Category: Personal Growth

Posted in Mental Health, Personal Growth

Letter on Living

Posted on by Millie :)

Content warning: Suicidal ideation and attempts (no graphic detail)

I always turned my phone off in that class. Always turned it off and put it out of sight. But I had some weird itching in my gut that day, a feeling I put down to anxiety but honoured nonetheless; a feeling that told me I needed to keep my phone on. So I did. And you texted. 

“Thank you x”

And I knew. Don’t ask me how, I don’t know. It had been a pretty normal day, you seemed fine at lunch as we hid away together giggling. 

He knew too, the second I showed him the message. We called you and you slurred back at us. 

An hour and a half it took to find you. Couldn’t tell us where you were, couldn’t convince yourself to stay. It’s ok, I understood. Still do. I can still remember every word I said to you on the phone that day – it’s a weird sort of irony that you can’t. I won’t ever forget what you looked like when we found you, though I only caught a glimpse before I was pulled away. 

Chocolate and tea and hugs, a cigarette on the curb and being taken for ice cream. Strange how tragedy brings people together. Wonderful though. 

We went to the theatre that night and I was bouncing off the walls, energy buzzing in my veins. The server at KFC let me take home all the mini corn on the cob at closing, my favourite. On the hardest day there was the gentlest kindness. 

On the train back home I got the call to turn around, go back into the city, my grandmother had fallen. She had a brain bleed and wouldn’t survive the night. Apparently. I never believed that. Maybe I just couldn’t fathom the possibility, but I was sure she would survive. Listened to the Matilda soundtrack on the way to the hospital – ‘when I grow up/ I will be brave enough to fight the creatures/ that you have to fight beneath the bed/ each night to be a grown up’.

She lived. I knew she would. Everyone was sitting in sadness in the waiting room, but I knew she would live. He sat across from me and was the only one to try and lighten the mood with me, asking about school and the like. It was the first time I thought he was genuinely kind to  me. He’s dead now too. 

She told me ‘I find that when death is following you around it’s usually telling you to live’. I think so too; I’ve carried that with me ever since. Because, you see, all the things I had to say to you on the phone that day, all the things I had to say to try and get you to stay just a little longer were things I needed to hear. It was so awful. I wanted to leave; I thought I wanted to leave. But I had to tell you to stay and so I realised I wanted to stay too. In a strange way you saved me that night. I was 15.

I have three suicide notes, but they’re not really suicide notes – they all open by saying that they are what I would write in a suicide note, which I’m writing to try and convince myself to stay. The thoughts still come, but I’ve got better at them. They just exist there. I don’t think I can stop them from existing there. But they don’t hurt me just by existing. I’ve realised that over time. The last time – two years ago now – that I was close, I decided I’d just go and have a cigarette first. And I went outside and I had a cigarette and something happened and it wasn’t ok yet, it wouldn’t be ok for a while, but it was survivable. Something about the futility of that moment – of being struck with the realisation that it changed in the time it took to roll a cigarette – stuck with me. So now the thoughts come, sometimes, but they go again. I don’t know the future. Maybe they’ll come back stronger. But I’m growing too. 

I’ve got really good at the ‘stay alive’ talk now. Or not really good, but it feels less foreign to me. Have had to give it a few times. Never quite so urgent as that first time, but urgent enough. Life-on-the-line enough. I’m ok with that though, because you’re all still here for now. 

You – I really thought I would lose you. If not intentionally I really thought you would turn up dead at the side of a road. God knows I woke up to the message you had overdosed enough times. But I hoped. And you kept calling. And now I have my best friend back. 

I still keep my phone on at night in case you call. Any of you. I’d like to not carry that with me one day. It hasn’t been easy to process. I don’t think I have really processed it. I barely drew a sober breath for two years after that day, so maybe that was my way of processing it. My recovery encompasses it. But I still keep my phone on at night. And you know what’s strange? I can sleep through twenty alarms in the morning – I frequently do – but I have never missed a call from you. I’ve always woken up. That’s love. That’s my higher power and my guiding force. I’ve never had my call go unanswered either. 

I woke up crying at two in the morning last year. Very disconcerting to wake up crying already. All I had was a vivid image of you in a dream drifting in the darkness. My soul was tearing and I didn’t know why. I cried, I calmed, I went back to sleep. I found out later you had gone into hospital that day. I knew what you had tried to do, in my gut I knew, you can call me crazy if you want but I did. Took you months to actually tell me and hearing the words tumbling out of your mouth hurt so much more. It was too real. And you were too ashamed. Please, don’t be ashamed. I’ve been there too. 

I live in fear of losing you. Any and all of you. But that’s the price I pay for loving such wonderful people. I am not afraid of death anymore. I’m afraid of not living. But I get to choose what that means; we get to choose. 

If I had died the first time I wanted to, I would have been dead for six years now. Wouldn’t have had my first kiss, or performed on a real stage. Wouldn’t have shared gut wrenching laughter or love. Wouldn’t have known so many wonderful people. 

I refuse to be consumed by the fear. But I refuse to accept this as normal either. That’s why I do what I do. That’s why I speak, and that’s why I love. You have nothing to be ashamed of; you deserve better. But you can learn to live too. I promise.

Posted in Mental Health, Personal Growth

Fear of Going Crazy

Posted on by Millie :)

Two years ago a group of young changemakers, including myself, came together for a discussion. We decided that we would all come dressed as our worst fears. There was one person dressed as a bat, another as a spider; one came as the idea of losing love. I came dressed as the fear of losing my mind. As someone with chronic mental illness, it’s not a fear that feels far away – it’s not a distant possibility that one day I’ll get dementia. It feels very real, very possible, and very close. And I wanted to talk about that here today, because it’s a part of my mental health experience that I haven’t seen reflected in many places.

Me dressed as the fear of losing my mind

I think many people with experience of mental health issues, or big emotions, can relate to the feeling that it’s never going to get better. In times of depression, grief, and heartache our ability to truly envision a future and see the fullness of life becomes warped. It’s a terrible phenomenon that unfortunately has taken many lives. I’ve experienced it myself many times and it is terrifying. But the feeling of going crazy, the fear of it, is something different for me. In intense moments it takes the same inability to see things getting changing and redirects them towards a feeling of a loss of self and loss of reality.

