Could you tell me a time you felt shame?

 ‘Vulnerability and truth aren’t always comfortable, but they are never weakness’ -Brene Brown.  

To write about my own shame feels genuinely terrifying, and that is exactly the reason I have chosen to do it. Shame is something I have struggled with since leaving school. For me, school was a safe haven of continuous acknowledgement for my successes and hard work, but a bubble that was soon to be burst as I hit the Real World. I planned to join the Army as a nurse and had completed months of arduous fitness assessments, interview panels and aptitude tests, finally passing my selection board just weeks before leaving school. Everyone knew about my plan, congratulating me and wishing me luck as I set off for 4 months of intense training in London. I was ready to prove to everyone, and mostly to myself, that I had what it takes to achieve my dream of becoming a military nurse. 

Two months on, one week stay in hospital, and one diagnosis of glandular fever with clinical exhaustion later and my dream of passing out as a soldier that December was over. I was back at home having been medically discharged from the Army to recover, and whilst physically I was in pieces, it was my mental health that would take the biggest hit. That year was the beginning of an incredibly difficult physical and mental recovery. I hadn’t previously suffered with issues surrounding my mental health but it had always been something I’d feared having grown up watching my father struggle with depression throughout his life. But that was never something I could get. Not me. I was upbeat and positive, always striving for better and constantly on the go. I assured myself that people like me didn’t get depressed. 

That Christmas, as I sat in bed on Facebook looking at photos of my friends at the Army Pass Out Parade I should have been at, I knew then what genuine heartbreak felt like. I was a failure. I had made a fool of myself and let down so many people. I understand now years later having worked hard at processing what happened that I had no power over becoming unwell, but at the time I couldn’t see any other way than to blame myself. I constantly questioned if I could have pushed myself harder. Was I really that ill? Did everyone think I was weak? They’re right. 

I finally reached a point where I couldn’t talk about anything that had happened to me during training, I was having recurring nightmares, I didn’t speak to my family and I felt nothing. Not sad, not angry, just numb. After being recommended that I see my GP it was agreed that I would be put on anti-depressants for a short while. They were the beginning of me trying to pick myself up again, and I started to feel slightly more ‘me’ but being medicated came with a whole separate serving of shame. 

It is so incredibly hard to think about what a dark time it was for me, let alone write about it, however five years on I’m now in the process of qualifying as a physiotherapist- a guaranteed entry route back into the Army, something I never thought I’d be able to do. 

The point of this longwinded tale of post-school reality checks is that mental illness can truly affect anyone. I felt it important to write about shame as it can be an incredibly powerful barrier to being open and honest with loved ones about the struggles we may be facing. I would find myself lying and covering up about what I spent my unintentional gap year doing and playing down how much I was struggling coming to terms with the shame I experienced. I may have been more inclined to open up about the way I was feeling if someone had started a dialogue about mental health and helped break the stigma that surrounded depression for me at the time. Allowing ourselves to be vulnerable may be the catalyst for someone who is suffering in silence to open up. My own shame surrounding mental illness prevented me from talking openly about it with any of my close friends and family, and most to this day are unaware of what I went through. Shame by its very nature derives its power from being unspeakable but if we are able to share our story and have it met with empathy and understanding, shame cannot survive.

Could you tell me a time you reached out?

Recently one of my closest friends from school reached out to me and opened up about his mental health. He didn’t go into great detail or make it out as a big thing, he simply mentioned he had been in a dark place recently but he was getting the help and support he needed. I didn’t know how to feel at first. Then I reflected just on the fact he had reached out and opened up to me, it was inspiring. His honesty and bravery to reach out really took me back, as although there is a huge push now for men to talk more about their mental health, I’d never experienced it firsthand.

This made me think deeply about opening up to others and the role friends play in supporting us when we’re struggling. Even though my friend and I were not anyway near as close as we were when at school 5 years ago, he was still able to reach out. I think that’s what friendship is all about - It’s not about being there everyday but being there the day they need you - whether that be just a quick phone call, text, coffee or a more in-depth open conversation altogether. My friends openness and the casualness in which he told me, encouraged me to have conversations with other friends who I knew might be struggling. We didn’t make it a big thing, just a simple open conversation. Again, it amazed me how straightforward and normal the conversation went. I think that’s the thing with mental health, internally we build It up to be something too big to mention, when in reality, between friends, it’s the opposite.

My friend then opened up and shared that he had started a blog, called “Tell me a time…”. I opened the link he sent and was blown away. I think this blog is a brilliant platform for individuals to open up and share their experiences, in an unpressurised and warm environment. Every post tells a different a story from a different perspective, and I really enjoyed reading the other entries. The process of writing my own post was hugely rewarding and evoked some much needed self-reflection. I would strongly encourage you to write your own entry and help this amazing blog to continue growing.

Could you tell me how times have changed?

When you asked me to think of a blog post, it made me think about lots of things about myself and people in my life. For example, the story of a relative whose husband was overseas for the whole of WW2 while she was at home with a small child. She had problems with her "nerves" and went to the Doctor - who told her to take up smoking! And when I really start thinking about mental health matters, well things start coming back to me about people and situations that I can interpret from the perspective of the greater awareness and knowledge that exists today. I now realise there were people in my life who were really struggling to cope, and what help did they get? I can recall a tragic case from my student years, and I still wonder what we could have done to help this tragic guy. I hope that today more would be done. I also think back to my twenties, when I was suffering from panic attacks. It just felt like I was going mad and it made me question everything I did- even down to my choice of sandwich filling to take to work one day ( cheese and mustard!) in case it made me look mad to those around me. In more recent times, during a particularly stressful period at work, I have had access to counselling which has been beneficial. I think of counselling being similar to the physio for sports injuries - physio for the mind if you like. And I am glad that the understanding of mental health related issues has come a long way from being told to start smoking!

