Over this week I have been sharing 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. Read Part One and Part Two here.
But my medication was a salvation to me throughout all of this. And it continues to be. It means that those thoughts don’t linger as long as perhaps they would have done had I not been medicated. They mean that I don’t follow through when my brain is telling me I am worthless and that I do not deserve to be alive. That tiny tablet means the voice that tells me I should have been the one to die, rather than all the others I know who have had secondary breast cancer diagnoses and who have died as a result of this dreadful disease, doesn’t shout as loud or is easier to shrug off than it would be without the medication.
And I know I am lucky. I spend my entire life qualifying everything I say about my cancer experience with “I am grateful to still be here,” but the truth is, I might be, but sometimes my brain isn’t. Sometimes the cruel thoughts in my head tell me that I deserved to get cancer, that I deserved to die from it. That I still deserve to die from it. And it is only a matter of time before I do. And it is a process. It’s something that I am constantly working on rectifying. As I sit here now, overlooking the stunning bay at Port de Soller, watching the birds swoop over the crystalline sea, hearing the bustle of the streets below, wrapped in a blanket and writing about my experience, I am grateful. But I also know that it won’t be long until the dogs start snapping at my heels with their messages of self-destruction. And I think this is something that doesn’t get spoken about often enough, both in the world at large, and in the world post-cancer.
Citalopram has been a saviour for me. It doesn’t come without side effects. I’m heavier than I feel like I should be. I get a dry, metallic taste in my mouth if I don’t drink regularly. Perhaps it exacerbates the fatigue that I experience post-cancer. But when the darkness seeps in at the edges of my life, like a blot of a watercolour paint on a piece of parchment, spreading slowly across the page, Citalopram slows the progress. It makes the black less dense as it makes its way across my life. It doesn’t make the hole I am teetering on the edge of less deep or consuming or terrifying, but it makes it easier to escape from. Citalopram offers a rope to climb. It’s still a difficult journey that takes every ounce of strength and leaves my body and mind exhausted from the intense effort, but it makes it doable. It makes getting out of The Dark Place possible.
And I know there are people that say the longer I stay on medication the more likely it is to stop working. I know others argue that it has a placebo effect, that it doesn’t actually make any difference. Some believe that I will never be able to come off my tablets, but after the last three years and knowing my own mind as I do, I’m not sure I’d be comfortable coming off them anyway. I have fought long and hard to get to some semblance of normality and I still have a long way to go – so why would I give up the thing that makes it easier? I go back to the diabetes reference – I wouldn’t give up Insulin just because the newspaper said my “dependence” on it was problematic. I wouldn’t turn down the chemotherapy that would save my life. So why are antidepressants any different?
Living through cancer is a nightmare, in so many ways. I’m not saying that every person who experiences a cancer diagnosis needs a prescription for antidepressants, but what I am saying is as simple as this: we need to give our brains the same amount of attention we give our bodies when we are going through cancer treatment. We need talking therapies to deal with what is happening to us. We need counsellors to guide us through the hellfire and treat the internal burns that we get as a result. There is no part of your life that is unaffected by a cancer diagnosis and there is no shame in asking for a hand to grab onto at the scariest time of your life. If you’re going through treatment and you are struggling, ask for help. Talk to your medical team about counselling. They know that there is a disconnect between the physical and the mental treatment of cancer and there are conscious efforts being made to bridge that gap. So ask for help. You are not weak, you are not overly emotional, you are not letting the side down by not being positive all the time. You are asking for what you need and that is something to be celebrated.
And remember, despite what the tabloids might say, if you and your doctor believe you should be on medication to deal with your mental health, cancer diagnosis or no, there is no shame. That’s a decision between you and your medical team. Ignore the people who don’t know what it’s like to live with a gremlin in their heads. Ignore the splashy, attention-grabbing headlines. Ignore the people who bash others down on Twitter. You know your brain better than anyone else. So trust yourself. Even if the gremlin and the media are telling you differently.