As a mentally ill person, despite owning the idea of being ‘mad’ with great pride, I feel I am constantly running from the idea of being seen as crazy. Which is almost certainly related to the stigma around certain symptoms – namely the less pretty ones, mania, psychosis, irritability, flight of ideas etc; the stigma around the idea of being ‘crazy’. My mental health difficulties are a huge part of my identity – by my own choosing – and yet I still feel a need to mask how they really are lest I lose control over the narrative of my own mental illness. So that’s a part of this fear, it’s not really a fear of losing my mind, but a fear of being seen as crazy and losing autonomy and connection because of it. A deep fear of being misunderstood and unseen.

Yet the real, gnawing fear for me is internal. It is a fear that one day I will become irreversibly changed; I will lose all knowledge of our shared reality and slip entirely into a different one; I will enter an episode and never come out; I will lose myself. It’s ridiculous really, because we are constantly irreversibly changed, and our idea of self is constantly changing. Most likely the fear is rooted in internalised ableism compounded by my experiences of madness.

As Carrie Fisher once said ‘once you’ve lost your mind you don’t know it’s missing’ (that wording may not be right, but that’s the gist). So really the end result that I’m so scared of would actually just be a different way of being. Nothing inherently better or worse about it for me. So what am I really afraid of? Other people’s judgments. A lack of autonomy and care. And perhaps ‘going crazy’ and then reemerging, as would most likely happen in all the scenarios I imagine. Because I have actually lost myself before – when I was drinking I lost sight of who I was. That process of reemerging is deeply, deeply painful so maybe that’s what I’m afraid of. And finally, when I am not in the intense whirlwind of feeling like I’m going crazy, I think what I fear the most is being in that whirlwind again.

Let me attempt to illustrate why the whirlwind is so terrifying. You see, in that place I am two versions of myself at the same time – trapped in a paradox being ripped apart with searing force. One version of myself is the whirlwind. It is the tornado, screaming and tearing through life. The other version of myself stands in the eye of the storm, trying to avoid its path, screaming pointlessly into the spiral to remember who we really are while losing touch with who I am at the same time. Mostly all I can hear is the version that becomes the tornado, but there comes these background thoughts, senses and moments where the version of myself that sees life more clearly breaks through. 

And really it is the background knowledge that something is not right, that there will be consequences, that I am hurting – it is that reminder of who I am that makes me so afraid and so hurt. I know somehow that something is wrong, but I can’t stop it. This paradox creates the fear of going crazy, because I’m trying to figure out what’s real, trying to be less angry, trying to do the right thing and still getting it wrong. The moments when the whirlwind drowns out all sense of self are actually more peaceful, in a strange way.

It’s really a pointless fear. I can do all I can to protect myself and those around me and nothing more. The idea of being judged is useless to me; the internal ableism is something for me to face. But still this fear raises its head every now and then. This year at drama school I became convinced I was ‘disappeared’ – not that I had disappeared, that I was disappeared. I was so far away from myself and yet able to drift through my life and I feared that it would be that way forever. It wasn’t. Most things don’t last forever and that is wonderful. Essentially, if you’re a mentally ill person who shares this fear – hi, you’re not alone! And if you’re not and this sounds to you like I’ve already gone crazy, who knows – our realities are only relative anyway. I choose to set free this fear today and face my future with love and action instead. Sending love and support to you all today xxx

Posted in Managing Mental Health, Mental Health, Personal Growth

What Grief Means To Me

Posted on by Millie :)

Grief is something all of us will experience in our lives because death and endings are a part of life. And I suppose that can be a comfort, a way to make the grief make sense, but it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt. However the idea of grief is something many of us associate solely with death; in this last year redefining what grief is for me has helped me to process it and let myself grow. Grief doesn’t just apply to the death of a loved one – it applies to the end of a situation, a relationship, a friendship. 

This post isn’t a deep dive into grief – the stages, the processes, the sharing and healing etc – there are so many wonderful resources out there already for that (although I would encourage anyone interested to also look for creative explorations and presentations of grief in art, theatre, literature etc because it’s so healing). This post is more like me outstretching my hand with my own experiences to tell anyone out there who might happen to stumble across this that it’s ok, I’ve been there too.

In the last year I have grieved a lot. And it hasn’t always been sad – I think most of us know grief isn’t like that. In fact, I didn’t even realise at first that I was grieving; being autistic I just thought I was having a hard time adjusting to change, and I felt a lot of shame around that, the need to just move on quicker. And, ok yeah, I do definitely find change difficult. But noticing and naming the grief has actually set me free a bit. 

In June I lost my home. I left in the morning and I never went back; I had no idea that would be my last time leaving that house. I don’t remember leaving, I don’t remember the last thing I said to that person, the last time my dog came to say hello to me in the morning – because you’re not meant to remember those things. I had almost no reaction for 8 months, and then an intense explosion of anger. Feeling sad about it is still hard. And for a lack of a reaction, I thought I had a lack of grief. But I don’t. It affected my ability to feel safe in the place I am living, always feeling like any moment it could be pulled out from under me, and with that came the grief. That uncertainty was my way through to grief. 

I also left my school, which I considered my home. And this was so hard to grieve because it seemed like everyone else moved on quicker and I was just stuck, but grieving school has been perhaps the most transformative experience of this year. It’s been my path through to expanding my sense of self, world, connection, and love. It also hurts. So if like me you are thinking you’re being too slow to move on from something, please know it is alright. You are allowed to take up space, to feel, and to go on your own journey. Even if it’s a positive step, leaving behind things that mattered so much to us is painful. And we do grieve things, situations and places – not just people. 

I believe the thing about grief is you can’t force it or rush it. The only thing you can do is allow it, without allowing it to consume you. It’s hard but life does carry on. Maybe joy and excitement and purpose won’t look the same as before, but you are allowed to redefine these things. 

This year I have grieved the death of my grandmother; the possibility of a relationship that could have been in the context of a death that will be; and perhaps strangest of all, I have grieved the living. All of these are complicated, all of them come with different challenges and presentations. Sometimes I feel shame because my strongest reactions are about a dog, or a place, rather than the person who has actually died. But really they all mix together in a way too; they link and lace around each other to become an imprint on me and my journey. I’m ok with that. 

