Change.
What is it that makes it so scary? Without change we would never grow or learn or have anything new and get it's always so scary to leave the old behind. Nothing needs to be forever, I know that, but sometimes it can feel like a whirlwind has gobbled you up and all you can do is chant 'just keep swimming, just keep swimming' like the hyperactive and disturbed fish from Finding Nemo.
Everything is good in my life. Everything is moving in the direction I want it to but it is terribly hard to say goodbye to bits of yourself that have been your home for however long. Maybe it's because I'm an actor and adapting to new personaities is a skill that we have to have but I am actually nervous that all this change is going to change me.
We're moving house. I've left cabaret - a huge part of myself - to pursue my dream job. We're going to get a cat and car. I'm going to die my hair brown. Ok, that last one sounds like it doesn't belong in the list but changing the way you identify yourself is quite a massive deal, particularly for women.
I've always been insecure about my weight and body. When I discovered Marilyn Monroe, I clung to her like a lifejacket. She was blonde and curvy and sexy as hell. I held onto my blonde sexiness for a long time. And now.....whether it's from exploring playing the part of Carole King - an apparently very comfortable, boyish woman when it comes to style, someone whose work comes first and appearance after - or whether it's from my wonderful therapy sessions and me exploring actually being happy in my own skin....I feel....well, I feel different.
I feel grown up.
I suppose, maybe, I feel like I am going through some monumental change within myself. That I am finding myself? To be honest, I thought I had myself pinned the moment I discovered Marilyn Monroe and the 50s. I feel like I'm peeling back the layers to find the girl I actually am, the girl who, for so many years, tried to reinvent herself to create happiness.
I'm tired of fighting to be the thinnest. I'm hot. If you don't think so, YOU'RE BLIND. Jokes. If you don't think so, I'm not your type. And it doesn't matter anyway right? Maybe I'll dye my hair and move house and have a breakdown because it's all too much. But then, you know, I figure I'll just buy a kitten and a bottle of champagne and sit down and try to figure it all out again.
It's just surprising how you can really feel you've arrived, and then suddenly feel like the journey's only just beginning. But that's life. One big scary journey. I don't know why I keep expecting it to settle down (and that I'd ever be happy if it did).
Is this a common thing for a woman of my age? Do you suddenly realise that going home to a loved one and not having a hangover is more interesting than whatever is at the bottom of that vodka bottle? Or am I just running away and burying my head in the sand? Ex-party-girl issues right here.
I think I'm on a journey to find true peace within myself, my life and the people that surround me. I think that this is the beggining of something beautiful. A new me. The real me. A me that doesn't punish myself for not being perfect, for not being everybody's cup of tea.
I propose a toast to women everywhere. Let us forever not fit in. Let us forever experiment. Let us create. Let us feast on life.
Here's to us!
International Women's Day 2015.
I choose
Here and now
And onwards
To love myself.
I will no longer punish myself
Or look in the mirror and
Compare my body to
Other perfection.
I am perfect.
I am my only me,
My one.
I will rise like a Pheonix from
The flames of self-hate.
Self-reprimand.
Self-harm.
I shall stand tall and proud and exclaim:
"I am wonderful".
I will understand my past and
Tunnel my future with
Focus.
Poise.
Setting a good example for
Women.
Girls.
The sex of birth, recreation and struggle.
I will fly.
I will fly.
Because I choose
Here and now
And onwards
To love myself.
Sunday, 8 March 2015
Monday, 2 February 2015
Sensitivity and Anxiety
As I trundle along, day by day, in an effort to self-heal, to blossom and to learn, I find myself wondering about the other culprit often found alongside the depths of depression: Anxiety.
I never talk about anxiety in the same context but unfortunately for me they come hand in hand.
Currently, I am rehearsing for a new West End musical. This, in itself, isn't *too* stressful. It is, of course, what I have always wanted to do and what I have trained for my entire life. I have found my levels of depression have depleted. I am medicating myself through joy and love for what I do. The stressful part for me comes because of the fact I am understuding an undeniably MASSIVE leading part. Again, this isn't a problem. It's a dream come true. But there's no denying that my nights are restless and my head is full to burst with lyrics and lines and mock scenarios of terror. And so the anxiety within me has begun to pop up again and say 'hello'.
The truth is, that when we are anxious, our body and soul functions on a much more 'fight or flight' mechanism. Everything is hightened and the smallest of issues can expand in our minds to become impressive problems and upsetting scenarios. I have found myself getting upset and nervous over the tiniest of things. Angry, even. This is no pretty thing when you are flung into a new job and desperately find yourself trying to make new friends. 'Do they like me? I don't think they like me. Oh god, why did I say that? Why is he being mean? Does she think I'm an idiot?'....and so forth.
How do we control ourselves to stop our little problems becoming catastrophic avalanches of stress? I am, of course, following my own advice for happiness (see earlier blog). These include: exercise, meditation and thinking positively. But sometimes you can feel a wee bit like you're forcing yourself to become happy and positive and this all adds to the pressure you are already putting upon yourself to be perfect around the new people you are already trying so hard to impress.
At this point in the blog, you, the reader, are probably thinking 'Woah. Just chill out!'. And you'd be right. But does anyone else feel like this phrase, when presented to you, only makes you do the opposite? Like when you were a kid and a bully tells you 'don't cry' and you immediately feel your cheeks flush red and your eyes begin to leak as you tense your buttocks in a vain attempt to stay strong.
Hormones don't help. Kudos to all the women out there who are trying to balance it all.
I don't really have a conclusion. It's the same old thing of 'let's all care for one another and be sensitive' - there's that word again: sensitive. Sensitivity.
As we become more in tune with our feelings do we become more sensitive? As we peel back the layers to reveal our inner truth and honesty does that make us weak somehow? I suppose, as we peel, we have to toughen up our new layers. Wearing your heart on your sleave is a wonderful motto for life but there will always be someone ready to make you feel low, or weak. And the truth is, that person probably doesn't even know they're doing it. The truth is, that person is on their own journey or self-discovery and it's their own anxiety and sensitivity causing them to muddy your path.
