You'll save over £5 a month!

Why I am fat...

I rarely talk about weight. I watch the debates scrolling before me on Twitter, or in the Guardian, and keep my comments to myself. So this is probably the only post about weight you will ever read by me, and it is about being fat. So for starters I'd like to hammer home that this is about being Fat, not being Thin. 'But people are mean to me because I'm so thin!'. Yes. Sorry about that. 'Thinism is the new Fattism.' Not true. Fatties get it worse. Always have, always will. Complain at me again when Topshop start selling size 20 jeans.

I was a skinny child, like, really skinny. I was a slim teenager. When I was sixteen I woke up one morning with an arse the size of a DFS sofa. When I was twenty-four I suddenly grew two pendulous breasts. I have absolutely no recollection of these features developing on me. Fat snuck up on me, I never saw it coming.

I knew I was getting bigger, my clothes were, so I stopped buying clothes. Problem solved. Then all my clothes got holes in and I had to buy some more. Leggings looked so comfortable, but I refrained from buying any for years because I thought I'd look ridiculous in them, and offend the general public by deigning to wear them out. I grew livid with Topshop for only stocking clothes size 6-16, and then introducing a size 4, but not a size 18. Now I hated my body, and was ashamed of it. Me!

I look at my arm next to a normal person's arm. My arm is fat. It is nearly twice the size. Sometimes I flick it with my finger to see if it hurts like it did when it was thinner. It really doesn't. I have Fat Armour. If I was a pisshead people would feel concern for me, but because I am a carbhead people just think I'm lazy. I don't care, I have my armour, throw cannonballs of prejudice at me and they will just bounce right off.

I need to eat to be able to do my job. There is nothing worse than teaching on an empty stomach. Trust me, if you had to stand in front of a class of thirty eleven-sixteen year olds for five hours a day you'd need some fucking Shreddies inside you too. And a flapjack for elevenses. And a baked potato for lunch, with cheese. Up until recently I haven't had a penny to spare on anything other than food or bills. It costs nine pounds to attend a yoga class in Crouch End. That would buy me lunches for a week. 

"The problem is cake. Stop eating cake" remarks my boyfriend, helpfully. I glance down at his growing sponsored-by-Kronenberg paunch and think 'Okay love, when you stop drinking beer'. He won't, he loves his beer. I LOVE cake. My mum used to bake once a week. Big, hulking rock buns that your teeth would crunch through to reveal a sugary-soft, almost ethereal, core. Victoria sponge with homemade jam, and sugar flowers on the top, looking like a photo from Woman's Weekly. Scones that we'd eat hot, so that the butter we piled on them would drip down our chins as we scoffed them. I swear I once found Jesus in the soft core of a meringue. Mum didn't make these to make us fat. She made these because we were poor, and because she needed to feed us. So yes, I love cake, but who wouldn't after that little prologue? My boyfriend drinks two or three cans of beer a day, I eat, at most, one slice of cake on average every three days. Who has the real PROBLEM here? No, it is not cake.

I forget all the rubbish food I've eaten the second I swallow. I look closely at my diet. I can't see that much wrong with it: breakfast, lunch, tea. Five portions of fruit and veg a day. Water and tea to drink. I am all over that shit. Apples and bananas are my best friends, I see them every day. But this is the shit that counts, this is what I CHOSE to forget, this is what I REALLY digested yesterday: Maltesers (regular bag, I was nearly seduced by the larger bag, and felt smug for rejecting it), Rice Krispie cake, ice cream (plus cone), Coca Cola x 2. The problem is I had to sit down and think really hard before I could remember I ate all that. Somewhere in my brain there is an auto-delete button that I am not in control of.

This is the problem. And yes, I know exactly what it is. The problem is, that in my mind I have not really progressed physically since the age of eighteen (or mentally, but that's another post). I look down at myself. I know It is there, it is just that It is something I choose not to acknowledge; like casually racist remarks made by my nan, or the Sun newspaper. So in my mind I am a size twelve, always have been. How would I know if I wasn't? I don't own a full length mirror. All of my mirrors are less than 30cm long. It is only after a birthday party, or family get-together, and the documentary evidence appears in Facebook albums, that I truly get to look at myself. 'That's never me!' I think, aghast, sneakily untagging myself and hoping the photographer doesn't notice.

People are stupid. They try to give you advice gleaned from too many years of watching Trisha or Vanessa and advise you to admit to the problem. Many people think that once you acknowledge a problem it suddenly floats away into the atmosphere, never to bother you again, like a vanquished demon on Buffy. This is a myth. I owned up to writing 'Bums here please' on a toilet seat at school once, and it made my life hell for at least another two years. I 'owned up' to being mentally ill when I was eighteen and I am still mentally ill now. So truly acknowledging my fatness will not bring me any kind of inner peace, looking into a full length mirror in a dressing room will not reveal any secrets to me, it'll just be boring, and a bit unpleasant.

But I think about my pancreas, glowing inside me like ET's heart and calling cancer cells to it like a mermaid singing to a ship full of sailors. It is a beacon, emitting helplessness, sending out an SOS to my brain. Being overweight causes cancer. So do drinking and smoking and an unhealthy diet. I am going to die of cancer. Or I am going to get diabetes. Or I am going to have a heart attack running up the stairs at work. I might even be found dead with cake in my hair.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I am going to try and be a bit less fat from now on. Not because of how I look, but because I am scared of dying. Now excuse me while I run off and do a little cry.