Spice Up Your Wellbeing

Many different people of all ages, genders, backgrounds, and cultures can experience depression or differences of feelings in their lifetime. Here some stories for “Lived experiences heard: real voices, real change”  Here are some real lived stories.

I have always tried to be an individual, positive, outgoing, supportive and willing to help others whenever I can.

I have enjoyed keeping busy, meeting people, sharing experiences and bringing a little happiness wherever possible.

But now, as I move through my 70s, I am beginning to feel the effects of emotions that sometimes grip me unexpectedly feelings that can be difficult to understand, explain or even put into words.

Perhaps it is simply part of getting older. We carry with us decades of memories, experiences, relationships, joys, disappointments, responsibilities and moments that have shaped who we are. Sometimes they all come together at once.

I may still smile, laugh, create, cook, travel, support others and appear as positive as ever but underneath that outgoing personality, there are moments when I too need understanding, reassurance and perhaps someone simply to listen.

Growing older is not about losing our strength. It is about recognising that even the strongest and most positive people have vulnerable moments.

Day By Day.  

That’s what they said in therapy.  Day by day.  One day at a time.  

The trouble is day after day you get fed up of the fight.  The constant conflict that rages inside, locked away, invulnerable.  You can’t win because it’s part of you, made up of all the bits that have built up over the years since the first incident.  The younger you is more flexible, more willing to let it go, forget what happened by burying it under years of other, better experiences.

But it doesn’t go and it doesn’t forget.  It grows, connecting to every other bad event/incident/memory that you suppress throughout life.  You get older, life changes and eventually you are no longer in control, events and circumstance overtake and overpower you.  Then, from out of nowhere, the breaking point is reached and the waiting buried explodes in chaotic vengeance.

It infects everything in your life, work, family, relationships, friends.  Nothing is safe or sacred and that’s just the beginning.  This thing has power over all, you just don’t know how much yet. You can fight it with drink, drugs, adrenaline but it just grows stronger.  You can run, change your whole life and leave everything behind but it’s just waiting for you at the end, inevitable, endless.  

Then the losses start; usually relationships.  Not designed to cope with invisible enemies, partners struggle, fight then finally succumb.  Friends desert you, not knowing who you are anymore.  Work bins you fast as lightning, a liability.  Family stick it out for longer than most, blood ties holding on as best they can but still end up defeated.   

Doctors, therapists, pills, the routine of hope dashed by reality when nothing works, nothing numbs the pain, the hatred burning deep inside.  Depression moves in, a heavy blanket that weights you down and blocks any positivity you might manage to raise.  Then it invites it’s friend anxiety and between them you’re outnumbered and outmanoeuvred. 

Years of being told; “Man up, Just get on with it, There’s people worse off than you, You don’t look ill…”

Years of quietly getting on with life, ignoring the little signs.

Years of losing the battle and thinking, it’s okay, things will get better.  It doesn’t.  

Options?  Yes, you have options.  Ride into oncoming traffic at 100mph.  Save the pills for overdose.  Sit on the beach with your 9mm and one round and it’s all over.  Considered all of them, but wasn’t brave enough to try.  Ironic, everything I’ve done in my life, first Gulf War, two tours of Belfast, one in Bosnia.  Saved lives, taken them, made a difference in people’s lives and proved doubters wrong time and again, and I couldn’t take the final step to alleviate my own suffering.

So what changed for me?  Sitting on the beach with a gun to my head.  Born to lose.  Round chambered, safety off, note under rock, no one around.  What changed?

Pride.  A flash of pure pride.  It scolded me.  “If you do this, they win.  Every doubter, every naysayer, everyone that said you couldn’t do it, that you’d fail.”  Pride.  

It wasn’t easy. I met someone. We went out which I now know she didn’t know I thought it as a date. We spoke and I became smitten. However I needed to sort myself out. It would not have been fair to drag such a lovely woman into this world I had back then. She had unknowingly given advice which made me change. First of all I had to admit that I needed help.  I had to give up the usual crutches of drink and drugs, change my lifestyle from one of righteous anger and rage to one of acceptance and resilience.  Ask for help, also accept the help!  Make positive changes, speak to people.  Reconnect with family.

It’s still there.  After four years in hospital they didn’t cure me.  Rather they gave me the tools and coping mechanisms to fight back.  Little by little, small victory after small victory, I could live again.  Not a normal life, that was long gone but a life nonetheless.  

I moved into a small place, quiet and isolated.  Chose when on good days to interact with people and when to stay in.  Started hobbies to occupy my mind, stop it wandering and taking off.  Even gained responsibility with animals to give me meaning and purpose.  

The “episodes” continued, flashbacks and night terrors dragging me back in time screaming to torment me, as if to punish me for daring to live a life.

But now, life is, dare I say it, good.  I am relatively stable, I have some of my family back in my life.  I can cope.  Ready for the kicker?  I have a girlfriend!  I’m in love. So much love I will never go back. She takes me for who I am, we match perfectly. Beat that!  

There are times when it creeps back in a little, testing the waters, probing the defences.  But it can’t win now.  Sure, the odd skirmish now and again, but it’s had its day.  Never again.  I’ve too much to lose, made too much progress to relapse.  The old me did die on the beach that day, but just not in the way it wanted me to.  

Born to lose?  Maybe.  But I lived to win.  

S A W Wolfe.  Lance Corporal, 216 (Airborne) Signal Squadron.

When Being Strong Almost Broke Me ❤️

My journey through depression, finding hope and learning to find myself again.

People often tell me how strong I am. They see the smile, the laughter and the person who carries on regardless. But the truth is, sometimes I’m not strong at all. Sometimes, I’m simply trying to survive.

