The Day the Lights Went Out
The day the lights went out, I realised something was profoundly wrong within me. Dealing with my chronic illness, I felt a deep lack of motivation and a sense of aimlessness. I realized that asking for help is not a weakness, but an important step to improve my mental health.
Understanding Mental Health
Mental Health is something we all have and something we all need to work on ensuring we stay as mentally fit as possible. However, living with a chronic illness—especially one that can affect your mental health, not just because of the disability it causes, but also on a physiological level—is downright scary.
Retrospectively, I identify the origin. For me, I noticed a genuine change in my mental health in the late summer and early autumn of last year. I wouldn't say I felt depressed, but I felt different. I lacked motivation but could still get up and do what needed doing. I didn’t feel like locking myself away or burying myself in my bed all day with the curtains shut. I just didn’t feel like myself.
Seeking Help
I continued like this for several more months, not telling anyone and, as we all do, hoping it would pass. It didn’t! The weight of it all became too heavy to bear, and I knew I needed help. It would have been around November when I finally reached out to my doctor. She spent 20 minutes discussing my medical conditions, life, and situation, and was wonderful. “How are you?” she inquired simply.” She genuinely wanted to know, and although I have an amazing wife who always asks how I am, I often said I was fine to avoid worrying about my wife. Finally, I felt able to say, “Not good!”
It was a relief to share that I felt something I wasn't sure about. To explain that, I felt low and lacked motivation. To admit that I felt like I was drifting through life with no purpose of my own. It felt good to say the words, “I think I need some help…” without feeling more worthless or like a bigger failure.
My doctor listened intently, empathised, and reassured me—especially given my long diagnostic journey, which I identify as traumatic.
My Journey with the NHS
It was only later, as I reflected on my experiences, that I understood the full impact of my diagnostic journey. Seeking an NHS diagnosis for my illness, I found the system designed to help instead caused further harm.
Sometimes I reflect on my diagnostic journey, recalling my treatment and the comments and insinuations made. I cycle through anger, sadness, disbelief, and everything in between.
That’s where my anger and frustration with the NHS stems from. I don’t use the term trauma lightly, but I feel that I have likely developed a great deal of medical trauma thanks to the broken system we have here in the UK—a system people are too afraid to critique. A system we all tried to protect during the pandemic. The system needs massive reform and restructuring, although I am and always will be incredibly grateful for the healthcare system in the UK.
Reflections on Mental Health
At this moment, I was being seen by a part of the NHS that wanted to help in any way she could. A part of the NHS that displayed care, empathy, and a willingness to do whatever she could to make the light break through the darkness, even if only a little.
My GP is a wonderful woman—truly caring—who, if she could, would talk to you for hours and has the amazing ability to make things feel a little brighter, even just for that moment. She listens, which, from my experience within the NHS, is a rarity and increasingly difficult to find. My GP often says, "Professors and consultants provide expertise, but you come to me for my bedside manner," and she is absolutely right.
During our 10-minute appointment, which she allowed to overrun by 10 minutes, we discussed therapy, medication, and other ideas that might be useful. I was already working with a neuropsychologist, so she suggested I could try some medication to see if that would help pull me out from wherever I was slowly disappearing to.
Medication is always something I am wary about, mainly because I am super sensitive to side effects and don’t always tolerate them very well. Following her advice, my doctor prescribed 50 mg of sertraline daily, with a follow-up appointment scheduled for the next month to assess my progress.
I rode it out, other than sweating more than usual—more than usual because I have always been a big guy. However, this was something else! Did I feel any benefits from taking them? No, I didn’t, which was a concern of mine from the start. I remember saying to my GP how a medication can help someone who has likely low mood or moderate depression because of their physical health condition, because medication could only help if there was a chemical imbalance. She disagreed slightly, but I agreed to try it, anyway.
I recently had to stop taking them completely because of some abnormal liver tests, but that's a story for another day.
As you can see, this post has taken a few turns. It started with a focus on the raw emotions. When I first started writing this post, it was emotive, representing the fear and blackness I feel hanging over my head. It feels like it became more of a rant about how I got here. Oh well. Writing is new to me and a developing thing. I want to write about what comes to my mind within the realms of my chronic disease, so that's what I've done.
It's that moment: Something is lingering in the back of your mind, yet remains elusive. That feeling when you know something just isn't quite right. The feeling when you're fighting back tears for no apparent reason, fearful that they just won't stop if you allow the floodgates to open, even just a little. That feeling when you know you are one small step away from spiralling to a place you just don't want to be!
That feeling when you think you and your personality are being forever changed, without your knowledge, without your consent, and without being able to stop it. It is the stuff of nightmares!