Could you tell me a time you felt alone?

Mental health is something that no one should suffer with alone. Simply hiding emotions is a coping mechanism which can only take you so far. Personally I learnt this through my experience at university. Being in a new surrounding where I didn’t know many people and unable share my true feelings with my new friends. However, when I started to feel more comfortable around my new friends, I began to feel less alone and knew I could count on the people around me to get through my roughest times.

Could you tell me a time you felt stressed?

In my personal and work life I’m always the person people turn to for advice and guidance. My paid 9-5 job is to protect, support and guide people, however I can’t help but take on this role in my personal life too. As a consequence, I’m aware that I regularly place my own needs and emotions behind those of others.

Recently, a number of the closest people to me were struggling in one way or another. Many of them were feeling depressed and questioning their paths in life. Others were going through breakups and family issues. I was spending almost all of my time and energy trying to call my loved ones and replying to their messages and concerns, whilst maintaining a similar but more intense role at work. I was frustrated that I couldn’t fix things for people and could feel myself becoming emotionally very drained. Looking back, I felt as though I was failing as a friend and family member if I wasn’t trying my hardest to help.

I then woke up one morning and really struggled to get out of bed, I had never experienced this level of exhaustion. I went into work with a complete lack of motivation and couldn’t concentrate in the slightest. I was very tearful had intense stomach pains and felt sick. I went to see a Dr later that day and was told that these symptoms were stress- induced and was advised to take some time off work. That evening, I broke down crying and couldn’t stop for hours.

On reflection, I was taking on too much and not having any time for myself to just breathe. I’d felt a level of responsibility for my loved ones to ensure they didn’t harm themselves. I think this stemmed from a previous experience when I’d been bad at replying to someone very close to me as I’d been so busy, to then find out that they’d been admitted to hospital due to self- harming, which I felt partially responsible for. I’ve also always told myself that to do my job well, I can’t be weak and that I need to stay strong at all times. I think I’d forgotten that being human means things are bound to effect us and we can’t plan what our emotions will be.

I’ve now made small changes in my life which have helped me to keep perspective and ensure I have time for myself. I make sure I don’t turn my phone on until half an hour after I’ve woken up and eaten breakfast. I turn my phone on flight mode and go on runs and do yoga. Even having these small moments all to myself are so important. I have learnt that self- care is everything. We can only look out for others when we are looking after ourselves. I’ve also learnt that reaching out for help is so crucial. If I hadn’t broken down in tears to my boyfriend that evening, he wouldn’t have persuaded me to take some time off work and I’d likely have become even more stressed.

Could you tell me a time you felt freedom?

I oftentimes find myself wandering alone, finding strength in my autonomy and independence. Whether this is a good or bad thing, well that’s your opinion. I find myself alone despite friends and family by my side, pushing those closest to me away for fear of hurt down the line. For me, solitude comes not from the silence that my being alone brings, but rather the safety of knowing that no-one can hurt me later on should I let them in too close. 

In the summer of 2018, I lost a very close family member to suicide and it hurt far more than I’d have ever anticipated. Within 10 days of her death, I sat university exams and flew out to Singapore alone to pursue an internship at an economic think-tank. I hurt more than I could ever say but numbness was to be my only resolve.

This hurt came not necessarily from her death, nor my living alone on a different continent. I’d been pushing people away for years due to childhood trauma in days long passed. For me, moving away and making a new life is far easier than staying in one place, risking letting people in, ever bringing down my wall that has been so carefully built. I’ve seen time and time over that it’s those closest to you that you must never trust, it’s those that you give the chance that hurt you. 

When in Singapore, I travelled alone around much of South-East Asia on my weekends, and one weekend wound up in Krabi in southern Thailand. I found myself making friends with two other solo travellers, and for a day we feigned friendship and an intimacy unparalleled in so many of my real friendships. For a day, I found two other women as scared as I to let people in. I found two other women like me, that didn’t push me on questions I had little will to answer, but with them took a little piece of my heart that I sleep peacefully knowing will never be shared or hurt. We drove through the rugged streets to unknown beaches and I told them things that I’d never tell my closest of friends back home. 

Whether I will ever let people in, let my life be ruled by trust and compassion and empathy, well I doubt that immensely. But that day in rural Thailand, in the company of women whom I shall never meet again, with the promise of feigned friendship that had only pure intention and good will, I found myself feeling free. Finally, I was free.

Could you tell me a time you felt rejection?

Firstly, nobody is immune to the issues of mental health and understanding this has helped me over the last few years to overcome one of my biggest personal issues with regards to the illness – R E J E C T I O N.