I'm going to lie low for a while. I'm only going to present my heart-displaying-sleave to those whom I feel deserve it. In other words, those I can trust. I'm not sure I like this. But maybe it will help me re-establish my own solid ground amogst the anxiety. And allow me to go forth, stronger and kinder, and ready to face my own challenges one step at a time.
I never talk about anxiety in the same context but unfortunately for me they come hand in hand.
Currently, I am rehearsing for a new West End musical. This, in itself, isn't *too* stressful. It is, of course, what I have always wanted to do and what I have trained for my entire life. I have found my levels of depression have depleted. I am medicating myself through joy and love for what I do. The stressful part for me comes because of the fact I am understuding an undeniably MASSIVE leading part. Again, this isn't a problem. It's a dream come true. But there's no denying that my nights are restless and my head is full to burst with lyrics and lines and mock scenarios of terror. And so the anxiety within me has begun to pop up again and say 'hello'.
The truth is, that when we are anxious, our body and soul functions on a much more 'fight or flight' mechanism. Everything is hightened and the smallest of issues can expand in our minds to become impressive problems and upsetting scenarios. I have found myself getting upset and nervous over the tiniest of things. Angry, even. This is no pretty thing when you are flung into a new job and desperately find yourself trying to make new friends. 'Do they like me? I don't think they like me. Oh god, why did I say that? Why is he being mean? Does she think I'm an idiot?'....and so forth.
How do we control ourselves to stop our little problems becoming catastrophic avalanches of stress? I am, of course, following my own advice for happiness (see earlier blog). These include: exercise, meditation and thinking positively. But sometimes you can feel a wee bit like you're forcing yourself to become happy and positive and this all adds to the pressure you are already putting upon yourself to be perfect around the new people you are already trying so hard to impress.
At this point in the blog, you, the reader, are probably thinking 'Woah. Just chill out!'. And you'd be right. But does anyone else feel like this phrase, when presented to you, only makes you do the opposite? Like when you were a kid and a bully tells you 'don't cry' and you immediately feel your cheeks flush red and your eyes begin to leak as you tense your buttocks in a vain attempt to stay strong.
Hormones don't help. Kudos to all the women out there who are trying to balance it all.
I don't really have a conclusion. It's the same old thing of 'let's all care for one another and be sensitive' - there's that word again: sensitive. Sensitivity.
As we become more in tune with our feelings do we become more sensitive? As we peel back the layers to reveal our inner truth and honesty does that make us weak somehow? I suppose, as we peel, we have to toughen up our new layers. Wearing your heart on your sleave is a wonderful motto for life but there will always be someone ready to make you feel low, or weak. And the truth is, that person probably doesn't even know they're doing it. The truth is, that person is on their own journey or self-discovery and it's their own anxiety and sensitivity causing them to muddy your path.
I'm going to lie low for a while. I'm only going to present my heart-displaying-sleave to those whom I feel deserve it. In other words, those I can trust. I'm not sure I like this. But maybe it will help me re-establish my own solid ground amogst the anxiety. And allow me to go forth, stronger and kinder, and ready to face my own challenges one step at a time.
Monday, 5 January 2015
Up and Away! (But for how long?)
This is a piece that I am forcing myself to write.
As you may or may not know, I often write about depression and it's relating issues. And my pieces usually come from a place of real knowing - meaning that I am usually suffering, badly, at the time I publish.
I thought it was about time that I write about it from a relatively happy place. A stable day. A stable couple of months if I'm truly honest.
I don't know how long I will feel this way or how quickly Mr. Black-Dog will be bothering other people before he's back scratching at my newly varnished door. But I'm trying to focus on the fact that I feel good RIGHT NOW. And what have I done to make myself feel good?
Here's a few things that I feel have really helped to make me happier and healthier:
1. Exercise. This can be a tricky one for me. As an ex-crash-dieter and eating-disorder-er, I often worry about introducing exercise into my life too whole-heartedly as old obsessions can begin to take hold. But the difference is that now, I'm not doing it to be skinny (though we all wish we could lose that annoying half a stone), no, this time I am looking at the long haul, the life long health, the strength, the healthy blood and bones, looking after ME.
Once you begin to see your body as important, once you care for yourself enough to stop with any self-destrcutive actions like binging, smoking, drug taking or drinking too much, you can begin to feel physically and mentally stronger, day by day. I'm not saying I think it's easy to suddenly regard oneself as a temple, I'm saying it's a marriage.
Like it or not, find a way to get up and exercise. Even if it's running on the spot in your onesie with one hand still firmly clinging onto your duvet in case you need to jump back into bed. Getting into a sweat is really bloody good for you. And as much as we procrastinate and think of reasons not to do it, no one ever regrets a work out.
When you finish, smile. Pat yourself on the back and say 'well done'. And then eat something yummy.
I bet you will feel better. At least a little. Pinky promise.
2. Meditation. Wait, don't sigh and call me a hippy-wanker. Meditation means different things to different people. It's giving yourself a break, a rest, without napping away the day. You are recharging your body and mind and relaxing your heart rate.
Whether it's looking into Mindfulness (I recommend Jon Kabat-Zinn. Start with his videos on youtube and follow up with his books and CDs if you get into it), or whether it's downloading apps onto your phone with more specific goals (Andrew Johnson apps are brilliant for dealing with different issues from weight loss to positive pregnancy). Sometimes, it's great just to lie on your bed with some relaxing music or your favourite album. Stop and actually listen to the music. This used to be so important to us when we were teenagers but how often do you allow yourself nowadays to lie down and really listen to your favourites?
