It’s Hot Hot Hot But It’s Not My Fault

This is a blog about depression. If you are easily offended or take offence to my very sarcastic humour, please do not read any further. Mental illness is not a joke; it is not something to point fun at and I fully understand that. BUT…when the going gets tough, sarcasm and humour is my defence and so I will be parading it around all over this blog.


If you need help, please get it. Whilst I hope this has a happy ending, I don’t know yet and given I’ve not been able to fix myself, I really don’t want others using this as a ‘How To Be Happy for Beginners v2.0’



To save money, my train isn’t until 12pm. Friends AI and BI are at work so I’m at their house alone. I wake up at 0700 but stay in bed until 0830. My plan for this morning is to shower, have a call with a mortgage broker and then catch the train home. I’ve even dragged a yogurt all the way from London to save money on breakfast. The call with the mortgage broker is making my heart pound. I don’t know why, although that’s a lie, I do know why. I don’t want to face up to this problem. I’d like it all to go away please. However, if I am going to move to interest only mortgage, this is my only way of doing it.


The broker calls at 0930. Apparently, there is quite a lot of options for my mortgage and I don’t need to worry. I am though. This feels like admitting how much of a failure I am. It feels horrid. We agree that I’ll fill the forms out and then go into their offices to discuss the best way forward.


Once the call is done, I sit on the bed and finish my book. My reading ability is coming back. It’s a clear marker on how I’m progressing. I then get in the shower. Yes, Person C is washing again. This could be a record of cleanliness! I get an uber to the station, having re-budgeted for it and then pick up some lunch. Lunch today includes mini yum yums, I am so excited! I am trying to do this without binging.


I have lunch on the train and then, given I’ve finished my book, plug in to the 100’s of podcasts I’ve got but not listened to. This includes Bryony Gordons ‘Mad World’. The fact the conversation around mental health is opening up is great, our brains are an organ, why do we therefore think it so taboo when something goes wrong? I’m not a scientist but some aspect of depression is caused by a chemical imbalance. If I had a chemical imbalance in my kidneys, everyone would offer support. I’m lucky to be surrounded by a strong army of friends who have given me so much support and love but not everyone is so lucky. The podcasts are great and I highly recommend them. However, when I switch onto another podcast, I start to feel my eyes go. Nothing to do with the podcast, everything to do with being so very tired. Then, I commit public offence #1o1, I fall asleep, mouth open, leaning against the arm rest whilst sat opposite a man who has now seem my tonsils. He’s wearing a wedding ring, at least I’ve not just ruined a future romance chance!


To state the obvious, wow it’s hot. I think walking to my appointment with a suitcase and bag is going to lead to a very sweaty Person C so instead, I’ll catch the bus. London busses seem to be the temperature of an over so I’ll still be a sweaty Person C. Whilst waiting at the stop, a blue fiat goes by with a white fluffy dog sticking it’s head out the window. I think to myself ‘how does the dog know not to jump out?’. Just at that very moment, the dog does. He hits the tarmac hard and rolls. My heart in is my mouth. Miraculously there are no cars coming. Given where I am in London, that really is a miracle. The road is normally very busy. The dog seems ok, I think. I haven’t realised I’d let out a scream as had others at the bus stop. My heart in in my mouth. The car stops and a passenger runs to scoop up the dog. I really hope he’s ok. I am shaking a bit. This is when my crazy mind decides to play up. I must somehow be responsible. Did my thought make the dog jump out? Is this punishment for going to bed early at the wedding? That’s the thing with OCD, it allows your brain to convince you of things that it can’t possibly be responsible for. A few people at the bus stop are talking about what happened, I am stood there watching the spot feeling sick. I want to know if the dog is ok, the car has gone though. I want to go and make sure this wasn’t my fault. My bus arrives and I get on still thinking of the fluffy white bundle.


Therapist L ushers me in. It doesn’t take long for the tears to start. I don’t want to tell her about the dog incident as I know, intellectually, it can’t have been my fault but my brain is still telling me it is. Instead, I get very upset about Mum, Father and the feelings the wedding brought up for me. She lets me cry. Since I’ve told her I was holding back, I feel we are on a better footing. Then, because I know it’s the healthy thing to do, I tell her about the dog. She assures me it can’t have been my fault. We talk through the situation until I am ready to agree that my brain is wrong, she is right. Finally, with only 10 minutes of the session to go, I allude to ‘the incident’. This is the same incident that I spoke about at hospital and sent me into such a panic attack they considered re-admitting me under a section. Therapist L wants to know if I feel I can open up to her? I don’t know. My hands go up to hide my face. She tells me that she and I can work on my shame even if I never tell her. So, I take the plunge. In the interest of being completely honest, I manipulated the situation so we didn’t get onto a painful topic until the end of the session. That way, if I want to bottle it, I can use time as an excuse and if I do open up, I can run away straight afterwards. So, deep breath, here is goes… Nope, sorry blog, it’s not making it to black and white print just yet but I did tell Therapist L. Each time I talk about it, some of the shame lifts off. Therapist L wants me to tell my psychiatrist, Dr E, tomorrow. Mmm, let me see about that one.


I get the bus home and swear TFL are purposely trying to embarrass me. I am so very hot and sticky. It’s not fun. If you saw a harassed female with a heavy suitcase looking like they have just been crying, hi, it was me! Back home and I have a decision to make. Do I take the bus to Friend JC and FC for supper but leave now or do I take a taxi – ha, the tube was never a consideration, not in ‘Normal’ weather, let alone a heatwave! – and use up my monthly budget? I opt for the uber. This means I have an hour to sit right in front of my fan whilst sucking on ice. Also, to help me feel a bit better about the taxi, I’ll use the time to call mum and do a couple of admin bits. See, win win!


The call to Mum gets underway whilst I balance the cold bottle of white on my lap to try to help cool me down. She’s going on holiday tomorrow and, to sound like an awful daughter, I am so relieved. It means I’ll have 10 days off her texts. They’ve ramped back up in the last 2 weeks. Mum wants the ‘Best Mum’ award for attending the hospital workshop on Saturday. Apparently she now completely understands (she doesn’t) and realises that I’ve been taught skills that will help me through this (yes, this is true) and finally, I’ve had fantastic care (agree but Mum is trying to guilt trip me about the cost to my medical insurance). She tells me it’s all on me now (great, just what I needed) and so if I promise to lose weight, she’ll promise to relax on holiday. Mum, firstly, WHAT? This isn’t a fair ‘deal’. I’ll go on holiday and why don’t you stay here and try to lose weight? You’re hardly boating the body of a super model (but I do love you very much and don’t mean to sound like a bitch). I loosely promise and then try to hang up. Right, Person C, leave the call in the taxi and think about enjoying a lovely supper with friends and God Daughter EC.


Arriving earlier than I normally can means both girls are still up. This is brilliant as it means I get to chase my God Daughter around whilst blowing raspberries to make her laugh. We sit outside, the wonders of being slightly further out from the centre of London, and I’m cooked a lovely fresh supper of salmon. It gets unhealthy after that thanks to a bottle of desert wine and a fruit tart served with more double cream than tart. Oops.


Given the kids and the fact it’s a Monday, I am back in an uber before 10pm. Great, an early night is much needed. I check my pre-paid card, and realise, the 2 ubers tonight means that I am left with £9 for the next two weeks until pay day. I am going to have to get clever with my spending. I’m home and it’s still hot. I immediately take my place back in front of the fan. If sweating helps weight loss, I’ll be a size 8 in no time!


why London, why?


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