The feeling of rejection for me can take two different forms; rational and irrational. When the rejection is rational, I can understand the what, why, when and where’s off the whole situation. Unfortunately, it is the irrational form of rejection that bears the harshest of consequences for me and over the last few years has associated itself with my now least favourite word in the English language – 

U N I V E R S I T Y. And here’s why:

When the time came to sit down and start completing my second university application, so too came my first real taste of harsh irrational rejection. Having lasted an impressive total of four weeks following my first attempt, I found myself in total isolation as the majority of my friends had gone off to university straight from school and managed to stick at it. Yet, here was me back home now in floods of tears at my kitchen table, submerged in what I can only describe as being a prisoner in my own head.

Days started to feel like forever as menial tasks like making breakfast took up more energy and motivation. Here, I think it’s also important to note that mental health problems like the fear of rejection and other symptoms such as anxiety, anger, failure etc are not mutually exclusive. They are strongly intertwined in a network that can seem endless at times. However, with time passing, clarity of thought slowly returned, and I started to focus on the little things that made me smile rather than the silver bullet that was going to fix it overnight. Little things such as old photographs of my brother and I on holiday and chats with my parents helped give me some encouragement that sometimes in life, the path most travelled isn’t necessarily the best path for all and that rejection isn’t something to be feared, but something to acknowledge as progress packaged differently. So, with this in mind, I have achieved things that I never thought I could, let alone would. There are roughly seven billion people on this earth, yet how many people do you know that have eaten warm tinned tuna and slept in a sleeping bag covered in someone else’s urine for three weeks solid? I know two: the person that peed in their sleeping bag next to mine and me.

So, if I had to pass on one piece of advice, think back to one of your best stories you have experienced and acknowledge that sometimes, the worst times make for the best stories. Don’t fear them but embrace them because a step, regardless of the direction, is progress – Or so I am telling myself having just completed my THIRD university application.

Could you tell me a time you felt grief?

The day I went to visit my grandmother in a funeral home was one of the worst days of my life. I was torn between the desperate need to see her one last time, and the growing fear of what it would be like to see one of my treasured loved ones so still, so… dead. That morning, I dressed, styled my hair and fretted about my make-up. Something a lot of people do every day, but I distinctly remember feeling that I needed to look presentable – out of respect, maybe? But then also feeling a little ridiculous because it seemed so trivial. My mum asked me several times if I was sure I wanted to go. I wasn’t sure about anything at that time in my life. I was experiencing my first loss of a loved one. I decided that I would make my final decision when we got there, trusting that my innermost feelings on the matter would break to the surface of my conscious when we arrived and in that moment, I would walk towards what felt right – the funeral home entrance or the car park exit. The entire journey was heavy with anticipation and curiosity. What would she look like? Would I even recognise her? How would I feel?

Some other close family members met us there. We were welcomed into the first room by the funeral director. He spoke for a long time. I remember very little of it. Fragments here and there about funeral arrangements – flowers, people, venue. Then he talked about the embalmers, and her shroud. Again, details allude me. My mind was wandering, separate from my physical being, to the room next door where she lay. Nothing except a few metres and a wall between me and the woman who looked after me while my parents worked, who introduced me to ‘elevenses’, who let me scribble in her address book as a child, listened to my dramas as a teenager, and my adventures as an adult. The woman who paraded me and my sister around town, showing us off to anyone who would stop to listen. Her love for us was so pure and unwavering. She cherished me, and I her. ‘I didn’t visit enough’, I thought. ‘I didn’t tell her I loved her enough’. My eyes would fill and empty repeatedly. There was a pattern of allowing yourself to feel the loss, shed a tear, wipe it away, compose yourself then crumble again. It was waves of two very different realities or realisations; the one in which my gran was dead and nothing would ever be quite the same, and the one where you couldn’t quite believe it because everything and everyone else in the world was just carrying on as normal – so maybe it wasn’t real? Maybe everything was going to be ok?

When the time came to move to the next room, a different wave crashed over me taking me tumbling head over heels into a new realm of emotion. Fear. Pure, unforgiving, overwhelming and very real fear. The sobs erupted from me. From somewhere I wasn’t even sure they had been hiding. Everyone moved on to the front of the room without me. The funeral director stood by me and I remember wishing that I knew him better. I wished that because I wanted him to hold me upright while I let my body collapse. I didn’t want to waste energy using my legs to stand, I wanted to spend it all on just crying and feeling, falling into myself. But I didn’t, so I couldn’t. I heard gasps and sobs, whispers and chatter. I was aghast and curious amongst all the other emotions bursting inside of me; like fireworks in a small contained room. I succumbed to more physical symptoms of fear as I made my way to the front of the room. The tingling crept up from my feet, through my legs. I felt weak and useless. A hollow space was opening up in the pit of my very being – almost like my organs were moving aside to make way for some dark matter that had decided to take up residence. I don’t know what the rest of the room looked like as my eyes never faltered from her coffin. My mum turned as I reached the side of the coffin and what followed was something I had never experienced before then and haven’t since – a complete loss of function. My mum caught me just as my legs gave way. They just melted below me. I was comforted by my mum and other family members and eventually the feeling crept back into my limbs. I moved towards my gran. I wanted to hold her hand, but it was tucked away under the shroud. Only her head really showed. Everything from the neck down was just bright white cotton. I distinctly remember noticing she had no wrinkles. Her faced was flawless. She was cold. No warmth. No reaction. But not sad. Just still. I brushed the back of my fingers against her cheek, and I pulled myself together enough to bend over to kiss her forehead. 