Point is – there is not one way to grieve. There is not one situation in which grief appears. And all of us will grieve many many times in our lives. This is your journey to figure out, but not alone; we are connected in our love and our loss, however it finds us. 

Sending so much love and support to you all today xx

Posted in Advocacy, autism, Mental Health, neurodiversity, Personal Growth, sobriety, therapy

Hurt by Psychiatry

Posted on by Millie :)

Content warning: ED, psychiatric abuse, suicidal ideation, any mental health topic really

I want to write a really strong and defiant letter. I want to write some crazy, proud, creative theatre piece. I want to write something truly hopeful. And while I do have hope, and I do have gratitude – because it is essential to my survival – I also have a lot of pain. And anger. I can talk openly about so many traumas and just general shitty things that have happened in my life. But the one I’ve never been able to write about, never even been able to get through a conversation about without screaming and crying, is the pain endured under the psychiatric complex. Because they were meant to help me. Time and time and time again I have gone looking for help and time and time and time again I have been turned away with only more hurt. I know help is a brave word. I’m not afraid to say it. But I am afraid that when I say it no one will listen. This is my story of a journey through the mental health system. 

Just a disclaimer, because as a writer on mental health I feel it is my responsibility – if you are in a bad place and looking for professional help, please do not use this as your excuse not to. I do know some people have been greatly helped by the mental health system, and you could be too. This is not intended to invalidate anyone’s good experiences, but rather to say that all of us deserve to have those good experiences. This is simply my story as someone who feels they have slipped through the cracks. If you feel this may affect you negatively I implore you to take the decision not to read any further. 

I first asked for help from the mental health system when I was 12 years old. I was experiencing mood swings and distress that were really bothering me – maybe just normal teenage things, maybe not, but the point is it doesn’t matter. They were bothering me. Anyone who wants help, even just to navigate daily life, should be given it. I was assigned a counsellor from the early intervention team. I didn’t like them, so I asked to change. I was discharged from the service – I took that as a message that if I had an opinion on my care, my care would be withdrawn from me. 

My first contact with CAHMS (child and adolescent mental health services) was due to an eating disorder at 14. My life was being ruled by it – I had complete meltdowns when I couldn’t exercise, was hyper fixated on food all the time, was weak and angry and alone; I was really hurting. They weighed me. They told me I wasn’t a low enough weight. I took that to mean I wasn’t sick enough. Without any regard for how I felt, or how food was ruling my life; without anyone trying to find out anything about my experience they denied me the help I so desperately needed. Suggested possibly a meal plan – with no support to implement it or formulate it. If a teacher hadn’t sat with me at lunch every single day for a year and coached me through it because she’d been there too, I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through it. 

I severely relapsed with my eating behaviours twice more, and I still struggle with some thought patterns and triggers to this day (though I am in a much better place, largely due to recovery in other areas giving me the tools to transfer). But I never felt like I really recovered from it, or had the support I needed. Even 9 months ago that teacher would still notice when my old behaviours around food crept in – even before I did – and help me to recognise and head them off. I am immensely grateful for that… but it wasn’t her job. It was never her job to be the main guidance and support in eating disorder recovery. 

CAHMS did offer me six sessions of group therapy. This was to deal with my overwhelming anxiety – much of it around socialising – and deep depression. They didn’t see it as deep depression. It was. It was really, really dark. I stopped going to any lessons and lost all sense of self and hope. But yeah, six sessions would be enough apparently (obviously not). I freaked out at the thought of group therapy, it was entirely unsuitable for me. Once again I received the message in response that if I had an opinion on my care, I wouldn’t get any care. They wanted to discharge me right then, but my wonderful mum stuck up for me so they offered me three – I repeat THREE – CBT sessions. They were not useful. I was put on a years long waiting list for an autism assessment. I was offered no more support. I continued to struggle. 

My mum’s determination to get me the help I deserved was incredible, and probably the only reason I got any support at all. (My mum is probably reading this, so thanks mum). She found a charity that was amazing in supporting us through my teen years, and funded me to see a private psychiatrist – this would not have been possible without them. However I wouldn’t say that was particularly helpful either. That psychiatrist did diagnose me with autism (side note – the assessment for autism really needs to be changed), anxiety and depression. I am eternally grateful for my autism diagnosis – it truly did change my life knowing I was autistic. But it changed my life because I went away and learnt about it, as did my family. The psychiatrist did not formulate a treatment plan for any of this, or provide any further support. Some medication that didn’t work was all she offered. 

In this time I also saw a few therapists – I didn’t like them, one of them didn’t like me and kinda dumped me. All of them were privately paid for. The subpar care I received was paid for privately – can you imagine how much worse it would have been if we hadn’t been able to afford it?

I know this is all a lot of information, but stick with me here. This journey is important to understand because it is something so so many people face. I slipped through the cracks of this system – even with the privilege of being a white, cisgendered woman. I had it reasonably easy. 

In February 2020 I had what I now recognise to be my first (and most intense) mixed episode. I cannot even put this experience into words but essentially it was all the darkness of depression with all the heightened energy and irritability of mania at the same time. I felt reality slipping away from me and I have never been in such intense distress. Two teachers stayed with me at school hours after school ended to try and keep me safe. They eventually helped me calm down, but I later found out they were so concerned they were about to call an ambulance or the police, as the crisis line wasn’t helping. I went to the GP during this episode begging for help. She prescribed me valium to calm me down, but when I begged her for more support I remember her chastising me for being so emotional because she had other patients waiting. I took that as a message that I still wasn’t sick enough; still wasn’t important enough. 

In March 2020 the private psychiatrist diagnosed me with cyclothymia. We had to pay extra for an emergency appointment. She decided I was now too complicated to be under her care and needed more support so referred me back into the NHS. They did not follow up on her recommendation for more support. By the time they saw me I was a bit calmer so apparently that meant I didn’t need help. In her eyes I was too bad, in their eyes I wasn’t bad enough. So I was left with nothing. This was the trend that would continue for the next three years. 

