OCD, or self-diagnosing

At the beginning of the week I went on a Mental Health First Aid course. Thought it would be useful for my volunteer work – Street Pastors and St John Ambulance – plus might also give me some tools myself for dealing with depression, should it strike again in the way it did 2 years ago.

(As an aside, I’ve finished my CBT for looking at how to deal with my bottomed-out self-esteem, and things are looking up. Though I’m slightly nervous about doing it on my own, without a therapist to talk it through every week. But I’m confident I can manage, and am not putting too high expectations on myself – which was one of the problems!)

One of the things I discovered during the course – well, looking through the course booklet, was a condition on the OCD spectrum called CSP – compulsive skin picking. That and TTM, trichotillomania (or hair pulling) seem to be what I’ve been doing since I was a kid – more intensely since I was 18/19.

CSP – it has a name! That means other people do it! That means I’m not the only one in the world. That means although it’s a problem, people have recognised it and thought up ways to help people stop it. That means I’m not a lost cause! That means I can stop – after all, others can and have. Woo hoo!

It’s not just a form of self-harm, which I thought it was, though I didn’t think it was quite that, as there was something rather addictive – compulsive – about it.

I’m wondering if I suffer from Body Dismorphic Disorder in some way. According to OCD UK:

BDD obsessions may manifest themselves as excessive, disproportionate concerns about a minor flaw, or as recurrent, anxiety-provoking thoughts about an entirely imagined defect. The obsessions are most frequently focused on the head and face, but may involve any body part. When others tell them that they look fine or that the flaw they perceive is minimal, people with BDD find it hard to believe this reassurance.

Some of the ways it can manifest (relevant to my behaviour):

Checking the appearance of the specific body part in mirrors.
Excessive grooming, by combing, shaving, removing or cutting hair, applying makeup.
Picking their skin to make it smooth.
Picking the skin around the perceived defect.
Comparing the appearance of the perceived defect with that of others.

It’s amazing how giving something a name makes it a lot less scary.

I’ve always picked scabs and bit my nails since I was a kid. Not excessively, but was always told off about it, like it was a major deal. I remember when I first started growing the body hair we all grow, you know, the normal stuff. It was dark, dark, dark! And I’ve never really been able to control it: even when I shave I miss some (and take a good proportion of my skin off at the same time).

The hair pulling – with tweezers from my legs – started at uni. I remember the moment with clarity. I was trying to wax my legs and my roommate came in and couldn’t cope with me doing it when she was there, so I ended up with half-waxed legs, which I then had to shave. Of course I missed loads! And so out came the tweezers. Because hairy legs is SO unfeminine. (I think I mentioned one of my self-esteem issues is a feeling of not being feminine enough.)

I’ve seen and heard the lie that a ‘proper’ woman has a clear complexion and is totally hair-free, apart from long, luscious hair on her head, and realised I don’t live up to that.

And so it began in earnest. And 14 years later I’m still doing it. I can’t cope if there’s a dark hair growing. It MUST come out. It’s even worse if it’s growing under the skin – that’s where the tweezers get dug into my skin to get it out. Then it forms a scab, which is ripe for picking. And if there’s a hair growing out of the centre of that scab… well, that has to come out.

The thing is, I KNOW that picking the scabs, or pulling the hairs make my skin worse. They bleed and don’t heal quickly. They get infected and scar. My legs are a mass of scabs and scars – so the very thing that is supposed to remove the ‘defects’ I dislike creates more, which look a lot worse.

But there is hope!

There’s a treatment called habit reversal therapy – replacing the bad habits with good. For example – instead of picking I could rub moisturisers into my legs instead. I’m waiting for a book about overcoming OCD to arrive, so hopefully with the experience of having had therapy, and the buffer of the anti-depressants to keep me from going under again – I can work on reversing this. If I can’t do it by March, when I’m looking at starting to come off the pills (the doc suggested I keep taking them during winter, as winter can cause its own depression), then I’ll go to the doc and ask for some help.