Since that day, I have lost my other three grandparents. I was so blessed to have all four of them into my mid-20’s. With each death, I learned a little more about myself. About how I cope with loss, what I believe to be important in life, how I want to exist in the world. And I began to appreciate that we all grieve and process loss in our own unique ways. I don’t visit their graves – it doesn’t comfort me the way it comforts others. But I do think of them when I’m making decisions in my life –  ‘Papa would have told me to go for it and not give a shit what other people think’. I think of my Grandpa when I tend to my garden or see a bee – he had the most beautiful garden and was a brilliant beekeeper. I think of my Nana when I bake, and my Gran when I make a new friend who she would have loved to hear all about. Sometimes, randomly, a smell will drift by on a breeze that will remind me of one of them. Or someone will tell a story and I will chime in, ‘My Gran said that too!’. I smile softly to myself when a happy memory escapes a filing cabinet in my head and springs to mind. I see their faces and mannerisms in my parents. I drive down streets where we once stood together, in another time. And that’s how I remember. For the most part, the pain subsides, the fear dissipates and normal life resumes. However, every now and again a fresh tear will escape and a rumbling of that crippling upset bubbles to the surface. A lump in the throat. A knot in my tummy. I used to try to hold it down but over time I’ve learned that it is much more liberating to embrace it. Someone once said that grief was the bill we received for having loved, and I will always love them so I imagine that means I will always pay the price. So I hold on to my grief as a reminder that I was lucky enough to have had four wonderful grandparents, whom I loved and who loved me in return.  

Could you tell me a time when you have gone under?

I have gone under, driving myself away, not just from my students, but from friends and family too. I worked harder and harder and, with the best will in the world, the job became everything to me. At points I have even felt resentful and undervalued, ever more conscious of my position and status, more po-faced, more tired, more proud of my service, more running, more proud of my self-sacrifice, more running and, of course, more tired, more marking, more photocopying, more late nights, more time that has elapsed since I last spoke to my friends and family on the phone, more early mornings, more running… 

However, I am not a better friend, father, son, husband, teacher for all of this, I am unquestionably worse. I know that nobody wants to be friends with me when I have ‘gone under’. As a runner where balance is crucial, I am therefore making a pledge (on the TELL ME A TIME blog) to be more balanced. No longer will I devote my entire life in term time to the school and then recover my sanity, friends and health in the holidays (as I seem to do at times)…I see too little of that Real World that my parents talked to me about around the kitchen table as I grew up. I could all too easily go for two weeks without leaving the school grounds). True, friends kindly visited and we took them to a restaurant, Twickenham, a nightclub, but I was seldom absorbed or fully enjoying myself. Being 100% for school does not make for good teaching either. 

Sometimes I would find my alarm going off at 5am (at the sleep-deprived time I almost feel like this is the central plank of my achievement) and out running in the dark in the pouring rain, with a head torch on, mulling over my lessons and to-do list for the day… My running and obsessions in general are attempts to bring order to an unruly mind. Without an outlet I tended towards reticence, and my reticence can manifest itself as gloominess. Sophie respects this, I think—even appreciates it, in theory, but she struggles, understandably, with the specifics. I run because I need to run, blitzing through mile after mile. Of course, I want to be impressive, a credit to the school, a credit to the profession, I want my school to be immensely proud of me, but sometimes it might be better to run the risk of seeming a little uncommitted or a touch semi-detached, I will try not to selflessly take on everything; but I am sometimes so scared of failure that I daren’t even contemplate it.

I am determined not to sell my students, friends, family short in this way. Real discipline, I am beginning to think, is not necessarily driving oneself on; rather, it is pacing oneself (I should know this as a long-distance runner!). At times this year I have been in a puritanically self-obsessed rut, I have found it hard to relax and even wondered whether I should. I did not speak to some of my nearest and dearest friends for two months and I did not even notice, until, one day, a rather churlish email came through telling me to sort myself out. The truth is, at the time, (and I have probably only admitted this to Sophie) is that I’m only truly happy when working; reflection brings dangerous thoughts, so, back to burning the candle at both ends. Occasionally I’ll apologise in a postcard to my mates and tell them how much they do really mean to me and justify it to myself by telling myself that I’m only ‘trying’ to do a good job.

So, this is me vowing to do better next time. I’ll end with two lines from W. H. Davies who captures everything I have just discussed in his famous aphorism, made even more famous by its use in a Centre Parcs advert. Of course, Davies had an advantage over me, he wasn’t a teacher but a homeless guy: “What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.”

Could you tell me about a time you felt anxious?

Ah man, all the time. 

There’s a familiar expression of mine that my friends and family recognise almost instantly – a furrowed brow and eyes growing wide in concern as my hands starts to softly poke at my face while I’m thinking. A sudden silence and drop of energy after a lot of conversation and animation, as it becomes apparent that I am clearly musing over something. It can be triggered by almost anything – I can be my happiest and relaxed self without a care in the world, and the smallest and most insignificant inconvenience can send me into a downwards spiral of anxiety. 

‘Don’t worry’ is what people say to me the most in life. But as I’ve grown older I’ve come to realise that being worried is a part of my permanent state of being.

