Guest Blog – Beth (My Experience of Post Traumatic Stress)

20130113-210746.jpgI’m not right. I’m just not right. I don’t feel right. I’ve been saying that to everyone I meet for the last 12 months just incase someone could help. Anyone! Anyone? Wise men? Wise women?

I had been to the doctor so many times with a list of concerns each time. And so many things I didn’t bother to say cos I knew he couldn’t help. He couldn’t sort a return of my childhood allergies to dairy and gluten. He couldn’t help a new allergy to Sulphites. Maybe he could help the raggedy state my voice was in? ENT specialist said he’d never seen such a small stressed space and couldn’t believe I was making any sound let alone free improv!!

Surely my doctor could help with the endless bowel trouble? Maybe the cronic indigestion could be helped by my cranial osteopath..it was…mostly. Maybe reiki could help the endlessly imposing and loud and endless thoughts getting in the way of communication with my kids, with getting out of the house in the morning, with working with anyone I didn’t feel 100% sure of! Surely the Master Homeopath and Naturopath would help stop all my hair falling out…when is that going to stop? Could he stop the terrible and traumatic night sweats where a change of clothes and bedding at 3am was a must?…paracetamol just doesn’t do it! What about a full nights sleep? Will I ever have that again? Sleepy teas and herbal tablets dont touch that either and just leave me more tired when I need to work! Then what about the bizzare vomiting, middle of the night, anytime after eating at other places other than the family home? I couldn’t go away anywhere. Couldn’t stay over! Couldn’t eat out anywhere! I also stopped being a good judge of temperature. I overdressed when out walking because I felt cold all the time. I had lots of covers on my bed but woke up shivering!

As my period approached I screamed “Not that as bloody well!”

I came off caffeine, maybe that’s the trick? Stopped drinking 2 years ago, wouldn’t that help? Less meat? More walks! Meditation and reiki…all helped. But the longer I sat still and waited and breathed… the worse I realised I was! The less work I took on the more I could hear my body shouting at me! The deeeper the release work I did the more I realised my body was out of control. I realised I’d been poorly for years and found some super coping mechanisms but underlying and ready to tip at any moment was Post Traumatic Stress Disorder!

I watched a program on Shell Shock in September ’12 and it all fell into place. All these things were one thing. Acute anxiety! All basically the same thing but I could pin point a starting point so that makes it post traumatic stress. A rubbish cocked up caesarian 9 years ago with 2 years of horrid flashbacks and a complete collapse of my previously great health!

So I chose my doctor carefully and went with my hypothosis. I was immediately on antidepressants and a waiting list (a year long) for Cognative Behavioural Therapy! A year! I have to wait a year to be right again…aaaaargh. The anti-depressants worked a treat after the dose was increased. Sleep and peace, Phew!

Then a wise woman introduced me to another wise women…tried many in the past…but this one specialises in Eye Movement Desensitising and Reprogramming Therapy or Eye Movement Therapy to you and me. She makes my eyes move from left to right and follows my brain round its thoughts, catching them, reprogramming, copying the healthy processes of REM sleep. She unsticks the stuck thoughts and moves them on into the right bit of the brain…the past! I know its more than that, but that’s the best way I can describe it.

So here I am. My peace and sleep all broken again as I dream weird dreams and wheeze like an old boiler in the process of trying to mend it all properly and perminantly. I dream of being well again, healthy again.

How many mad mums? How many traumatic births? How many stuck memories? How many bodies feeling like they are still in fight or flight though the lion has gone and won’t ever be back?

Beth Allen is a creative voice specialist. To find out more about the amazing work she does visit her website

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Guest Blog – Jim (Depression & Photography)

SunriseMy name is Jim and I’m a long-term sufferer of depression, going back to when my Dad died when I was 12 (I’m 53 now, 3 years younger than my Dad was when he died. For a coalminer, he didn’t have too bad an innings). As life has gone on, the depression has ebbed and flowed, but never left. I’ve occasionally been deluded enough to think it had run its course, but it always comes back to haunt me in many varied ways. Sometimes it has obvious and evident causes – relationship breakups, a few severe physical traumas, unemployment and so on, but now and again it’ll catch me unawares.

I’ve had most of the modern antidepressants – I started on the lovely Amitriptiyline, which I now take in a much lower dosage for nerve pain, but they won’t allow me to use it as an antidepressant anymore. I don’t get on with any of the SSRI’s I’ve tried, so I’ll only use them as a very last resort. The last one I tried was Citalopram, which seemed to have less side effects than the rest, but it still increased my anxiety levels to beyond the pale.

Anxiety has been a constant companion for the past 20 or so years, following an unprovoked attack in which I was stabbed and almost killed. I was on diazepam for 5 or 6 years, but came off that cold turkey after hassles with psychiatrists. I’ve also used Beta blockers (propranolol) for lengthy periods of time. They’re fine if you can live without adrenaline.

I’ve undergone various therapies, mostly in vain. 2 equally disastrous attempts at psychoanalysis has left me with a healthy contempt of analysts. Counselling helps, but only up to a point. A course of CBT worked well, but I felt it was a bit too short. I still use tricks I picked up there to help now (but at the end of the day, they are just tricks).