Breathe calmly but don't enforce a change in your breathing. Meditation can only do good. Don't fester on sad or stressful subjects, breathe it out. Even if you burst into tears for absolutely no reason (I've done it), it's better out than in sometimes. You've given yourself the time to realign.
This is particularly important if you are an ex-smoker or someone trying to give up. The one AND ONLY thing I miss from smoking is giving myself five minutes of still. Now chuck that habit and give yourself twenty minutes.
Do it.
3. Positivity. If I haven't lost the cynics already....then this is for you.
I challange you. I challange you to listen to the things you say and think and try to turn them into a positive. Being grateful is a good way into this. What are you thankful for? Truly? Even if you can't see out of the blackness to be thankful for anything. Are you thankful for your legs or your eyes? Go on, tell me you're not thankful for the basic things that we take for granted. Actively thinking these things and practising gratitude will only bring more happiness into your life.
Try to find the light in everything, the silver lining. (Also, watch that film about silver linings and have a dance, on your own in your house, like you're Britney Spears in the 90s. It works).
In the words of Jon Kabat-Zinn: 'You don't have to like it but you have to do it'.
Cure yourself. I believe in you. And when you find yourself back in the darkness of depression, just remember you're not alone. I will be there too soon I'm sure.
But for now, I'm going to get out and LIVE.
As you may or may not know, I often write about depression and it's relating issues. And my pieces usually come from a place of real knowing - meaning that I am usually suffering, badly, at the time I publish.
I thought it was about time that I write about it from a relatively happy place. A stable day. A stable couple of months if I'm truly honest.
I don't know how long I will feel this way or how quickly Mr. Black-Dog will be bothering other people before he's back scratching at my newly varnished door. But I'm trying to focus on the fact that I feel good RIGHT NOW. And what have I done to make myself feel good?
Here's a few things that I feel have really helped to make me happier and healthier:
1. Exercise. This can be a tricky one for me. As an ex-crash-dieter and eating-disorder-er, I often worry about introducing exercise into my life too whole-heartedly as old obsessions can begin to take hold. But the difference is that now, I'm not doing it to be skinny (though we all wish we could lose that annoying half a stone), no, this time I am looking at the long haul, the life long health, the strength, the healthy blood and bones, looking after ME.
Once you begin to see your body as important, once you care for yourself enough to stop with any self-destrcutive actions like binging, smoking, drug taking or drinking too much, you can begin to feel physically and mentally stronger, day by day. I'm not saying I think it's easy to suddenly regard oneself as a temple, I'm saying it's a marriage.
Like it or not, find a way to get up and exercise. Even if it's running on the spot in your onesie with one hand still firmly clinging onto your duvet in case you need to jump back into bed. Getting into a sweat is really bloody good for you. And as much as we procrastinate and think of reasons not to do it, no one ever regrets a work out.
When you finish, smile. Pat yourself on the back and say 'well done'. And then eat something yummy.
I bet you will feel better. At least a little. Pinky promise.
2. Meditation. Wait, don't sigh and call me a hippy-wanker. Meditation means different things to different people. It's giving yourself a break, a rest, without napping away the day. You are recharging your body and mind and relaxing your heart rate.
Whether it's looking into Mindfulness (I recommend Jon Kabat-Zinn. Start with his videos on youtube and follow up with his books and CDs if you get into it), or whether it's downloading apps onto your phone with more specific goals (Andrew Johnson apps are brilliant for dealing with different issues from weight loss to positive pregnancy). Sometimes, it's great just to lie on your bed with some relaxing music or your favourite album. Stop and actually listen to the music. This used to be so important to us when we were teenagers but how often do you allow yourself nowadays to lie down and really listen to your favourites?
Breathe calmly but don't enforce a change in your breathing. Meditation can only do good. Don't fester on sad or stressful subjects, breathe it out. Even if you burst into tears for absolutely no reason (I've done it), it's better out than in sometimes. You've given yourself the time to realign.
This is particularly important if you are an ex-smoker or someone trying to give up. The one AND ONLY thing I miss from smoking is giving myself five minutes of still. Now chuck that habit and give yourself twenty minutes.
Do it.
3. Positivity. If I haven't lost the cynics already....then this is for you.
I challange you. I challange you to listen to the things you say and think and try to turn them into a positive. Being grateful is a good way into this. What are you thankful for? Truly? Even if you can't see out of the blackness to be thankful for anything. Are you thankful for your legs or your eyes? Go on, tell me you're not thankful for the basic things that we take for granted. Actively thinking these things and practising gratitude will only bring more happiness into your life.
Try to find the light in everything, the silver lining. (Also, watch that film about silver linings and have a dance, on your own in your house, like you're Britney Spears in the 90s. It works).
In the words of Jon Kabat-Zinn: 'You don't have to like it but you have to do it'.
Cure yourself. I believe in you. And when you find yourself back in the darkness of depression, just remember you're not alone. I will be there too soon I'm sure.
But for now, I'm going to get out and LIVE.
Tuesday, 16 December 2014
When I go, I'm going like Elsie...
Now, I'm determined not to post one of those dramatic 'I'm leaving cabaret' type statuses. I don't want any drama and I certainly don't want any sympathy. But I'm not going to just fade away either without (at least personally) noting how wonderful and important my cabaret life has been.
Soon I'm about to embark on an exciting new job. In less than two weeks I start rehearsals for 'Beautiful' - The Carole King musical going to the west end. Our hopes are high for this to be a hit. On broadway it's doing exceedingly well. But, let's be honest, the west end doesn't have a great track record for new musicals at the moment. Still, fingers crossed and all being well, I will be in this musical for at least a year.
Due to this (and also some unfortunate behaviour that I have experienced), I am running away from cabaret for a while. And although it feels scary and strange, it also feels exciting and freeing and new.
I fell into cabaret. Almost by mistake. While on my cousin's hen do five years ago, I decided that the singer that I was hearing was not using the space well enough and due to my champagne-induced cockiness I went marching up to the host and told her that they needed me. I came back the following week to 'live audition' and the rest, as they say, is vaguely-well-known cabaret history.
