Over the next week, I’m going to share a chapter of my book Life, Lemons and Melons. Since October, I have been pouring my heart and my soul into a Scrivener document covering the last three years of my life. I’ve written about infertility, self confidence, chemotherapy, my exploding breast, notes from a mixed up mind and tonnes more. Earlier this week, I also saw the illustrations that my exceptionally talented friend Georgia is rustling up to be printed in the book and let me tell you, I cannot wait for you to see them. But without further ado – here’s a chapter of Life, Lemons and Melons. Pre-order your copy by dropping me an email here.
When I was a kid, I struggled a bit with asthma. It seems that if there’s a weak spot in my the historic health of my family, it’s our ability to breathe well under duress. Any one of us in the Purkiss clan who gets a cold ends up with a hacking cough – you know, the sort that people move away from on the bus. The sort that makes people glare at you on the tube. Or one that once upon a time earned me the filthiest looks I have ever received when I had the audacity to have a chest infection whilst attending an event at the Royal Albert Hall. But when I was a kid, I was given inhalers to deal with my problem. I dutifully took my brown inhaler every day to prevent the symptoms. I took the blue inhaler when I needed instant relief, or when I wanted to look like I needed to stop running in cross country, which, truth be told, was often.
At age 13, I had horrible problems with my periods. They were heavy, full of clots, and often left me completely washed out, a weird white-grey colour and regularly unable to hold my head upright. I went to the doctors. I was given tablets. I tried these tablets. They didn’t work. I tried other tablets. They didn’t work. Eventually I was put on the pill. Every day, I took this little tablet to try to control my periods. I stayed on the pill for about ten years and the problematic periods faded to being pretty manageable. Well, as manageable as periods can be, given that a large portion of the population finds them utterly hellish. But the medication helped.
There was a time when I regularly got migraines so severe that the right hand side of my face would droop. I actually looked a bit like I’d had a stroke. It took a while for these migraines to bugger off, with my symptoms often lasting for four or five days. I saw a neurologist who put me on a preventative tablet. I took this every day to “break the cycle” of the migraines, which were clearly linked to my menstrual cycle (sorry for mentioning periods twice in two paragraphs, but women bleed out of their uteruses around once every twenty eight days and I’m a woman, soooo, buck up Bronco). I was on these tablets for over a year, no questions asked.
So why is it then, when a doctor suggested to me that I went on medication to combat the crippling depression I was experiencing, I resisted? Why did I think that my brain not working quite as I would have liked it to, was any different to my lungs not working quite as I’d like them to? Whilst not quite as useful an excuse to skive out of PE (perhaps that’s a discussion for another time?), it was still a problem for me. By this point my depression had begun pervading my life in a noticeable way. If it had once been a cloud lingering over my shoulder, it was now a surrounding fog that refused to budge. I was struggling to make even the simplest of decisions on a daily basis. If I managed to drag myself out of bed, get dressed and leave the house, the question of which shoes to wear for a day in the office often left me crippled on the doorstep. Deciding what to have for lunch became such an ordeal it was all too easy to skip lunches. I had begun to feel completely numb and consistently felt as though something awful were about to happen. I lived in a state of anticipating impending doom, a disgusting and suffocating case of “low mood” and a paralysing anxiety. But still, I felt that taking a tablet to help was a foolish step. I think part of me saw it as an admission of weakness, of defeat. I felt like I should be able to handle everything the rest of the world was handling. When a GP pointed out to me that if I was a diabetic, I wouldn’t turn down insulin, I realised that perhaps I had been affected by external perspectives on what taking antidepressants means.
It’s interesting isn’t it? Because more and more people are talking about their mental health on the regular these days. Thanks to the internet, the conversation has opened up and continues to do so exponentially. As a result, the stigma surrounding discussions of a sensitive nature seems to be fading. But from where I’m sitting, this stigma has relocated. Most people no longer judge others quite so harshly for having issues with their mental health (I’m not arguing that this has completely gone – we’ve a long way to go on that score) but society is distinctly less forgiving of those who take antidepressants, God forbid they should need to do so over a long period of time.
I’m writing this in 2018, but sensationalist headlines like “A Nation Hooked on Happy Pills” are still splashed across the front page of one of the biggest selling newspapers in the country, while previously disgraced journalist Johann Hari has just released a book which begins by throwing doubt on the efficacy of antidepressants. While I’ve no doubt that Hari genuinely believes the claims in his book it’s my firm belief that claims such as these are seriously damaging to huge numbers of people. I wish my antidepressants were happy pills that made me as perpetually jolly as the characteristically named Green Giant but they aren’t. They help me to be functional some of the time rather than just a shell of a person all of the time. They don’t stop me from arriving at The Dark Place, but they do usually mean my stays there aren’t as long-lasting or as terrifying. They mean I can usually find my way out of that shit hole. They’re the map that means I still have to find my own way, but they are also a light in the dark that helps me figure out what I need to do to escape.
I know that medication doesn’t work for everyone, but I also know what a massive difference a small dose of a tablet makes to my life – and the lives of people I love and care about – on a daily basis. As a result, I’m able to recognise the impact of the kind of blasé statement that lambasts people for taking potentially lifesaving drugs. There will be people who read things like this and think they’re doing something wrong when they take their little tablet every night after they’ve brushed their teeth. Even though I absolutely believe that taking drugs like this is right for me, there are times when reading a scathing headline or a review of a book which suggests “everything I know about depression is wrong” will make my resolution falter. If I am in a bad way, I can doubt my decision to take 30mg of Citalopram every single day. I wonder if I’m making a terrible mistake and come dangerously close to convincing myself to come off them. And I am resolute in my belief that this medication makes my life better. So what about those people for whom medication feels like accepting failure? Or those whose lives are being saved by medication but they feel shamed because they need support from a tablet. This rhetoric puts people like this at genuine risk.
There’s a reason the National Union of Journalists bans this kind of colloquialism in reporting – because it is dangerous. Would you ever see a headline that says “A Nation Hooked on Chemotherapy”? No, you would not. Come to think of it, ever seen a colloquialism for chemotherapy used in the press? No. Because people who have chemotherapy are not demonised by the rags who run these types of headlines about mental health problems.
Next part of the chapter coming later this week! If you’ve already pledged to the book via Kickstarter and you don’t like this chapter…well…it’s kinda tough I guess. NO REFUNDS.