Men and mental illness

[ARGH!!! I'm not sure what I did, but I just deleted 15 minutes writing on this!]

I’m not implying, by my title, that I believe men are the root cause of mental illness (though they do play a part in mine), but if you choose to believe that…

Rather, the two major things playing on my mind (other than job and house issues, but another day for those) are men and my own mental health.

My mental health

Last Friday I went for an assessment to see if I was a suitable candidate for a new group CBT session there were setting up for people with depression. My initial referral suggested that I was; spending time with the therapist revealed that I am not. I am no longer showing signs of depression (hooray!), but am still showing signs of significant lack of self-esteem and need to know how to manage this so that I will not be reliant on the antidepressants for the rest of my life. I’m back on the waiting list for one-on-one CBT.

We did, however, discover 2 rather fundamental trains of thought that underly my low self-esteem:

• I do not believe I am particularly intelligent.
• I do not believe I am very feminine

However, I do know that these are negative thought patterns and in themselves are not true (though there are elements of truth in all of them), but I am unable to break out of them myself. And they are a fundamental part of my shyness around new people, and my struggle to relate well to men.

Intelligence

I was always the ‘clever one’, while my brother was the ‘arty one’. And then I went to Uni and realised some things are just beyond my comprehension. The guys at work can talk politics and sociology and other things I don’t understand: I feel thick, and considering most of them are younger than me, I feel stuck, forever to be tied to jobs that require no particular intelligence, and imagine myself at 75 still unable to live on my own, stuck in a house share with people I don’t particularly like, because I can’t get a well-paid enough job because I’m stupid.

And the only way I can see out of this is to move in with a man. But we’ll get to that in a bit.

I have a 2:1 degree in Microbiology from a very good London university – I am clearly not stupid.

I can do things with spreadsheets, Word and PowerPoint that make some of my colleagues weep with envy. I am clearly not unintelligent.

I am learning First Aid and have already put it into practice. I am clearly not a political geek. My intelligence is in a very different area to that of those I spend a lot of my time with, which makes me feel rather insecure. I’m surrounded by those that think deeply about things: politics, faith, life. I don’t think so deeply, so abstractly.

This does not make me unintelligent. Comparing myself with others is understandable, but detrimental. And when it’s a guy I have feelings for as well, I feel doubly inadequate, as not only can I not match his intelligence, but I’m not a ‘proper’ woman!

Femininity

I was a tomboy growing up. I didn’t like skirts or dresses – they made it difficult to climb trees. I was probably too competitive – being smaller and skinnier than the boys I could climb higher.

Boys didn’t like me. Depressed from an early age I was moody. I went to an all girls school; then co-ed at A-Level. I blossomed. Girls are bitchy. Boys liked me; boys are week; girls ’stole’ them from me through gossip and bitching. I became a pariah, a joke. Only the freaks and geeks went out with me.

And then they left me because I wouldn’t put out.

And all the while I don’t feel girlie enough. I look better with short hair. But I still don’t like how I look. I look like me Dad. I look at me and see man’s features. I have dark hair, particularly on my legs. I have man’s legs!

The self harm started as a result of getting rid of these man hairs. And punishing myself for having them. And the more I do it the less feminine I feel. And so I continue in the hamster wheel of self-harm.

And now it’s a habit. And I’m trying to stop.

I have not wanted to burn myself since before Christmas – that was the last time I did it.

I have stopped biting my nails. A friend bought me nail files and nail polish and I remembered how much fun nail polish is! I’m now a little obsessed, but I have nice nails now, and with moisturiser and discipline, I’m healing the skin around them that I used to pick.

I still pick my legs. But I’m working on a bargain with myself to stop this. I’m giving myself 2 reasons I am allowed to pick, and 2 only:

• If I cut myself shaving. Which is rare only because I epilate mostly. But sometimes it takes too long to do that, and when I shave I usually take a portion of the back of my knee off. Those I can pick. There’s something I rather like about picking scabs. I know it’s gross, but I have that kind of morbid fascination with that. And I also like scars. They tell a tale, a history.
• My feet. It’s summer. Summer shoes attack my feet. I can pick them because shoes hide them.