In September 2020 I wound up in A&E. I was broken and desperate. When the CAHMS crisis person finally arrived she acted annoyed about me being there, annoyed she had to be there, uncaring. She essentially asked ‘if things are so bad then why haven’t you killed yourself yet?’ and sent me home with no support. They didn’t follow up on any support because I calmed down a bit after, so I was no longer considered in crisis when they finally did get in contact (even though they hadn’t helped me when I was in crisis) and because I was drinking at the time. Just so we are all clear – if a young person is drinking as heavily as I was, that is exactly the time they need support. I went to my first AA meeting after I left the hospital that day. And excuse my french but thank fuck I did. I have no idea if I would still be alive otherwise. And having connected with others who have been subjected to inpatient treatment, I am incredibly grateful I did not have to bear that extra trauma. This is how bad the surface level service is – it’s even worse inside. 

After I got sober in July 2021 I was still struggling. I finally got to see a psychiatrist on the NHS in October 2021 because of my mum’s insistent fighting for me. When he asked me what I wanted from the meeting, he chastised my response. He was unclear. He shouted at me, and revoked what I thought I had been diagnosed with in a letter. I was meant to see him again in 10 weeks and he cancelled. I got discharged from CAHMS without them ever asking to talk with me about how I was doing. 

The one professional who has been a saving grace is my therapist. She is autistic herself and very flexible. But again – if I wasn’t able to fund that privately I don’t know where I would be. After my charity funding stopped when I turned 18 I had to take the sessions down to every 2 weeks, even with her sliding scale, which is significantly less helpful. Luckily I’ve also found amazing peer support, especially through AA, and spent a lot of time reflecting and doing my own work, so I’ve managed to build myself a much brighter life. But it’s been hard. And sometimes I really do need some more help – no one should have to do this alone.

I Went back to the NHS this October and had my first ever good meeting with anyone, just someone in my GP clinic. Why? He was honest. He genuinely seemed to care, but there was nothing they could offer me. He explained that as far as the system saw it, I had already been helped.

In late 2022 my mental health really started to decline again. I went back to the NHS this October and had my first ever good meeting with anyone, just someone in my GP clinic. Why? He was honest. He genuinely seemed to care, but there was nothing they could offer me. He explained that as far as the system saw it, I had already been helped. So from October I was searching for a psychiatrist who would see me. 

I was turned down by over 10 private psychiatrists for being too complex, having comorbidities, or my favourite way of putting it: ‘them not being able to offer the support I need at that time’. So I was again too bad for private and not bad enough for the NHS. One of the only people who would see me charged just under £1000 a session. Others said they would consider seeing me, but were booked up until 2024.

Finally in March 2023 – 5 months later – I got to meet with a private psychiatrist. And wow, he was amazing. We had three meetings so we could cover everything. He was kind, listened to me – really listened – and didn’t patronise. He treated me like an adult, and made it clear I would have a say in my care plan and the final report that would be sent to my doctor. I would have a say? I almost thought that wasn’t allowed. I’m still sceptical, it still doesn’t feel real. 

He diagnosed me with Bipolar type 1. Just think about that for a minute – an 18 year old has been dealing with undiagnosed bipolar 1, unsupported, emerging from 12 years old. I have no idea where I would be without the angels placed in my life along the way; without the undying support of my family and friends; without the flexibility of my school. I knew something more was going on, I knew how much pain I was in, and no one in the mental health industry was listening. I was screaming into a void and not even hearing the echoes of my own screams. (A separate issue is that we shouldn’t need labels to validate that level of human distress, which is what it is at its core, but diagnosis can be so validating. Read more about that here). 

I am not in any way saying this one experience erases all the rest. It does not. It absolutely does not. And it doesn’t not mean that psychiatry isn’t built on an oppressive, harmful foundation whose history has been hidden. It is. But it was a little hope given back to me. A relief at the very least. Before I went into that meeting I said ‘I’ll take them just not being actively mean to me’. How sad is that? What a desperately low bar. 

I’m still scared. He has instructed my GP to refer me back to secondary care teams in the NHS, which I still – like always – hope might offer some help. But the main thing offered seems to be medication, which I have some serious and valid concerns about. But I am terrified of raising these concerns or asking about alternatives for fear that a) I will be labelled as disordered and my new diagnosis weaponised against me or b) I will be labelled as non-compliant/ not wanting help enough, and sent away again. I wish I didn’t want help from them, and maybe one day I’ll be able to find a path that avoids dealing with the mental health system altogether. But I’m not there yet. Nor should I have to avoid it. It should be an inclusive, varied, accessible service. It should have community and individualised care. It should have alternative treatments and input from patients. It should see the human condition as a spectrum. But it doesn’t. And being mentally ill makes me scared that if I voice any of this, I will not be taken seriously. How can anyone ever prove that they are sane?

I deserve better. Everyone deserves better; we deserve to know that no matter what we’re going through there will be appropriate support for us. But it’s not there. And this broken system is quite literally killing people. We can’t just say fund the system either, the system needs to change. I need it to change, we all need it to change. 

I think I’m sharing this because the younger version of me wanted desperately to read it from someone else. So the core message is that you are not alone. You are not alone in the hurt psychiatry has caused you. You are allowed to be angry about it, and distrusting of it. You are allowed to choose your own care and your own path – even if others don’t understand it! (And that applies to all paths – mental illness should not be policed). Your pain is valid, completely valid, and I see you. I see you.

Sending love and support to you all today xx

Posted in Happy Notes, Managing Mental Health, Personal Growth, positivity

Gratitude Practice

Posted on by Millie :)

How often do you take time to stop and appreciate life? Even when it feels like everything’s going wrong? It’s not a test, I just want to encourage you to honestly consider how often you purposefully notice the good in the world. How often do you pause? You might be the kind of person that never does this, or the kind that laughs it off as some more mindfulness nonsense (I know that word can get on my nerves sometimes). Or maybe you try but it’s too difficult, or you feel like you aren’t present enough, aren’t appreciating things enough, so you might as well not try because you’re not getting it right. Maybe sometimes you do this a lot and other times not at all. 

Personally I make a list at the end of every single day with things I’m grateful for. And some days I really deeply feel that gratitude – somewhere indescribable in my core. And other days I’m more like going through the motions. But I make this list every day, and I have for the last 617 days – since I started addiction recovery. I guess that’s kind of been helpful for motivating me to continue with the gratitude practice because I do kind of see it as a life or death thing personally – I either do the things that keep me sober or my life takes a serious turn for the worse. However, that’s not the only reason I do it; I’ve genuinely come to love what practising gratitude in specific (such a small thing) does in my everyday life. And looking back on my mental health journey I’ve realised it became an instinct for me to practise gratitude very early on – though I didn’t realise that’s what I was doing. And that’s interesting. 