I was a body-insecure girl. I was always veering to the wrong side of chubby for my liking and put myself through treacherous crash diets and the like all the way through my teenage years. But about 4 weeks into my new life as a cabaret singer I found myself wearing stockings and suspenders ACTUALLY IN FRONT OF PEOPLE and not feeling too bad about it. Actually, feeling really fucking excited. I learnt to be a woman in cabaret. (No, I'm not saying that wearing stockings makes you a woman) I'm saying that I slowly stopped being awkward and trying to hide my boobs or slim my hips, I started to embrace my curves. I discovered Marilyn Monroe, vintage clothing, high waisted pencil skirts, beautifully curled hair, high heels, red lips - ALL of which the emo hippy child from Glastonbury had never even thought of before.
I became a compere. And I was terrible. TERRIBLE. Not least of all because I hated it. But when you've left drama school and you're a full time waitress and an email pops up in your in box saying 'do you compere too?' you of course say 'yes indeed I do, when do I start?'.
Over the years my confidence in my compering grew. You write your schtick and you create your character and your branch out from your usual cabaret clubs. I found myself on a UK Tour hosting in theatres and then The Hurly Burly Show on the West End. I couldn't believe it. Little nervous me stood front and centre in a beaming spotlight talking to an audience of 400 - 2000 people all on my own and making them laugh. ENTERTAINING them. Madness. I once even performed my entire routine in italian to 2000 in Milan's massive theatre.
Anyway, this isn't supposed to read like a CV.
The people I have met in cabaret are the most incredible people you could ever wish to meet. I am welling up as I write this. I was thrust into a world of the most hard working people. Night by night a different venue. Creating every act and skill from scratch. Sewing on sequins, glueing on rhinestones, sewing until their fingers bleed. People who go out and create, who throw around electric carving knives and bowling bowls, people who set their tongues on fire, who hang upside down from a pole and plunge themselves to the floor. Beautiful burlesque dancers who taught me what it is to feel sexy, to embrace the tease, to immerse oneself in glamour and sexual resplendency.
I have made real, long life friends. I have talked about periods and anal sex in a corridor with women as they stick a merkin on their vagina. I have seen real heartbreak, I have seen real drunkeness, I have lost myself in the underground world of gin and dancing and nakedness. I have sung songs and looked into the audience begging my poor lonely heart to love. I have looked into the audience and seen my love. I have passionately sung 'Cabaret' a gazillion times and believed every word with every fibre of my being. I have spent too much money on corsets and long dresses. I have hung from the ceiling of a strip club singing Shirley Bassey. I have laughed until I can't breathe and my corset forces out a little wee. I have cried, I have been angry, I have shouted and screamed.
I have loved you cabaret. And my goodness I shall miss you. The people mostly. But also that part of me that I found that I didn't think was there. Coco, the girl who gets up and makes people laugh, the entertainer, the clown, the part of me that says 'yep. I'm going to sing a classical song and strip out of a reindeer onesie' because why the fuck not? Life is too short. Things come to an end. And I feel like this may be our end, Coco.
Sometimes, you have to close a door in order to force yourself to move on. I have given nearly five years to cabaret. Five incredible years. But now I must become the actress I've always wanted to be and become the writer that I know I can be. New adventures, new roads to drive, new places to see.
New people to meet.
But. To the people I have met along the way, the people that have made my life so very full and beautiful, THANK YOU. You mean more to me than any blog can ever explain.
And Holy Crap, we made some memories.
"What good's permitting some prophet of doom to wipe every smile away?
Life is a cabaret, old chum, so come to the cabaret"
Soon I'm about to embark on an exciting new job. In less than two weeks I start rehearsals for 'Beautiful' - The Carole King musical going to the west end. Our hopes are high for this to be a hit. On broadway it's doing exceedingly well. But, let's be honest, the west end doesn't have a great track record for new musicals at the moment. Still, fingers crossed and all being well, I will be in this musical for at least a year.
Due to this (and also some unfortunate behaviour that I have experienced), I am running away from cabaret for a while. And although it feels scary and strange, it also feels exciting and freeing and new.
I fell into cabaret. Almost by mistake. While on my cousin's hen do five years ago, I decided that the singer that I was hearing was not using the space well enough and due to my champagne-induced cockiness I went marching up to the host and told her that they needed me. I came back the following week to 'live audition' and the rest, as they say, is vaguely-well-known cabaret history.
I was a body-insecure girl. I was always veering to the wrong side of chubby for my liking and put myself through treacherous crash diets and the like all the way through my teenage years. But about 4 weeks into my new life as a cabaret singer I found myself wearing stockings and suspenders ACTUALLY IN FRONT OF PEOPLE and not feeling too bad about it. Actually, feeling really fucking excited. I learnt to be a woman in cabaret. (No, I'm not saying that wearing stockings makes you a woman) I'm saying that I slowly stopped being awkward and trying to hide my boobs or slim my hips, I started to embrace my curves. I discovered Marilyn Monroe, vintage clothing, high waisted pencil skirts, beautifully curled hair, high heels, red lips - ALL of which the emo hippy child from Glastonbury had never even thought of before.
I became a compere. And I was terrible. TERRIBLE. Not least of all because I hated it. But when you've left drama school and you're a full time waitress and an email pops up in your in box saying 'do you compere too?' you of course say 'yes indeed I do, when do I start?'.
Over the years my confidence in my compering grew. You write your schtick and you create your character and your branch out from your usual cabaret clubs. I found myself on a UK Tour hosting in theatres and then The Hurly Burly Show on the West End. I couldn't believe it. Little nervous me stood front and centre in a beaming spotlight talking to an audience of 400 - 2000 people all on my own and making them laugh. ENTERTAINING them. Madness. I once even performed my entire routine in italian to 2000 in Milan's massive theatre.