It’s a start. It’s like moving from 2 packs to 1 pack of fags a day. I can’t do it all at once. In fact, I’m struggling to limit myself to just that. But each day I pick (pun not intended there) myself up and try again.

Men… well, I’ve gone on a bit much in this post. Shall leave them to another.

Babies, weddings and engagements

It seems to be a year of babies, weddings and engagements.

Must… Stay… Positive…

Dream

Monday night I dreamt that this guy, Biscuit, was Superman! Admittedly we’ve recently had a heroes & villains-themed Christmas party.

And Superman was umming and ahhing about being in a relationship with me. And I decided, what the heck, I’d dance anyway. And so I did. I didn’t chase him or call him – after all he’s Superman, he knows! – and got on with the dancing. With my eyes closed – I wasn’t waiting, watching for him.

And as I danced, twisted and turned, after one turn I felt someone there. Someone solid, who grabbed my hand and pulled me towards him. And I opened my eyes. And I danced with Superman. With Biscuit.

The irony is: Biscuit doesn’t dance. Unless he’s really, REALLY drunk!

Still, there’s something in that dream. More than something. I’m aware of the subconscious, of the fact that I need to just carry on dancing, carry on with my life, not waiting.

On a more mundane note, I’ve not been sleeping so well. Think the depression’s hitting a bit. Christmas has never been the most fantastic time for me. I’ve been dumped at least twice at Christmas-time – once in the wee hours of Christmas day itself, though in reality it still felt like Christmas Eve as we’d been out – and family is getting more complicated and stressful. Plus the self-esteem’s taken a bit of a hitting as I’ve realised I seem to have fallen for Biscuit, and all the complications that could cause. If he was even ready for a relationship yet. He’s still getting over the last one.

He’s been off sick 2 days this week. I’ve missed him. It’s felt like someone cut off one of my limbs!

Please pray for my sanity!

If I don’t blog in the next few days, Merry Christmas one and all. Thank you for reading.

Small steps

As requested (thank you for your concern), an update.

I saw the doc on Monday. She’s referred me for CBT, which should take 4-6 weeks for them to get in touch, which considering this is the NHS, I thought it was quite swift! In the meantime, sticking with the happy pills, and go back in just under 2 weeks for a re-fill.

I am a lot brighter than I was when I saw her 2 weeks ago, which she commented on. Admittedly that day I was hyper – in the morning I’d seen the physio, busy day at work, left early for the doc, had my hair cut then dashed off to a church meeting (first one in a while and it was actually OK). I seem to be feeling more on top of things just by saying I have a problem and I can’t cope – a lot of worry has lifted (but not gone), and with (most) people reassuring me I’m not mad, I don’t feel quite so crazy.

I also have new glasses (which I need to get adjusted on my wonky ears) and have had all my hair chopped off. About 7 inches of it!

The amused face is due to my hyperactive housemate taking the photo.

I went to look at a flat last night. It was tiny – saving £100 a month is not THAT important to me. Coping a bit better in the house now, so will just keep my eye out and see if anything comes up.

Job is OK, if a little busy. I’m putting in coping strategies, and when things get really bad (and I had a moment of rising panic last week), I take a bit of time out, either food or a walk outside. Seem to have resisted the urge for cigarettes, which is good, as they only make me feel horrible after.

The wrist is healing, and I’m picking it less. Or causing less damage when I pick.

I’m also trying to find things to do to keep me busy. I’m investgating joining St John Ambulance. This weekend I’m marshalling at a charity walk.

I’m planning to start pilates next week, at the advice of both my physio and my podiatrist. Also have to spend at least an hour each day stretching and doing exercises, and the podiatrist reckons CBT would be good for pain management too.