As a child I would frequently lie awake at night worried out of mind, my heart racing and a million thoughts circling around my head. Back then it was things I’d only long to worry about now – having said something embarrassing in class, getting in trouble when I had forgotten to do my homework, going into school after an argument with a friend, and wondering where I would sit at lunch. Acne, boys, fashion, exam results. How I looked, how I acted, who I was friends with. Every time I would start at a new school, I would cry to my mum the night before as I didn’t know where I would be able to hang my coat.

As I grew older, the things I would worry about as a child seemed almost insignificant compared to the things you have to worry about as an adult. Suddenly there’s bills to be paid and monthly budgets to be planned, job interviews to attend, bosses to please and life decisions to be made. And amongst all the normal adult worries - like money, health and relationships - comes another string of worries that are specific to you and your life. 

I bit the bullet and went to the doctor about my racing heartbeat and tight chest that I would get when someone at work asked to talk to me, or the dizzying thoughts of having done something wrong if a friend replied to my text in a slightly different tone than usual. The diagnosis of anxiety was a relief, but it manifested itself into something far more dangerous as I tried to take control of it, to find a distraction. During the deepest darkest clutches of my eating disorder last year, my worried thoughts at night would not be on whether my health would deteriorate further or the people in my life I was hurting, but on whether or not the 600 calories that I had consumed that day were ‘too much.’ The irony was that when my body and mind was consumed with anorexia, the things I would have usually worried about once upon a time were the last things on my mind. So, in a sense, I had achieved what I wanted. 

But I made the decision to remove myself from the place I became sick when I realised I couldn’t heal there, and now, six months later, my mind is occupied differently. For the first time in a long time, there’s relative peace in my head. I now spend most of my time thinking about the French language, dog walking, Zumba and the absolute joy of hot Belgian fries on a Sunday evening. I find myself in a loving relationship with a wonderful guy, and there’s now another person floating about in my thoughts, and not just me. My spare time is now filled with exhibitions and cinemas to go to, parks to visit and cobbled streets to cycle over. I have the mental, and physical, capacity to travel to new countries and dance at concerts again. I’m working somewhere where all the responsibility doesn’t fall on just me, and when I go home at 5 o’clock, I truly do go home. I’m able to sit down and read a book without my thoughts rushing off somewhere, finishing it from cover to cover and giving it my full, undistracted attention. I can watch new TV shows and films with my boyfriend without thinking about what I had for dinner. When I make a mistake or something goes wrong, I’m able to view it rationally and know that these things happen, and it won’t always be bad. 

The worry is still there, of course. The familiar drop in my stomach when presented with something foreign and unusual. And it will always be there – I am an anxious person. I care too much about what people think, how my actions directly impact those around me and the decisions I make in life. But I have come to realise now that life doesn’t have to be perfect and free of anxiety for it to be a happy life. And that’s what it is – a happy life, with bits of anxiety in it, and not the other way around.

Could tell me about a time when you felt overwhelmed?

I don’t think I’m alone when I say that, since leaving high school in 2013, I’ve felt somewhat overwhelmed trying to adjust to ‘adult life’ and managing the responsibilities and social pressures that accompany it. As a 17 year old, I only concerned myself with trying to fit in with the other kids and maintaining adequate marks in my classes. Admittedly, this time had its own pressures – popularity being the most salient element of day-to-day life. Who did you hang out with at lunch? Were you invited to the latest house party? Did you have a girlfriend yet? Whilst this was stressful in itself, I was aware that everyone else was in the same boat and my group of tight knit friends kept me in check.

However, things have changed since, what I now realise, were the stress free school days. Sticking to the same analogy, we have now ‘abandoned ship’ and I’ve found myself struggling to stay afloat without the safety raft that was Craigmount High School. Seeing those with whom you shared a classroom, travelling the world, getting married and achieving success in their respective careers is of course wonderful; however, it serves as a constant reminder of the progress you have made in the period since. In a world where we now aspire to ‘Instagram influencers’ and reality TV show stars as our role models, its important to remember that social media is not an accurate representation of an individual’s real life, although, having said that, this serves as little consolation when you see that Joe Bloggs has gone from picking his own nose at lunch to travelling Thailand with his wife while taking a sabbatical from his executive position in a matter of a few years.

Whilst I understand that this does not represent the majority of my high school peers, it can be difficult to avoid comparisons and to stay focused on your own life. I have found it far too easy in recent years to live by my own misguided mantra, “if I don’t try, I won’t fail” and avoid taking any risks. The bucket list that I created as a teenager remains largely untouched whilst I count the years tick by. (Older readers will roll their eyes knowing that, at the time of writing, I’m approaching my 24th birthday). However, the feeling remains and I understand that, to overcome this feeling of being overwhelmed, I need to work on my motivation and mind-set in general. I need to do what I want to do, eliminate the fear holding me back and commit.

So, I’ll leave you with this. Carpe diem. Seize the day.

Could you tell me a time you felt angry?

People who know me will tell you I get easily wound up. My first reaction to a lot of situations is to get angry. When I’m frustrated I’ll turn to anger, when I’m upset I turn to anger, when I’m hungry I’ll most certainly turn to anger. It’s not until I’ve matured (slightly) that I started to reflect on why this might be, and realised that I’ve spent a lot of my life with an underlying tone of anger inside. 

My observations towards the past give me some indication into the origin of this, in that as a child there were many things I was scared and upset about. I didn’t know how to express this, there wasn’t anyone I could express this to and the build-up of inner turmoil transformed itself into a painful feeling in my chest I now know as anger.