I’ve kind of drifted around from job to job, quite successfully at times. After school I lounged around on the dole for a bit before going to Art College. Prior to Art College, I’d met up with an Art Therapist during a period of hospitalisation, who remains a good friend to this day, and he had kickstarted me into taking my artwork seriously. College was a bit disastrous, really and undid all the good he’d done. When I left I never wanted to paint again. I did gain some experience of photography and darkrooms, though, and a love of photography has remained with me ever since. I never did get the chance to build my own darkroom, but it was always a plan until digital cameras came along.

During student life I did as many others did and worked in bars and restaurants to keep myself solvent and drunk. When I left, I kind of stayed with it, finding a sleazy late night place I liked and taking on the kitchen duties. I was the chef, interior decorator, menu designer, and promoter of a small but select back street dive with a late licence and live music every night of the week. Life did not get much better. When managership was offered, I took it, along with becoming the sole licensee of the premises when the owners moved on to bigger and not necessarily better things around the corner. It wasn’t to last. (see 3rd paragraph, I don’t want to talk about it)

I lost about 5 years or so to Post Traumatic Stress, lived on benefits, became a recluse… that kind of thing. While I’d been running the venue, I’d used my “showbiz” contacts and had a good run as a “performance poet”, doing regular gigs on my nights off from the club, self-publishing a couple of books, recording cassettes and so on. That all stumbled to a drunken halt too, though some friends did get me to record a CD with some funding they procured. I didn’t promote it and it didn’t serve any purpose, really, except as a vanity project.

I met my wife around this time, and when she became pregnant with our first child (we now have 4!) it occurred to me that I should quit my low down lounging ways and get back into the world of work.

What to do though? I’d had enough of restaurant and bar work, but there wasn’t much else I was any good at, so I ended up slaving away in a string of call centres just to bring a wage home at the end of the week. It made me desperately miserable, but I had a potential family to support, so I gritted my teeth and answered those phones as cheerfully and helpfully as I could. As soon as one job got too much, I’d move on. That kind of work was plentiful, once you had your foot in the door, and most places had a high turnover of staff.

Once we had a baby or two in our arms, it became clear to us that city life had lost its attraction, and when a chance came up to drop everything and move to rural Wales, we did just that. I scrabbled around taking any work I could get for a while, while trying to live as simple and uncomplicated a life as possible. I gave up car ownership when my Transit van was leaking oil everywhere and due to fail its MOT. I started to use my bicycle, which I’d always had, as my primary mode of transport. I got a job in a bike shop. I went to work for a cycling charity. I now teach safe cycling and general road safety to children.

I bought one of the first waterproof and shockproof digital compact cameras, and still have it. I took it everywhere with me. It fitted nicely into my pocket, and didn’t fall apart if I fell off my bike or dropped it, or wandered into the sea with it. Having a bicycle and a camera is a magical combination. Driving along and seeing something magnificent is frustrating if you can’t stop to get your camera out. On a bike, you nearly always can. Having a camera gives you an excuse to look at things, and to look at them again, from another angle. It gives you an excuse to lay down on the floor an look closely at a beetle or a flower. It gives you a reason to look outwards from yourself, which is sometimes very difficult if you’re in the grip of a deep depression. A camera is something to go for a walk with. You don’t need another person (though another photographer is always perfect company – they won’t talk you to death or walk too fast!).

Through posting my photos online I’ve met many like-minded people, some have remained online-only friends, some have become firm real life friends, just because we both enjoy taking and posting pictures.

I learned a lot from other bloggers and my own photography took on new dimensions. This wouldn’t have been possible without the interweb and digital cameras. I briefly joined a sketching club many years ago, and I’ve been a member of too many writers’ groups to know that an Amateur Photography Group who meet at the local fishing club headquarters every other Thursday would never have benefitted me in the same way.

I bought a DSLR, thinking it would open new doors, give me more creative control, but it wasn’t the right size, and it didn’t sem to do a great deal more than my compact does, so I let it gather dust for a year or so before passing it on to my wife, on condition that she buy me a new compact. It’s even more shock, water and freeze proof than my old one (which my oldest daughter now has) and will soon, when I’ve got a cradle for it, be heading skywards attached to the string my kite. KAP, or Kite Arial Photography is something I’ve wanted to try since my online friend Joker posted some photos…

I’m deeply depressed at the moment. I broke my wrist in a cycling accident about 3 months ago, and the lack of physical activity coupled with the general trauma and pain of a badly broken bone has sent me into a downward spiral. I love my wife and children more than anything in the world, but home is a bit claustrophobic at the moment, and `I must be a right pain in the arse to live with just now. The dreary wet winter weather doesn’t help, but even when I can’t get out, I can find something around the house which will make an interesting subject. My camera can captivate me like nothing else can, but capturing the image, perhaps tweaking it a bit (I used to be a photoshop obsessive, but beyond a little light cropping I don’t retouch or manipulate at all anymore) is only half the process. It’s not “done” till it’s been posted online.

Last year, my friend’s mother attracted my attention by creating a blog called “Silent Sunday” which consisted of a single photo, taken during that week and posted every Sunday, with no words or title or caption or anything. I started one, but it fell into disuse. I’m resurrecting it this week. It’s here

My camera, it’s window I can look out of, wherever I am.