When I started to recover from my first full-blown, 9 months long, very-not-good depressive episode, I started this little practice for myself. Every day I recorded: 3 good things I noticed in the world that day, 2 good things I did that day, and 1 good thing someone else did for me that day. They could be as small as I ate some food, or got out of bed (which are not always small feats at all), or someone said hello back, the colours of the leaves are changing on the trees etc. Sometimes they were much bigger than that of course, but actually the best emotional rewards came out of finding those tiny little things to list every day, especially on the days it felt like there wasn’t anything good in the world. I realise now I had created for myself a sort of gratitude practice. 

This came about because at one of my very lowest points, in a desperate attempt to help myself (I was essentially in a headspace of ‘this has got to work or there is no hope left’) I came up with the idea to write two lists. First I wrote a list of all the good things in the world – with the caveat that I didn’t have to think they were good at the time – because nothing seemed good at the time – I just had to have thought they were good/ fun/ not utterly miserable at some point in time. The second list was all the things I would never get to do if I wasn’t around anymore. And something incredible happened while I was writing those lists. Half way through writing the first list I started to realise I wasn’t just remembering things that used to feel good, I was actually starting to feel a faint sense of happiness about these things in the present. Half way through writing the second list I realised I wasn’t listing things I would never get to do, I was listing things I wanted to do in the future. I could actually, faintly, see a future and feel joy. 

It’s interesting to me looking back for several reasons:

  1. My natural instinct when searching for something to help me was to practise gratitude
  2. Practising gratitude had an immediate effect 
  3. Despite not wanting to do many things, I wanted to continue to practise gratitude 
  4. Practising gratitude consistently actually started to change my perspectives on the world and allowed me to be able to take a step back when things got tough again. It essentially created and trained a little voice in my head that no matter how bad things got was there whispering that it would be ok, that not everything was awful

My instincts for survival and healing are fascinating to me because as someone who slipped through cracks of the mental health system, I find them a practically spiritual thing that came to me in depths of hurt. Of course that might not be the way you look at it, and gratitude has been proven in multiple studies to be a powerful tool, but for me the fact that I automatically reached for gratitude suggests that there must be powerful forces of ‘good’ and love in the universe. 

Fast forward a few years and I found myself in addiction recovery, where practising gratitude daily is a foundation of healing. That’s where I realised that what I had done those years before in creating those lists was practising gratitude. So I started doing it again, listing things I am grateful for every day, and in fact sharing them with others – another very healing exercise. Being grateful doesn’t mean we ignore the hurt and wrongdoing in the world, nor does it mean we have to settle for the way our lives are currently. But it does allow us a stable basis to build from; a calm to return to. And it really increases how wonderful the bright things in life feel!

From a scientific standpoint gratitude has been proven to yield many benefits. Here are just five:

  1. It improves empathy and reduces aggression 
  2. It helps improve sleep 
  3. It boosts self confidence 
  4. It strengthens relationships with family, friends, and romantic partners 
  5. It aids the immune system 

Personally it grounds me, makes me feel connected to the wider world, helps me feel more peaceful and content, and takes me out of my thoughts. 

I encourage everyone to try practising gratitude daily for a few weeks, and see how it affects you. If a few weeks seems like too much, then just start with today. The very simple way to practise gratitude is to simply ask yourself the question: What am I grateful for? Allow any thoughts, images and feelings to arise, and try not to judge them. It might help to take a deep breath and sit somewhere quiet – or it might help to have something to entertain your hands like a fidget toy, depending on how your brain works (it’s stuff that gets said a lot, I know, but it is actually helpful). 

Here are some questions to ask and ways to record your gratitude practice:

  • You could try writing out a list of 10 things you’re grateful for; that’s what I do most often
  • You could do a mind map 
  • Illustrate some things you’re grateful for 
  • Make a moodboard on pinterest or from magazine clippings 
  • Ask, what is a kind thing someone else has done for me today? What are the kindest things people have ever done for me?
  • What brings me joy? What used to bring me joy as a child?
  • What makes me smile? 
  • What are the three most important items to me?
  • Who are influential people in my life?
  • The possibilities are limitless 

I really hope you enjoyed reading this blog and that you give some gratitude practice a go! Best thing is it’s not a new skill, it’s something you’ve likely felt many times throughout your life – all we’re doing is tapping into an emotional tool with intentionality. Let me know your experiences in the comments below!

Sending love and support to you all today xxx

Sources and further reading:

https://greatergood.berkeley.edu/article/item/how_gratitude_changes_you_and_your_brain

https://www.forbes.com/sites/amymorin/2014/11/23/7-scientifically-proven-benefits-of-gratitude-that-will-motivate-you-to-give-thanks-year-round/?sh=118cb73e183c

https://research.com/education/scientific-benefits-of-gratitude

Posted in Advocacy, Personal Growth

Being Vulnerable

Posted on by Millie :)

Thought I’d share something a little different today. The text below is directly copied from ruminations in my diary about being vulnerable (specifically online). Half formed thoughts and unanswered questions, which is kind of the point of what I was writing about – allowing an ‘unfinished’ image of self to be seen. I’ve thought about it more and this quote in particular resonated with me: ‘Vulnerability is the least celebrated emotion in our society’ ~ Mohadesa Najumi. I’m a growing, changing person whose views will inevitably change, but I don’t think I want to live holding back because I may think differently in the future. All we’ve got is now right? So this post is a little less about mental health, and more about the process of learning to be a mental health advocate (if I can allow myself that title!). Please enjoy this copy of my wandering thoughts:

‘I think I naturally ‘overshare’ a lot, though keep some things very hidden. And it’s part defence mechanism, but also part not understanding what’s meant to be hidden. I don’t see my ‘personal life’ as any more personal or precious just because it’s mine. It doesn’t really bother me if more people know, in fact sometimes that makes it more special to me. But is that just a need for validation? Or am I broken, or missing something – because I don’t seem to understand the idea of personal life in the way the messaging of the world does??