I’ve found a way to release this feeling to an extent, as I’ve grown older I’m an extremely opinionated person and I love when someone challenges me on this. Getting heated through political and social discussions is a great filter and a perfect way to channel the energy of anger building up. I also have an amazing partner who has enabled me to reflect on myself and control my emotions. I’m still riled up quite easily, but most of the time now it turns into laughter.

Could you tell me a time you felt motivated?

I am a lazy person. My family, friends and most people who know me will probably back me up on that. If there are things that need done, they will most likely be done at the last second or later than I had planned. This is not because I set myself too many things to do in a short amount of time, or because I’m going out and doing other things instead – I am just lazy. I’d rather sit down and do nothing than to get up and do the things I need to do.

The biggest problem with this is that I never really got motivated to do things because I was able to be lazy and get away with it. I’d be able clean my whole flat in the couple hours before a flat inspection or whip up a decent essay the night before. I was able to get good enough exam results to get into Uni on the very minimum of effort. But as time went on and assignments and exams got harder and I took on more responsibilities the little effort I put in wouldn’t take me far enough. As I got more of a handle on other things, I just started shifting the lazy. Assignments would be done well and in exchange the flat would be a mess and I would eat rubbish. I would clean the flat and eat well and I fell behind on Uni work and was less organised for work. Not because I didn’t have enough time, I am just lazy.

I used to view being motivated as a predetermined factor, a personality trait that I was born without. I’ve gone through phases of being highly motivated towards things such as going to the gym or studying but found it difficult to maintain. I realised recently when I was wallowing in laziness and not feeling motivated about anything that I was looking at it all wrong. I was looking at motivation as an on-off switch – you were either fully motivated and active or not at all. I realise now that its more like the accelerator pedal in a car, you can increase and be more motivated or ease off, take time for yourself and be a bit lazier. The reason I was struggling to stay motivated is because I felt like I had to be fully motivated all the time when that’s really not the case. I’m still trying to find the right balance between being motivated to do the things I need to do and my lazy nature but I’m getting there. Some days I’m lazier than I should be but that’s fine - motivation is a marathon, not a sprint.

Could you tell me a time you felt fulfilled?

The kind of holidays that meant getting up at 2am to go to the airport and stepping off the plane a few hours later to that amazing holiday smell hot countries always seem to have were what I lived for as a kid. As a teenager I wasn’t fussed about University (yet), so I took a gap year with a bunch of strangers in the same position after finishing high school and moved to a country so different from everything I knew. Since then I’ve taken trips with friends at pretty much any given opportunity, but it wasn’t until I travelled alone that I felt a sense of complete satisfaction – like I had been waiting for this experience the whole time. It did so much for my self-esteem in such a short time and energised my mind in so many ways. I bought my 1-month interrail ticket in January 2018, one month after my mum passed away. At this point I was still terrified of travelling alone, but I was in a ‘fuck it’ state of mind. It turned out to be one of my best decisions to date. I’d met loads of solo travellers on my previous trips away with friends, and always both loved and felt intimidated by how confident they were and how I so wanted to be that kind of person. Eventually I realised that I was that kind of person. I went all in, travelling to 8 different European cities in one month and connecting with so many people with the same ideas about life as me and it was incredible. I felt happy and fulfilled and so grateful for the opportunities I’ve had and for this big massive love for travel that will never go away. The trip that shaped me lasted only a month but I’ll take fleeting amazing friendships and new perspectives in stunning countries over a stationary life any day.

Could you tell me a time you felt lonely?

Before I went off to university in 2016 my mum gave me a book by Dr Seuss called “Oh, the places you’ll go!”. At the time I didn’t think much of it, apart from one quote which has always resonated with me “Alone! Whether you like it or not, alone will be something you’ll be quite a lot”. In  the last 10 months the feeling of loneliness and feeling alone has been common place for me. 

I left to study abroad in Germany in September of 2018. Whilst a major step out of my comfort zone I have always had a great support network of friends and family around me. Despite this, about a month in I couldn’t help but feel alone and generally down in the dumps most days. As I watched friends go to my favourite pub together, or go clubbing, I began to feel isolated from my own life, as if I was watching everything happen from an outside perspective. It made me realise how lucky and privileged I am being surrounded by the best people and having amazing opportunities at my feet, my chance to study abroad being one of the best. However, I found it hard to process that I was no longer at home, life in Scotland was continuing without me. I had no problem making friends, or being sociable, but I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I was completely and utterly alone. I have been lucky not to experience loneliness before, but because I hadn’t I was scared, and it took a massive toll on my mental health not feeling like I fitted in, or had anyone around me who would understand (understand what, I don’t know). I was unable to and still am unable to explain why I felt lonely, which made it a whole lot harder to overcome in those 10 months. 

As I saw my friends and family enjoying themselves through my phone, I decided it would be easier to just not see it, and then I wouldn’t feel lonely or sad because I wouldn’t know what else was going on. This resulted in me deleting social media apps for around 2-3 weeks- a quick fix. But I downloaded the apps again because I genuinely missed my friends and seeing what they were up to. I was in a bit of rut, unable to help myself, sitting alone in my room watching my friends go out via Instagram or snapchat made me miss them and my family. Yet, I wouldn’t go out or be sociable I just would often sit at night and wallow in my self-pity, feeling lonelier than ever. This was completely and utterly my own fault, and I knew that. I wasn’t helping myself in anyway, continuing to mentally and occasionally physically isolate myself from others. 