Anyway, this isn't supposed to read like a CV.
The people I have met in cabaret are the most incredible people you could ever wish to meet. I am welling up as I write this. I was thrust into a world of the most hard working people. Night by night a different venue. Creating every act and skill from scratch. Sewing on sequins, glueing on rhinestones, sewing until their fingers bleed. People who go out and create, who throw around electric carving knives and bowling bowls, people who set their tongues on fire, who hang upside down from a pole and plunge themselves to the floor. Beautiful burlesque dancers who taught me what it is to feel sexy, to embrace the tease, to immerse oneself in glamour and sexual resplendency.
I have made real, long life friends. I have talked about periods and anal sex in a corridor with women as they stick a merkin on their vagina. I have seen real heartbreak, I have seen real drunkeness, I have lost myself in the underground world of gin and dancing and nakedness. I have sung songs and looked into the audience begging my poor lonely heart to love. I have looked into the audience and seen my love. I have passionately sung 'Cabaret' a gazillion times and believed every word with every fibre of my being. I have spent too much money on corsets and long dresses. I have hung from the ceiling of a strip club singing Shirley Bassey. I have laughed until I can't breathe and my corset forces out a little wee. I have cried, I have been angry, I have shouted and screamed.
I have loved you cabaret. And my goodness I shall miss you. The people mostly. But also that part of me that I found that I didn't think was there. Coco, the girl who gets up and makes people laugh, the entertainer, the clown, the part of me that says 'yep. I'm going to sing a classical song and strip out of a reindeer onesie' because why the fuck not? Life is too short. Things come to an end. And I feel like this may be our end, Coco.
Sometimes, you have to close a door in order to force yourself to move on. I have given nearly five years to cabaret. Five incredible years. But now I must become the actress I've always wanted to be and become the writer that I know I can be. New adventures, new roads to drive, new places to see.
New people to meet.
But. To the people I have met along the way, the people that have made my life so very full and beautiful, THANK YOU. You mean more to me than any blog can ever explain.
And Holy Crap, we made some memories.
"What good's permitting some prophet of doom to wipe every smile away?
Life is a cabaret, old chum, so come to the cabaret"
Tuesday, 12 August 2014
Robin Williams
Something happened last night.
As I came back from the bathroom, my
boyfriend told me that Robin Williams had died. And then my boyfriend probably
felt a bit awkward at how upset I got.
I tried to hold it together. I mean, it’s
very sad but come on, I didn’t KNOW the guy. Turns out, none of the people on
my facebook and twitter KNEW Robin Williams but the outpour of devastation was
everywhere. Some people were upset, some people were simply saluting his
genius, some people had moved past the shock of the death and onto the
comforting of others spouting out the reasons we should be happy. And I just
felt angry. I couldn’t get my head around my feelings. I still can’t. Hence the
writing.
This man, this talent, this person with the
ability to make you laugh and cry in the space of a second had got himself to a
point where the only option of moving forward was to end it all.
Just over a year ago - after a lifetime of
crying on my own, of feeling like the whole world was bunched up inside me, of
black dog, black cloud, utter helplessness – I finally went to a doctor to talk
about the fact that I was depressed. I had of course known I was depressed for
many years. I knew that cutting oneself and starving oneself were not normal
habits of a fully functional human. I had suffered in silence for a relatively
long time. I had, on many occasions planned how I would end it and would any
one know and then slapped my own wrists for not having the courage to go
through with it. The other thing I didn’t have the courage to do was TELL
ANYBODY. I could lie there next to a
boyfriend, sit silently next to my mother, pant and wretch at trying to form
the words to tell a friend to no avail. I couldn’t pick up the bloody phone to
tell a complete stranger on the other end of the line how I was feeling. The
best I could do was email the Samaritans to say something along the lines of
“No biggie. Just feel really suicidal. And every time I have to get onstage and
make other people laugh I feel like I’m burying more of myself.” So, to actually get myself to go to the
doctor last year was pretty monumental and the sigh of relief that washed over
me as I scuttled back to my bed clutching anti-depressants and a therapy
referral form was like a waterfall of calm and excited apprehension.
Over the past year or so I took the pills
for about 6 months (the recommended time) and came off again. Cognitive
behavioral therapy was not the one for me so I jacked that in and stuck to the
pills. I also in this time met the love of my life who, without him realizing
it, became all the support I’d ever need. I mean, I only had to look at him and
this big beaming smile would come over me. I went on to do a west end show and
thankfully in the big group scenes I’d stopped bursting into tears silently in
the back shadows. Everything felt pretty good. I was nervous that I would feel
‘numb’ on the pills. After all, I am an actress, I don’t want to lose any of
the spectrum of my talent DAHling! But all seemed well and good and eventually
I decided I was ready to come off the pills but was not adverse to the thought
that I would probably have to go back on at some point. And I did. With some
health scares and such, I very quickly rushed back onto the pills but only for
a short amount of time. I discovered a thing called mindfulness and I helped
myself for a while with no need for chemical enhancements.
Now, over the past few months I have felt
the return of an unfriendly but oh so familiar cloud. Slowly, I can feel it
pulling down on my eyelids and weighing down on my body causing me to stay in
bed for hours and then return to bed many times throughout the day. My eyes
want to close and I forever want to fall asleep, at least until something
better or more interesting distracts me, as it’s safer to be asleep than to be
left with my own thoughts. Despite all of these feelings, I have once again not
been honest with myself. I’ve been brushing it off. Excusing it. Convincing
others and my loved ones that I’m just being melodramatic, that I’m ‘really
tired from the gym’, that I’m fine it’s just this, that and the other. The
truth is, it is none of those things. And the death of Robin Williams last
night brought me right back to myself and the realization that I’m not OK.
I took myself into another room. My boyfriend
went to sleep with work in the morning. And the tears flooded over me. Big,
fat, galumphing tears took over my face. I felt SO ANGRY that this man had
taken his life. That no one had helped or stopped him. But what can people do?