And also, of course I’m afraid of judgement. The biggest fears being that sharing I’ve had problems with alcohol – for example – will stop me getting a job in the future. But if no one speaks openly about these things then they remain something to be feared or judged. Right? Social media is so often used to show the ‘end product’ of healing, discovery, creation etc… the polished, acceptable version. But that’s not life! I’m ok being a flawed, growing person. I have to be because I always will be. I want to show that too. 

But is there a right and wrong way to do that? Or is that just more expectations? Or is social media in fact not suitable for that? Of course it will always be just a snapshot of life – does that mean we cannot snapshot the vulnerability too? Indeed – what is vulnerability? I feel we live in a culture where we are afraid to make mistakes, especially in changemaking settings. But mistakes are a part of life. It’s all very confusing, but I don’t want to be afraid of the journey of figuring it out. I choose to move forwards with love and acceptance.’

Posted in Mental Health, Personal Growth

Letter To A Younger Me

Posted on by Millie :)

Hey sweetie, 

I’m writing you this letter because you’ve been on my mind a lot lately. And the thing is, I know you won’t actually read it, you can’t, I can’t actually travel back and give it to you. So there’s no real point in me giving you advice; any advice I do write is, I suppose, more of a reminder for me now – born from the gifts you gave me just by keeping going. Yeah, this letter isn’t really for you. It’s for me now, or us now. To heal a little bit and reflect in a way that doesn’t consume us back to where you are. If that makes any sense? 

I want to comfort you. I want to hug you, hold you tight, and whisper ‘I’ve got you’. Which is something to remember when you feel like the worst person ever, because eventually we’re able to look back and show ourselves compassion. I know it hurts. And I know you feel really lonely, I know. 

I think I’m writing this to you at about age 13, maybe just turned 14. Right as all the mental health stuff really took off, and before you’d gone through enough of it to have any perspective on it. It was all new and you had no reason to think it wouldn’t last forever. But, hey, spoiler alert – it doesn’t last forever. I won’t lie to you, it does get worse. And then maybe worse again. And again. But there’s this magic process you haven’t come across yet, where even though in some ways it gets worse, it never feels quite as bad as that very first time. Because you’re growing and learning and after you survive it once you always know, deep down inside of you, that you’re going to survive it again. And you’re going to learn all these little skills – and big skills! – that help you get through. You’re going to be ok. Maybe not always, but you are going to be ok. 

I would say please don’t drink, but if you’re 13/14 it’s already too late for that. So I’ll say this instead: you know how you always knew, from when you were really little, that you didn’t want to drink? And you were adamant that you never would, and you always thought if you did it wouldn’t end well, but you didn’t know why? Well, that was your gut instinct, and it was a good one. Learn to listen to your gut – it very rarely serves you wrong. So I know you’ve already had a drink, and done some other things, and I know it feels really great right now. I also know I can’t change what happened (or is going to happen, from your perspective). So I’ll say enjoy it while you can. Enjoy it while it’s fun and have those memories that we treasure. The world is a confusing place; it’s a paradox and time is a funny thing – things can be both good and bad. But listen, when it gets too much, know there is hope. Know that this isn’t going to be forever, and you are going to be ok again, I promise. I promise you the madness it’s going to cause is not going to rule your whole life. And I promise you that one day you’ll actually be grateful for it, strange as that may seem. 

But that’s a few years away yet anyhow. For now it might be more relevant to say that food isn’t the enemy and that you are allowed to take up space. You are allowed to exist and feel and show that you feel. I know right now a lot of your time is taken up thinking about food, and actually you don’t even think that’s a problem yet. Well, you’ll figure it out. There’s a lot of cycles and waves in this life, and you’re gonna ride every one of them out. And you’re not going to do it alone. 

In a few months you’re going to meet this amazing person – she’s a bit crazy. I’d like to say thank you for trusting your gut instinct that first day you met her; the one that says ‘this person gets me’. She does. She’s going to help you. And that’s also going to unleash a whole load of other sh*t in your head because once you open the floodgates of emotion, it’s hard to close them. But you’re not going to be alone. Lean into the people who help you, even when it feels uncomfortable and you’re ashamed to do it, because one day you’re going to be able to show them it was worth it. You are going to meet like-minded, supportive people, and make true deep friendships. Loneliness isn’t going to go away completely, I doubt it ever does, but slowly you’re going to learn to make connections and redefine what that means for you. It’s a process we’re still going through – and we’ve come to appreciate it’s actually kind of a wonderful thing that learning is lifelong. You never stop growing. 

I want you to know that I forgive you. I forgive you. All the unforgivable things that make you think there’s no point, the whirlwind of self-destructive hate that spirals out to others – I forgive you for all of it. You are doing the best you can. And one day you’re going to be able to do better. And in 5,10,15 years you’ll be able to do better again! So I not only forgive you, but I thank you for trying so damn hard to keep going when it all seems impossible. 

If I could actually give this letter to you, the one thing I would probably most like to say is that you’re autistic. Surprise! You’re going to find out in about two years and it’s going to make a whole lot of sense and it’s going to change your life. It’s going to be a catalyst in helping you to understand yourself and learn to exist in this world. Because you’re not broken, you’re living in a world that wasn’t built for you. So when in a few months the whole world comes crashing in around you and you can’t be the perfect A* student you built your identity around (don’t worry, it’s actually a blessing to get to rebuild your sense of self and be able to do other things), know that you are allowed to express your needs. You are allowed to be tired and burnt out and unable to carry on at that level without support or understanding. You are allowed to take up space – I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again. 

Ok, what else would you like to know? We’re still obsessed with Carrie Fisher. You were right, we do have a developing mood disorder. Also anxiety, a lot of it. Oh! You’re going to act! You’re going to see your dreams becoming reality and it’s going to feel even better after all this hurt because you’ll understand how precious it really is. You’re actually quite funny, and it wouldn’t hurt you to trust that you can lean into your comedy every now and then. You write a lot, including a lot of poetry (we like poetry now). You went around Europe on your own for 2 months at 17, just like we’d always dreamed! You run a mental health space, have been on a podcast, won an award. We’re still gay. So yeah, you’re ok. You’re not perfect, no one is, so it’s ok to stop chasing that idea of perfection. And you don’t need to do crazy, harmful things to gain other people’s approval and affection. Laughter is the key to making it through rough times – you have to be able to find life funny. Oh and also – not everyone can hear colour?? We were 15 by the time we realised that! 