This may seem strange to people reading it who know me well, as I have never mentioned or implied, I was lonely. My social media from my time away also doesn’t show any hint that I was struggling, which I am ashamed off. As I let social media portray something completely different to how I was actually feeling, instead of being honest and open that being away from my friends and family was tough. But I felt like I couldn’t tell anyone I felt alone. I knew explaining to someone why or how I felt lonely, when I have so many great, wonderful people who are always there for me would seem absurd, and I refused to tell anyone.  Instead I kept it to myself, continued my normal activities of exercise, class and counting down the days until I was home. Not telling anyone made my loneliness worse, and I mentally disassociated myself with back home. This led to anger and frustration as anxiety and stress kicked, being unable to process how I was feeling. I became hugely reliant on Mark, my boyfriend. Unsure who else to go to, he became my punching bag and I repeatedly took my loneliness, turned into anger, out on him. Even then, I felt he couldn’t possibly understand, resulting in frequent arguments and breaks throughout my time away. I even called Student Services back home for advice, to which they appeared perplexed by my feelings as I appeared to be doing just fine; exercising, trying to eat healthily, studying hard etc.  Which only made me question, was there a way to get over this feeling? I feared bothering my friends, family and Mark with such abstract problems of loneliness, I didn’t want to ruin their fun, or be a burden 978 miles away, so I didn’t but I wish I had. 

My mental health over the last 10 months has been a rollercoaster of extremes, which I attribute to loneliness. Instead of talking it out I kept it in, making me isolated and even more alone than I already felt only perpetuating problems in my head. Feeling lonely completely overtook my past few months abroad, so I regret not reaching out to people more frequently or pushing myself to see my friends more. However, I have learnt from my year abroad and it has been a huge learning curve. I still don’t know or understand why I felt so alone, but over the last week I have accepted that it’s ok to not understand. Accepting it is happening rather than questioning it has brought peace. I will be forever grateful for the everyday snapchats from my friends, and the texts asking, “How’s Germany?”. You have no idea how much of a difference they made, or much they brightened my day. So, I urge anyone feeling alone, or lonely reach out, send that text, start a conversation, call a friend. A small step can go a long way, and as Dr Seuss says “Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting. So… get on your way!”. 

Could you tell me a time you found perspective?

In recent years I’ve always heard about Mental Health, never fully understood it, never been involved with it first hand or with any of my friends. However, this summer was all set to be a great summer, full of opportunity in my sport, full of potential success. But, the start of the season started poorly. As the games came by thick and fast at the start of the season, the pressure grew, performances weren’t there and my mind began to wonder, thoughts began to meander through my head. I had put myself in a situation where my head space wasn’t helping me improve the situation. All of a sudden, I got in the car and was about to drive to another match, another game where the pressure I was putting on myself was too much. I got in the car, and started the engine but remembered that I had forgotten something and dashed back into the house, as I opened the door my parents were there looking at me and wondering why I was back, I grabbed my hat that I had left and looked up at them again to say goodbye for the second time before I headed off. As I went to say goodbye, what happened next was a blessing in disguise. Tears. Tears from the pressure I had put on myself. The sport that I had loved for so long had brought me to tears. It was like the pressure had mounted up, and become overwhelming and as I cried and was comforted by my parents that pressure was released. I started playing this sport because I loved it and over the past month I’d stopped loving it. This moment with my parents really put things into perspective, the thoughts that went through my head during that time were crippling to me and my sport. More recently, things have improved. I’ve had a greater outlook on things from this moment onwards. Enjoying each match and playing for the reasons I started which has led to better performances. Albeit only a small story in the world of mental health, this summer has given a greater appreciation for the people we share this planet with, and we must create an environment where people feel they can open up and speak out. I believe that Mental Health issues are so much more common than people believe. I’ve have joined an initiative called SportingMinds UK who have been formed to create mental health awareness among young people in Sport. I feel it is important we provide the opportunity and support for people to speak out.

Could you tell me a time you felt at peace?

Peace isn’t something I feel often, what with trying to pay bills, support myself, support my sister and help my dad in the few ways I can. I tend to push myself way too hard in what I assume to be an attempt to escape the past few years. When your world is turned completely upside down it’s easy to lose control of it, to start doing things you know you shouldn’t, to forget that you even need to look after yourself. I tried going out, drinking into the early hours of the morning and spending money on whatever would do the worst damage. I don’t like to paint it as desperate, but let’s just say I wasn’t at my best. Then I tried work, and I worked and worked and worked. Maybe if I poured enough pints I would forget what had happened.

You don’t need to be told that none of that worked.

Time was the biggest healer, and quite frankly the only thing that allowed me to realise that I wasn’t in control, and that was okay. Or more importantly, that I wasn’t to blame for any of it.

Society seems to be on this big move toward self-love, body-positivity and feminism, with a big focus on mental health awareness and self-care. If you pay close attention you’ll have seen the shift in the way adverts are made, in what you overhear at the pub, in what’s acceptable in the workplace, and mostly in the overall attitude of social media users. Scrolling the likes of proud big-bodied girls in bikinis, free nipples, poems of love and respect and selfies that beam with self-worth are, thankfully, more common. I love that we’re all “feeling ourselves”, I do.