What can anyone do for us? All I could see was endless unhappiness and torment
and a big sign in front of me that says “You will always feel this shit”. I sat
alone on the floor and those familiar old sentences crept back into my brain.
Those scary thoughts that asphyxiated me before. The idea that nobody really knew and nobody
could help and that it would be far easier to just not ‘be’ anymore.
My boyfriend awoke, shocked to find me so
upset about the death of an actor I’ve never met and eventually all of my
emotions came flooding out to him. “I just don’t want to be the 63 year old
comedian who kills himself and everybody says ‘oh that’s sad’, I just don’t
want that”. I sobbed into his arms and he held me close. I felt a mixture of
pure love for Robin Williams and complete and utter devastation at the world.
If someone THAT LOVED can get away with killing himself than everyone can.
Everybody who feels this way can just end it. And it will be sad. And that will
be that.
Now I’m not claiming that my thoughts made
any sense. In fact, I was mostly just shocked to realize that I had once again
got to this point and not even noticed. Me, spiritual goddess always trying to
help others. Me, always posting facebook statuses about appreciating life and
how we should all look out for the signs of depression and help people. Turns
out it was all a big fat cry for help.
I was calmed by my boyfriend and eventually
my hyperventilating rendered me exhausted and I fell asleep. And now I’m
writing to you. I’m not sure what I’ve learnt really, except that I’m not ok.
And I’m not sure how to move forward. Do I return to the drugs? Do I seek other
help? I’m not really sure and I’m not really asking for advice. I just knew I
needed to write. To let my emotions come out somehow. To admit that I’m not OK.
And that I need my friends. And that I don’t want you, or me, or anybody else
to be the person that was loved by the whole world but couldn’t love himself.
Monday, 14 October 2013
Out of control.
Anybody who follows me or my writing will have already seen my post back in May about depression.
A lot has happened since then.
I'm writing this because I feel that I am almost back at the start, full circle. I am scared.
As I write to you, it is half past 1 on a monday afternoon and I am in bed. I am in bed because I don't know what else to do. I mean, I have things to do. I continually have a long 'to do list' filled with activities, I can often be found clutching the timetable to pineapple dance studios or gym classes. But I'm not doing anything because I can't seem to find a way to start.
Here I am, back at stage one, all over again. I took my course of anti-depressants. About five months I'd say. And they were great. I felt balanced, energetic (for the most part) and positive about things. It's been a month, maybe two since I stopped and I can feel old habits begin to creep up on me. It doesn't come as a complete surprise to me that I am feeling this way. Over the last few months I have been in and out of doctors surgeries and hospitals for appointments and health scares and I am still in the depths of that, though we're getting somewhere. The stress of it is pulling me down again. Back down to where I feel hopeless and lethargic and pointless and barren. And I know it's not 'me'. I know it's this nasty bug, this virus, we call 'depression', we call 'anxiety'. And I'm scared that it's come along to take hold once more.
I feel like I've let myself down. Like I'm broken. Like I'm selfish and that no one should bother with me. It sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous.
I've booked an appointment this afternoon to head back to the Doctors and to request to be put back on the pills. I have never felt dependant on them, but now I'm scared that this is becoming my 'way out'. There is NOTHING wrong with taking anti-depressants. Depression is, after all, an illness like any other, a chemical imbalance. So why do I feel like I'm giving up the fight?
You can't always fight. You get tired. I can't fight my own head, my own body. I want to be outside, I want to be dancing, I want to be laughing with my friends, creating, exercising, getting excited with my boyfriend about our new flat, I want to be happy to be alive. I don't want to torture myself anymore. I don't want to be sat here, writing this, feeling like there is nothing to get out of bed for.
So what can I do?
I have wonderful friends, family, loved ones. But if even they can't pull you out of your ever increasing black hole then you have to trust that a doctor and her medicine can. For a few months I felt alive, I felt normal, I felt that I could get out of bed in the morning without fighting off six demons between the duvet and work. So is it a permanent thing? Am I permanently going to require a little help? Many of us do.
I just want to feel stable. I don't want to tip-toe around myself and feel scared that the moment something goes wrong I'm going to catapult full-speed into a crazed pit of despair. I want to look in the mirror and be pleased with what I've achieved in life. Because deep down I'm ecstatic. Behind this curtain of self-doubt and insecurities I am over-the-moon with my life. It's the best life I could wish for and it's everything I want it to be and more than I ever dared imagine. So let me embrace it, let me feel it. Let me live.
A lot has happened since then.
I'm writing this because I feel that I am almost back at the start, full circle. I am scared.
As I write to you, it is half past 1 on a monday afternoon and I am in bed. I am in bed because I don't know what else to do. I mean, I have things to do. I continually have a long 'to do list' filled with activities, I can often be found clutching the timetable to pineapple dance studios or gym classes. But I'm not doing anything because I can't seem to find a way to start.
Here I am, back at stage one, all over again. I took my course of anti-depressants. About five months I'd say. And they were great. I felt balanced, energetic (for the most part) and positive about things. It's been a month, maybe two since I stopped and I can feel old habits begin to creep up on me. It doesn't come as a complete surprise to me that I am feeling this way. Over the last few months I have been in and out of doctors surgeries and hospitals for appointments and health scares and I am still in the depths of that, though we're getting somewhere. The stress of it is pulling me down again. Back down to where I feel hopeless and lethargic and pointless and barren. And I know it's not 'me'. I know it's this nasty bug, this virus, we call 'depression', we call 'anxiety'. And I'm scared that it's come along to take hold once more.
I feel like I've let myself down. Like I'm broken. Like I'm selfish and that no one should bother with me. It sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous.