I love you, always, through all of it. You’ve got this, even when it feels like you don’t. And I’ll be waiting right here for you in a few years, 

Love, 

You.

Posted in Happy Notes, Notes, Personal Growth

22:47, A Poem

Posted on by Millie :)

You may or may not know this about me already, but aside from being a mental health advocate, I am also a very creative person. My biggest passion in life is theatre, and I adore all forms of creativity from writing poetry to banging pots and pans together to make a beat. I think that my passion for advocacy and my creativity go perfectly hand in hand, as does creativity and mental health recovery. So I thought today I’d try something a little different and post one of my poems that relates to my mental health journey. I only write poetry when I’m feeling an emotion intensely – whatever that may be. I find it the perfect form of writing for expressing deep and complex emotions or experiences. So here’s a little piece of my journey that I wrote about a year ago; a look into my heart. I hope you like it, please do let me know in the comments. Sending love and support to you all today!

22:47 – Letters to Friends

I have mismatched smiles 

And unsettled expressions 

I have tears that come unwarranted

-for most-

But perfectly

For me,

Though sometimes I may pretend they don’t

Till even I forget my tears are full of worth,

And most dangerous of masks 

Are the ones we do not realise we wear.

So when your breath catches

Just above the safe tide mark,

When your ears hear the words 

They want 

So your mind can steal you 

For your fears,

When everything is right, balanced in unbalanced juxtaposition, when it is perfect, 

And so then it is wrong,

And when all you yearn for is to rest,

But all you can do is run,

How then do you tell them you are grateful? 

How do you show 

When you can’t feel,

And words will do no justice, of course they won’t, because the crooked smiles and the disorganised tone of voice will give away the 

Fear? 

Is it fear? 

Or is it acceptance? That you are not, and cannot, but you belong in the silence between them.

Maybe you don’t. Maybe you can’t tell them. 

Maybe it’s enough 

That you know 

And that you be 

As you are 

Until what you are is something new,

And you can glance at what was,

Content. 

Posted in Mental Health, Personal Growth, sobriety

Teenage Alcoholic’s Sober Story

Posted on by Millie :)

Trigger Warning: mentions of specific drinks, alcoholism, eating disorder

I’m an alcoholic. To be more specific, I’m a teenage alcoholic. I got sober 15 days before my 17th birthday and so I have never had a legal drink. I find that entertaining to think about, but it’s also a block to my recovery sometimes. How can I say I’m an alcoholic (which is vital for me to accept in order to recover) if I’m so young? 

While getting sober at any age and for any reason has huge challenges – that may vary and cannot be compared – getting sober young comes with a unique set of difficulties. One of the very first struggles is that it seems no one else in recovery is your age; it feels like there are no teenage addicts and alcoholics out there. So it can be a very isolating experience. Especially when the rest of your life stretching out ahead of you seems so long to go without a drink. So I thought today I’d share a little of my story of getting sober young to show everyone that we exist! And we’re thriving.

Before I dive in I will be honest and say I was very apprehensive to post this. I’m used to being open, and sharing my other mental health battles to some extent, but this is scary to post. Much scarier than anything else. And I think much of that is to do with stigma – fear that if someone reads this they might not want to know me, might not want to hire me etc. But I have decided to post it anyway because that’s exactly why it should be posted. So often fear keeps people quiet about important experiences that need to be shared and understood. I don’t want another teenager out there to feel alone like I did. I don’t want people to be afraid they won’t be able to move forward in life because of something in their past. So this is my story, and I’m not ashamed of it. I wouldn’t be the person I am today and the person I’m going to be in the future without it. If it can help just one person, then it’s worth it.

I ‘only’ drank heavily the way I did for a year and a half/ two years, but looking back I can see I was different in how I drank from the very first time I had a drink at 13 years old. Everyone else was fine to stop the next day, to stop that evening, but for me it finally made being in a group something that felt easy, and I wanted to drink again right away. I always took it further than others or was more excited about it than everyone else when the opportunity to drink arose. 

I did stop drinking for a period of a few months, but only because I was struggling with an eating disorder, and the calories in drink scared me shitless. In a strange way I feel very grateful for that, because I don’t know what my path would have been if I had been drinking at that time. You can’t exactly buy other substances at the corner store, so I was saved from that spiralling off in a way; alcohol became my drug of choice. 

In the space of two weeks I went from drinking a can of gin and tonic every night to a bottle of vodka every evening, and within a few months I was drinking in the morning and had to start changing my routines to fit around when I would be able to drink. I don’t remember once going to the cinema or visiting my grandma when I was drinking – it would have been impossible. I’ve heard a lot of people talking about how this transition from low amounts of alcohol to day drinking took years, decades even. And that used to make me feel very alienated; it played into the idea that this was just a phase for me. But now I see it like I took the exact same path, I just did a speed run of it.

This began in the months before the covid lockdown and carried on through the return to schools and socialising. I won’t go into the details of what I did, because some of it’s personal and also I don’t think it really matters overall. Because every alcoholic has a different path, different consequences and patterns of drinking. But the one thing we do have in common is once we start we can’t stop. So what I will talk about is my feelings, how it felt to be like that. 

Some people may say I was a high functioning addict, and I suppose in a way I was. I could drink a huge amount and still be able to hold a conversation or even write coursework graded A*. My blackouts were very very rarely passing out or waking up somewhere I didn’t recognise – they were walking blackouts. Whole weeks have gone missing from my memory and it’s only now that small moments are returning to me; it’s a very strange experience. Terrifying really. So yeah, in a way I was high functioning – but being a functioning alcoholic is like saying you’re painting a house with a toothbrush. Yes you can do it, but nowhere near as well as you could. 

I was also the star student. And I’d already had to grapple with my identity as the perfect A* student when I stopped being able to go to all my lessons a few years prior. But when I was drinking it was like losing this part of my identity entirely. I had to leave (was asked to leave) school 3 times in year 12. I became the total opposite of everything I thought I was; I lost myself and I used the disappointment to fuel my drinking more. Nowadays I choose to try and see the light in what I went through and put others through, so in a way I’m grateful for having to deconstruct my perfect student persona, because now I see more of the parts that make me who I am. 