I’m even thinking about a holiday. I mutter back in Jan/Feb about my ideal trip to Istanbul by train. I’ve found something similar. Though this could end up being an expensive trip, but 22 days exploring (very briefly) Eastern Europe and Istanbul… I’m planning, if I’m up for it, to go and talk to them about it, with a long list of questions, as they’re based withing walking distance from me. Though still rather nervous about something like that. Would still rather go with a friend. The Bank of Dad is, however, prepared to loan me some dosh to pay towards it, if I want to go, though my Mother has been sending me all the bad reviews of the company she can find on the internet. So I’ll be ‘properly informed’. Born pessimist, my mother. Which explains a lot about me!

I’m tired and need to go get some food and then head for bed. Have not been reading many blogs as have been trying to get earlier nights, and have been reading various books. Am in the middle of Perseolis, which I am enjoying. Hope to catch up properly on blogs over the weekend, but am managing to resist the need to ensure Bloglines doesn’t have any outstanding posts on it, which has been known to stress me. As does a full inbox at work (I have folders to hide emails in and try to keep the essentials and outstanding ones in my inbox – I have about 30 at the moment and am trying to contain the panic everytime I look at it!)

I think that sums it up.

Burn update

I’ve been picking the burns. I get a certain amount of satisfaction from doing so. Weird, gross, I know, but there you go, that’s what I’ve done for most of my life. It will be a hard habit to break, but hopefully I’ll be able to do so, with some help.

The happy pills – Citalopram – are on Day 5. Feeling OK. I think there’s a lot of relief in being able to just say “I can’t cope – help me!” It’s like a weight has been lifted. Hopefully the happy pills will enable me to get through the next stage, working through the crappy stuff, such as why I don’t like myself, why I think I’m useless, why I don’t think people will like me, or love me, why I don’t think I deserve to meet someone. All that shit I’ve rambled on about over the last few years, which I’ve known I need to deal with, but haven’t – or wouldn’t – deal with.

Direction

Thanks, everyone, for all your supportive and encouraging comments. I’m actually feeling OK at the moment. I think I might be a little high – the pills can make you a bit hyper at first. But I think also, it’s the relief of finally, after years of struggling, holding my hands up and saying “I can’t cope!”

And the doctor has validated it. Which now gives me permission to say to people that I’m depressed, sometimes I just can’t cope and need to take a time out, or talk it through. Why it took burning myself to do that, I don’t know! Putting safety nets in after you’ve fallen off is great for when you get back up again, but would have helped if they’d been in place the first time. Still, at least they’re being set up now.

I’m also high I think from passing some of the burden over to others. The doctor is taking control of some of this. Friends are praying and being supportive. I don’t have to fight it all on my own. In fact, I don’t have to fight it at all: I just have to face it and deal with it. And with counselling, I will deal with the issues. How I get past the feeling that I’m not worthy of anything, and hence why it’s taken me so long to get help. Why I think I’m unattractive and undesirable, and that the only way to get a guy is to sleep with him. Why I beat myself up everytime I “fail” at something, or make a mistake. Why I worry endlessly about things that might never happen.

Someone asked in one of the comments what has been happening with my spiritual direction. Honestly – nothing dramatic. Just little things that help me to realise that even if I might struggle to believe (and I think I need father’s prayer of Mark 9:24 “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!”), God is still there.

Need to try and sleep now, otherwise if I can’t, after a few nights I’m going to need to crack open my emergency diazepam. Which I’m keeping for emergencies only. Which will hopefully mean I’ll never need them!

Doctor update

I went to the doctor yesterday. Filled in a questionnaire to determine if depressed, have borderline personality disorder, or just down.

Moderately to severely depressed.

Started antidepressants this morning. Take 2-3 weeks to kick in, and could make me worse before they get better.

Back to the doctor in 2 weeks to see how I’m getting on and to talk about the other part of getting better: therapy/counselling.