I've booked an appointment this afternoon to head back to the Doctors and to request to be put back on the pills. I have never felt dependant on them, but now I'm scared that this is becoming my 'way out'. There is NOTHING wrong with taking anti-depressants. Depression is, after all, an illness like any other, a chemical imbalance. So why do I feel like I'm giving up the fight?
You can't always fight. You get tired. I can't fight my own head, my own body. I want to be outside, I want to be dancing, I want to be laughing with my friends, creating, exercising, getting excited with my boyfriend about our new flat, I want to be happy to be alive. I don't want to torture myself anymore. I don't want to be sat here, writing this, feeling like there is nothing to get out of bed for.
So what can I do?
I have wonderful friends, family, loved ones. But if even they can't pull you out of your ever increasing black hole then you have to trust that a doctor and her medicine can. For a few months I felt alive, I felt normal, I felt that I could get out of bed in the morning without fighting off six demons between the duvet and work. So is it a permanent thing? Am I permanently going to require a little help? Many of us do.
I just want to feel stable. I don't want to tip-toe around myself and feel scared that the moment something goes wrong I'm going to catapult full-speed into a crazed pit of despair. I want to look in the mirror and be pleased with what I've achieved in life. Because deep down I'm ecstatic. Behind this curtain of self-doubt and insecurities I am over-the-moon with my life. It's the best life I could wish for and it's everything I want it to be and more than I ever dared imagine. So let me embrace it, let me feel it. Let me live.
Thursday, 16 May 2013
And so comes the time....
...to share with you a blog I have been meaning to write for a fair amount of time. I've been meaning to write and yet have not found the bravery of expression, the shame of face, the guts of adversity in which to voice, to exclaim, to cry:
I am depressed.
Yes, I feel the eyes of many turn away, disgusted by the self-indulgence, the audacity of a British woman to admit this point of failure. 'Surely she just wants attention!', 'Surely this blog is nothing more than a scream for help, a self-centred cry for notice, a longing for people to see a self-inflicted tortured soul?!'.
To those people, the people who turn away, the people who are scared, kindly do FUCK OFF.
I write here, not as a plea, not as a call to help, not as anything but an account of life, a sharing of thoughts, an honest account of my day to day internal monologue and a plea to end the stigma.
Less than two months ago, I got diagnosed with depression and anxiety. This came as no great surprise to me. I had known for years that I suffered both these things but was unable, incapable of sharing, even with my nearest and dearest. When you try to voice these things you know to be truth, to the unsuspecting caring friendly circle it can seem dramatic, over-exaggerated, or, as many people like to word it: "just one of those days".
Ten years later I realise that this is not "just one of those days". I look seriously at my life. I see nothing but wondrous things. Remarkably, through my deep dark holes of complete desolate ruin I have managed to create a life that is respectable, a life I can happily look upon and say 'yes, well done. If nothing else, you achieved something'. But it's only when I could see this fact and still feel the way I did I realised that I had a real problem.
About three months ago when I realised that I wasn't hiding my faults as much as I'd hoped; when two wonderfully close friends both seperately expressed to me their slight concerns and in turn, their own run-ins with the nasty haunting monsters that are "depression" and "anxiety" I FINALLY got up the courage to book an appointment with a GP. This was a MASSIVE step. It may seem like nothing at all: lifting a phone and booking an appointment, but only weeks before I had found myself in such a hole, that I couldn't even leave my bed, let alone admit to someone that I maybe wasn't 'of perfect health'.
The GP spoke to me with the perfect mix of concern and cold, hard, matter of fact-ness. I had to fill in a form, multiple choice, upon which I made myself be brutally honest, after all, when in Rome... I told the GP briefly of my 'shortcomings' and found myself swiftly in tears, apologising for the way I was behaving. Initially I was incredibly sceptical about any sort of treatment that involved pills/medication. The doctor asked me why. As an actor, especially, I felt terrified at the 'numbing of feelings'. As a human I felt terrified of the dosed up, unnatural way of life. The beauty of instinct taken from me. The inability to cry at a song or film that moved me.
I have been on the antidepressants 'Citalopram' for about two months. After about a month, I couldn't believe my luck. I felt like a new person. All those times I had spent crying in a corner about something I couldn't control: GONE. I felt miraculous. But not in that scary 'I can't control my emotions I'm so excited' way. Just totally in control, positive and forward thinking.
It's also remarkable how quickly other people come out of their little depression shaped closets. Now I'm not going to name names but I can safely say that a great number of close friends swiftly expressed to me that they had suffered the same fate or trialed the same pills. So much so that I was SHOCKED at how common this all is and how greatly under appreciative we all are of each others' mental health. So quickly we are to judge that someone is a bit 'batty' or 'unstable' or suffers mood swings. So happily we all accept that when we suffer those insecure moments of 'losing it' we are to admit that we were just 'having a bad day' or 'something bad happened' or, heaven forbid ladies, 'it was my time of the month'.
In the last week, unfortunately I have found myself slipping back into less uplifting places but then again I did miss 3 pills within a week and a couple things happened that made me feel insecure in life/work so I am not being quick to judge these feelings, I'm actually taking it as a learning curve and moving on, hoping for improvement once again.
Anyway, I digress. As you can imagine, I also greatly expressed to my GP how much I believed that I (and many others) could benefit from 'talking treatment' or therapy and the GP agreed and gave me details of an NHS supported therapy centre for self-referral.
After a few phone calls, emails, a self-referral form, a few more phone calls, a couple missed phone appointments (on their part) and finally an apology, yesterday I received my 'phone assessment' to see if I am eligible for cognitive behavioural therapy. I have to add, I am not suicidal, BUT had I been, this would all be too late for me. The therapist was apologetic about lack of contact but you know, had it been a more extreme case....
The assessment itself was pretty harrowing. Nearly an hour of multiple choice and scale of 1-8 questions about how depressed you are (I mean, come on?!) so that you hopelessly try to remain honest but tortured in the hope that your score will reveal that you need some help (when surely that is already glaringly obvious).