Although there are many many ways to recover, I use AA (alcoholics anonymous, a worldwide peer support group) as the foundation of my recovery. I went to my first AA meeting on 28th September the year before I got sober, and though it would take me another 10 months for me to stop drinking, I continued going to AA. Because really I knew I needed to be there. And that’s the thing – just because I knew I was an alcoholic and would later want to stop drinking, doesn’t mean I could just stop. It wasn’t that simple. But AA being there throughout, welcoming me when I felt like nothing, and slowly helping me build up whatever it was that allowed me to stop, was invaluable.

I hurt the people closest to me, people I could never have dreamed of hurting. I lost touch with reality and who I was. I lost a view of the future. All there was every day was the planning and expedition to get drink. It was the only thing that shut my head up. And the second it started wearing off, or the search showed up empty, the panic and hurt and self loathing and anger would all start to creep in again. It was like I wanted total oblivion. 

Some of it looking back is truly laughable to me – the ridiculous extent of the lies, convincing myself that one piece of chewing gum would cover the smell. And the best of all – hiding bottles all over the town, not just my house or the school, the town. And not just one town – 3 towns! You have to be able to laugh at the ridiculousness to survive I think. It also does no good to tell myself it was all awful, because I did have some good days while I was drinking. Several good days. And if I try to convince myself it was all awful it’s easier for me to forget what it was really like long term, and I run the risk of relapsing. I had some wonderful times and great fun, but overall it was so crushingly painful, even if I didn’t realise the full extent at the time. 

I was always trying to escape, trying to distract. But in doing so I was throwing away all the love and brightness in my life too. I didn’t even realise how sick I was physically! All the time there was something wrong with me, and not always something small. I didn’t get hangovers, but I was always in pain in some way. 

I swung between wanting to stop drinking more than anything in the world and deciding it was pointless to try. It was never really that I wanted to keep living like that but rather that I couldn’t conceive living any other way. I came up with several schemes to help me stop that are ridiculous in hindsight – split the same amount into more than one bottle, change the mixer, listen to a particular song before drinking again etc. None of them worked. There were so many more logical times to stop drinking than when I did: times when I hurt worse and hurt others worse. But I couldn’t. And that’s the thing – an alcoholic can’t simply put the drink down, and if they do by some miracle manage it they can’t sustain life without dealing with the emotional symptoms beneath. 

I was given an ultimatum from school a week before my last drink. This wasn’t what made me stop, but it did however allow me to see, even slightly, a future without alcohol. Or rather refuelled my want for that. And this happened to coincide with me being in the headspace I was; truly tired of it. My rock bottom didn’t coincide with events in my life or chaos of my creation. My rock bottom was when I realised I had completely lost myself. 

It was a serendipitous concurrence. My last drink was nothing spectacular or awful. It was just my last. And I knew it when I woke up the following day. I felt it. The relief, the lifted weight. And I can’t explain that. It was not a renewal of will power, it wasn’t a specific motivation. It was a miracle (if you possibly believe it). I was done, I was free. Within days I started to see my life return in colour around me, though it would take months for the fog to truly lift in my brain and trust to be regained. To this day I dream about it and wake up thinking about it (one major sign my relationship with alcohol is not normal). 

My journey – which is not the same as everyone else’s – included a remarkably easy first few months. I was free from cravings and the opportunities that came to me were amazing. I got to go back to school, continue rehearsals and deepen friendships. But in a way I was white knuckling it. I sprinted forward like I was making up for lost time and in later months I would have to grapple with how hard I had fought to get where I was. For me though I wouldn’t have had it any other way. The cravings emerge still in full force, as do life’s challenges, but now I have a fighting chance. And I have so much love and support around me.

Stopping drinking was the bravest decision I ever made. I got my future back. I got my friends and family back. I got my dignity back. And I got so much more than I could ever have dreamed of. No it’s not easy; some days it’s a real fight. But I’d rather fight this fight and grow than shrink myself back to what I was. And do you know how great it is to remember all the fun I have?? Being sober means I get to honour what I actually enjoy doing. 

I made a list the very first day I got sober of all the things I wanted to achieve through sobriety. It had things like do my A-levels, get into drama school, gain my family’s trust back, feel more physically healthy and more and more. I’ve done every single thing on that list. In a year. Every single one. That is beyond my wildest dreams. With the words ‘I am proud of you’ my list was complete and the second I heard them I burst out in tears. My path is not what I expected, even with all the things I hoped to achieve completed, life is always unexpected. It’s different from how I imagined, and I’ve had to deal with some real upheavals sober. It’s not always fun, but it’s always worth it. If I can grow that much in just one year of sobriety, I cannot wait to discover what else lies on the horizon. 

If you’re a young person struggling, know that you’re not alone. I’ve found young groups of alcoholics and addicts too now, and it was such a breath of fresh air the first time I went to one! It reaffirmed that I was not too young, I was not being dramatic. I was being very very brave, and so were all these other amazing people. You can get better and there is a future waiting for you. 

So much love and support to you all today xx

Posted in Advocacy, Happy Notes, Mental Health, Personal Growth

OHN Hopes for 2023 (and beyond!)

Posted on by Millie :)

I struggle with the idea of New Year’s resolutions. After all, New Year’s Day is simply just another day. The sun will continue to rise and there will always be new tomorrows; new opportunities for change and growth – in fact it happens every day. However I do realise that years are markers of points in our lives and our developments, so I wanted to share some hopes and aims for this space in the coming year and beyond! In the interest of transparency, I don’t have a clear plan on how to achieve everything on this list. But I’m working on it. Just like I’m working on learning more and listening to more voices on mental health and its intersections every day. My hopes will change, my perspectives will change. And I am so glad to have all of you along for the ride. 

Thank you all so much for your support of this space and mental health advocacy in 2022. 

If you would like to be more directly involved with Our Happy Notes – whether on the blog, instagram, or something else! – please do reach out. I would love to hear from you! You can fill out the contact form on this website or email ourhappynotes@gmail.com 

So without further ado, here are the hopes for Our Happy Notes in 2023:

1. More tangible actions 

2. More pressures on governments and organisations 

3. Consistent blog posting

4. Regularly get back to how it started – distributing happy notes!

5. Create connections