Living with epilepsy and cluster headaches brings pain, fear and a loss of independence that many will never understand. I’ve spent years raising awareness of epilepsy, celebrating the moments when I make a breakthrough with someone, yet realising how far we still have to go. Epilepsy isn’t something a single pill magically fixes. It’s something people are scared of. So many people with chronic illness have the addition of depression and anxiety due to the difficulties that it brings.

Alongside the physical battles comes the emotional toll, depression, anxiety and the loneliness of watching people drift away because they don’t understand or can’t cope with the changes in your life.

I’ve become very good at hiding how I feel. I don’t want to moan, so I smile, laugh and carry on. Depression doesn’t always look like someone who has stopped smiling. Sometimes, it looks like someone who is quietly falling apart while everyone thinks they’re fine.

That has been me.

I can love the sunshine on my face, the sound of the sea, the smell of fresh rain and the song of morning birds, yet still have days when sadness feels unbearable. Because being grateful for life doesn’t mean I’m okay all the time.

Then came a moment when I realised just how bad things had become.

I was sitting at my desk writing. Writing has always been my comfort, my way of making sense of the world. But this time was different. I was writing a letter to a friend, trying to explain feelings I could no longer keep inside.

As I put those words onto paper, I stopped and thought: How have I reached this point? The point where I’m writing these things?

I realised I was in a much darker place than I had admitted to myself. When even writing, something that had always helped me, wasn’t enough, I knew something had to change.

Past experiences had left me believing that going to my GP would be hopeless, so I felt I had to find a way forward myself. I needed to give myself a kick and start finding my way back to the person I wanted to be.

It hasn’t been an overnight transformation, and there is no magic switch. But slowly, things have started to improve. I’m learning to recognise my feelings, to stop pretending I’m fine and to understand that I deserve happiness, too.

I’m not completely better. I still have difficult days, but I’m getting there. I want fewer days when depression takes over and more days when I can enjoy life without that heaviness hanging over me.

And I want to be there for Mum.

She is the family I have who can still be there for me, and I’ve seen the look in her eyes on the days when all I could do was sit and cry. Those moments have stayed with me. I want to be okay for her, but I’m learning that I need to be okay for myself, too.

For years, I thought strength meant carrying on regardless. Now, I’m beginning to understand that strength doesn’t mean never falling apart.

I can be strong and still struggle. I can be grateful and still feel sad. I can be making progress and still have bad days.

I’ve learned to treasure the few, special friends who have stayed. The ones who check in, send a message at the right moment and understand that sometimes I don’t have the energy to talk, but still need to know someone cares.

I’ve always appreciated the little things: a coffee and a chat, an afternoon crafting, autumn leaves changing colour, a fox in the garden, birds singing in the morning or simply sitting beside Mum. Carrying my camera, watching wildlife and feeling the sea breeze remind me how much beauty still exists in this world. Those little things matter. They remind me that life still has so much to offer.

I’m sharing this not for sympathy, but because I want to be honest about where I’ve been and where I’m heading. So you can know it’s possible to change. I’m better than I was, but I’m still a work in progress. I’m learning that it’s okay not to be okay all the time, and that recovery isn’t a straight line.

If there’s one thing I want people to understand about mental health, it’s this:

•⁠ ⁠[ ] You never really know what someone is carrying behind their smile.

•⁠ ⁠[ ] The person who always seems strong might be fighting battles you know nothing about.

•⁠ ⁠[ ] Sometimes, asking someone how they really are and listening to the answer can mean more than you realise.

People might continue to tell me how strong I am. Perhaps one day I’ll truly believe them.

For now, I’m learning that I don’t have to be strong every single day. I want more laughter, more memories with those people who never left, more time in nature and more days when I feel like myself again.

I’m not where I want to be yet, but I’m no longer giving up on the possibility of getting there.

I’m still here. I’m still trying. I’m still finding my way.
And slowly, one day at a time, I’m beginning to find myself again.
For me. For Mum. And for the life I still want to live. ❤️

Today is a good day to be asked to write about mental health as I sit feeling sad and thinking about my best friend. 

On this day at 11:39 pm my best friend for over 15 years died suddenly from a massive cardiac arrest in St Thomas’s Hospital in London. The year was 2021, it feels like a lifetime ago. Dennis and Bernice his mum and dad, still miss him as do I, a lot and we’re still friends together.

David Andersons death left a large hole in my heart, and in the lives of many others, it was very difficult when he passed away.

For generations, we’ve grown up hearing keep it together, don’t complain, stay strong. The “stiff upper lip” has long been held up as a mark of character — especially for men. But what if that strength we’ve been taught to show is actually a heavy mask we’ve learned to wear?

we met whilst I was working for HMRC as a VAT officer in Canterbury. David was partially sighted and it was for that reason that long before his death I volunteered to help those who in my community had similar problems. I was a driver for the Sittingbourne Blind Fellowship. I also employed him as my secretary so we were always talking and making memories.

I was on holiday in Normandy when it happened and I’d spoken to him the day before. I never told him I loved him,  though it was unsaid did not mean I didn’t miss him terribly when he was gone. We often assume everyone has someone to turn to at these times, like a close circle of friends, however thats not always the case. Sometimes we learn early that pain is something to bear alone.

I have so many memories of David I will hold dear, sometimes I will feel sad missing him and other times I’ll laugh at a memory. 

It really is ok to not be ok. You don’t have to be tough all the time. You don’t have to answer “I’m fine” when you’re not. 

I didn’t know that so much back then. I do now.

The building we met at is long gone but the people I met there are for the most part still in my life.