Having grown up a very honest and open person, I gave my all (later to regret it and feel the affects) but for someone else suffering on more of a downward spiral I can only begin to imagine how they may not have passed 'the test'.
Anyway, they think it is right for me to go ahead with CBT. Which is great, if I ever hear from them again....
As previously expressed, this blog is not a cry for help, or any sort of attention seeking scheme. Maybe that's my own paranoia setting in again but I always think we try to make a judgement and assume the worst. If you wish to speak to me about this blog then do so! I have been honest, why shouldn't you?
I am not wishing to gain anything from this post. Only to be safe in the knowledge that I shared, and that maybe someone out there won't be so scared anymore. There are millions of us.
As my dear friend puts it: "We are the broken biscuits".
That doesn't mean we're not just as tasty. ;-p
I am depressed.
Yes, I feel the eyes of many turn away, disgusted by the self-indulgence, the audacity of a British woman to admit this point of failure. 'Surely she just wants attention!', 'Surely this blog is nothing more than a scream for help, a self-centred cry for notice, a longing for people to see a self-inflicted tortured soul?!'.
To those people, the people who turn away, the people who are scared, kindly do FUCK OFF.
I write here, not as a plea, not as a call to help, not as anything but an account of life, a sharing of thoughts, an honest account of my day to day internal monologue and a plea to end the stigma.
Less than two months ago, I got diagnosed with depression and anxiety. This came as no great surprise to me. I had known for years that I suffered both these things but was unable, incapable of sharing, even with my nearest and dearest. When you try to voice these things you know to be truth, to the unsuspecting caring friendly circle it can seem dramatic, over-exaggerated, or, as many people like to word it: "just one of those days".
Ten years later I realise that this is not "just one of those days". I look seriously at my life. I see nothing but wondrous things. Remarkably, through my deep dark holes of complete desolate ruin I have managed to create a life that is respectable, a life I can happily look upon and say 'yes, well done. If nothing else, you achieved something'. But it's only when I could see this fact and still feel the way I did I realised that I had a real problem.
About three months ago when I realised that I wasn't hiding my faults as much as I'd hoped; when two wonderfully close friends both seperately expressed to me their slight concerns and in turn, their own run-ins with the nasty haunting monsters that are "depression" and "anxiety" I FINALLY got up the courage to book an appointment with a GP. This was a MASSIVE step. It may seem like nothing at all: lifting a phone and booking an appointment, but only weeks before I had found myself in such a hole, that I couldn't even leave my bed, let alone admit to someone that I maybe wasn't 'of perfect health'.
The GP spoke to me with the perfect mix of concern and cold, hard, matter of fact-ness. I had to fill in a form, multiple choice, upon which I made myself be brutally honest, after all, when in Rome... I told the GP briefly of my 'shortcomings' and found myself swiftly in tears, apologising for the way I was behaving. Initially I was incredibly sceptical about any sort of treatment that involved pills/medication. The doctor asked me why. As an actor, especially, I felt terrified at the 'numbing of feelings'. As a human I felt terrified of the dosed up, unnatural way of life. The beauty of instinct taken from me. The inability to cry at a song or film that moved me.
I have been on the antidepressants 'Citalopram' for about two months. After about a month, I couldn't believe my luck. I felt like a new person. All those times I had spent crying in a corner about something I couldn't control: GONE. I felt miraculous. But not in that scary 'I can't control my emotions I'm so excited' way. Just totally in control, positive and forward thinking.
It's also remarkable how quickly other people come out of their little depression shaped closets. Now I'm not going to name names but I can safely say that a great number of close friends swiftly expressed to me that they had suffered the same fate or trialed the same pills. So much so that I was SHOCKED at how common this all is and how greatly under appreciative we all are of each others' mental health. So quickly we are to judge that someone is a bit 'batty' or 'unstable' or suffers mood swings. So happily we all accept that when we suffer those insecure moments of 'losing it' we are to admit that we were just 'having a bad day' or 'something bad happened' or, heaven forbid ladies, 'it was my time of the month'.
In the last week, unfortunately I have found myself slipping back into less uplifting places but then again I did miss 3 pills within a week and a couple things happened that made me feel insecure in life/work so I am not being quick to judge these feelings, I'm actually taking it as a learning curve and moving on, hoping for improvement once again.
Anyway, I digress. As you can imagine, I also greatly expressed to my GP how much I believed that I (and many others) could benefit from 'talking treatment' or therapy and the GP agreed and gave me details of an NHS supported therapy centre for self-referral.
After a few phone calls, emails, a self-referral form, a few more phone calls, a couple missed phone appointments (on their part) and finally an apology, yesterday I received my 'phone assessment' to see if I am eligible for cognitive behavioural therapy. I have to add, I am not suicidal, BUT had I been, this would all be too late for me. The therapist was apologetic about lack of contact but you know, had it been a more extreme case....
The assessment itself was pretty harrowing. Nearly an hour of multiple choice and scale of 1-8 questions about how depressed you are (I mean, come on?!) so that you hopelessly try to remain honest but tortured in the hope that your score will reveal that you need some help (when surely that is already glaringly obvious).
Having grown up a very honest and open person, I gave my all (later to regret it and feel the affects) but for someone else suffering on more of a downward spiral I can only begin to imagine how they may not have passed 'the test'.
Anyway, they think it is right for me to go ahead with CBT. Which is great, if I ever hear from them again....
As previously expressed, this blog is not a cry for help, or any sort of attention seeking scheme. Maybe that's my own paranoia setting in again but I always think we try to make a judgement and assume the worst. If you wish to speak to me about this blog then do so! I have been honest, why shouldn't you?
I am not wishing to gain anything from this post. Only to be safe in the knowledge that I shared, and that maybe someone out there won't be so scared anymore. There are millions of us.
As my dear friend puts it: "We are the broken biscuits".
That doesn't mean we're not just as tasty. ;-p
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