So, I guess what I want to say about peace is that it’s been nice to eventually find peace in myself. Those who know me know that I don’t care for anyone’s opinion, that I am always true to who I am, that I am strong and kind and proud. It wasn’t always like that. It appears that I’ve experienced the way the world is changing in real-time. I’ve learnt that I am exactly who I am meant to be, and I’ve made my peace with that.

Could you tell me a time you felt lost?

It’s incredibly easy to look at yourself and never be satisfied. It’s incredibly easy to reflect on what you haven’t achieved. It’s incredibly easy to become comfortable. It’s incredibly easy to suffer in silence.

It’s not easy to change who you want to be. It’s not easy to push yourself. It’s not easy to move your comfort zone. It’s not easy to admit your suffering.

Why should you settle for easy? – I asked myself this question on Boxing Day 2017, the day I admitted to myself that I wasn’t okay.

Since that day I started creating change, making more mistakes, trying to learn from them and ultimately trying to make myself feel better, make myself feel happy. I tried to tackle everything head on, I tried to tackle a few big factors in my life that didn’t make me feel happy, I struggled, eventually I broke the biggest factor down and tried to fix it one day at a time – making positive choices consistently. I had bad days, I had good days, I had great days and I had days that I don’t want to remember – but ultimately they were the days that shaped me.

I put one foot in front of the other and repeated, repeated and repeated. 

Set myself progressive goals that I never thought would be possible and then… I put one foot in front of the other and repeated, repeated and repeated.

I’m over 18 months on from when I first started and I find it hard to reflect on what I have achieved but so far: I’ve lost over 8 stone; I’ve ran a marathon; ran 4 half marathons; ran over 500 miles in 2019 (so far..); I’m due to run, run cycle and kayak the width of Scotland in a couple of months and ultimately I have begun to like the person I am becoming. I have ups and downs and no two days are the same but I am positive that my best is yet to come.

Do something today that will make you smile tomorrow.

Could you tell me a time you felt alive?

When you think about it, like really think about it, our bodies are pretty incredible. Home to everything that we need to survive; full of lots intricate workings ticking along, that we are usually blissfully unaware of (you can tell I didn’t study biology). It’s amazing and I definitely don’t appreciate it enough. To say that everyday I recognise that my body is “alive” would be a lie. Yet each and every time I step and submerge myself in the sea, I become acutely aware of all of those intricate workings; my heart beating (sometimes racing), my breath sharp and icy; my legs and muscles and every joint and connection within them awaken and I definitely feel alive. 

 Over the last few years I have really come to appreciate the incredible effects of sea swimming on both my body and head. There really is no feeling quite like it. You could have had the worst day in the world and a splash in the sea will clear everything away, even if only for a short while. Swimming in the sea doesn’t allow for me to focus on anything that has been all consuming in myhead. As the cold water moves up my body with every step, or sometimes leap that I take, I become focused only on the shock of the cold water on my skin (and sometimes the screeches of pals also taking a dip). There is no space to think about anything else and it is great. Once my head is under (which can sometimes be a challenge), my hair wet, my eyes softly stinging from the salty water and I come back up for air, I absolutely feel alive.

 Whatever day I’ve had, if a swim in the sea can be fitted in, it’s always going to be a better day.  It doesn’t need to be a long dip, sometimes it’s only three minutes before my body says, “okay I feel alive but I’d like to get out now” or on other days it could be over twenty, swirling and swimming away. Whatever the length of time the effects are just the same, you feel invigorated, refreshed, awake, alert and bloody brilliant.

 Living where I currently live has made the sea unavoidable, with beaches and swim spots in abundance and for that I am very fortunate. Wherever I head next, I will need to make sure that there is some form of open water not too far away as I know my body and head will need regular check-ins. It’s addictive and in my eyes one of the best ways to feel alive. 

 Next time you’re near the sea, just jump in. 

Could you tell me about the last time you cried?

The last time I cried was a few weeks ago when I was on a busy Easyjet flight on my way home. After a stressful few months in both my personal and academic life, I was listening to a voice message from a close friend who was being supportive and lovely - it all felt too much in that moment.

I never used to be a ‘cryer’. Not much moved me to tears.. so much so that my friends would joke about my seemingly detached and emotionless exterior. But these days, the tears hit me at unexpected and sometimes inappropriate moments.

I have struggled with episodes of anxiety and depression over the last two years. These feelings sometimes manifest themselves in uncontrollable crying.

There is nothing worse than feeling your eyes welling up and your throat catching - especially when you are in a public place surrounded by strangers. You feel embarrassed, you feel like people will look at you. Your ultimate fear is that someone will ask you what is wrong.

I have nothing against crying - I think that it can be cathartic and liberating. Often you feel better after a good cry!

But, if you feel that you are crying uncontrollably and without an obvious reason, it is probably worth checking in with yourself, and considering how your mental health is doing. This is something that I used to push to the very bottom of my internal to-do list - thinking about your state of mind is quite a difficult thing to do, as you might have to admit to yourself that something isn’t right.

But pausing from your busy life to reflect on how you feel is incredibly important and something we should all be doing more often I think.

After going through some particularly difficult periods of mental health, I know the signs to look out for in the future. When I feel that the tears are falling more often than usual and without any particular reason, I know that it’s time to take a step back and consider how I am really feeling.