Dealing with depression and anxiety at 40

It’s hard to come to terms with knowing that you are depressed or anxious.

The past few months I had some really bad thoughts, and often wondered if I need professional help.

When other people point out flaws in your behaviour or personality that it comes to light there may be a problem. Before anyone raises it, you’re in a bubble, not really contemplating how you are going around directing (negative) energy in the world.

Recently I went on a two week trip with a couple of friends and their perception of me turned on its head. By the time the holiday was done, I felt like I had put them through an ordeal. They were dignified enough to not tell me off, but I could tell my actions were childish and uncouth. I had behaved the opposite to what I believed myself to be.

Over the past year I shunned more of my friends to the point where I have become a virtual recluse. I found a way to blame everyone else, when in fact I neglected the fact it could very well be me.

I’ve always been introspective, so I sat down this past weekend and started to analyse the root causes. Facing problems head on has always been a painful, but rewarding experience for me.

Throughout my teens I was upbeat, confident and outspoken. Through my twenties, I was less abrasive, but still had some confidence about me. But I did have a side of me that was revealing itself, and I didn’t really address it.

As I hit my thirties, I got married and have a trio of beautiful children with my amazing wife. But through the last decade I put more weight on and became clinically obese. I got so large in comparison to my natural weight that my kidneys, gall bladder, lymphatic system all started to give way. It got so bad, that I even had to have my glands removed from my armpits and the back of my neck. This has left me with huge scars and feeling physically frail.

From feeling like an ox, and being a gifted martial artist (so I’m told) through my twenties, to a fat, stitched up obese guy in my thirties has been a bitter pill to swallow. I had nothing to show for any of my twenties. Self doubt, lack of confidence always stopped me, people were always puzzled why, when I could demonstrate the opposite in the gym.

As my children were growing, I started to question if I was a good father. Most parents would ask themselves similar questions, which is natural, but I had some particularly worrying habits.

My own father passed away with I was eight, and my stepfather and I had never grown close enough to warrant calling it a healthy relationship. I had trust issues, and he didn’t try very hard either. I respect him enough that he loved my mother and raised me anyway, it’s not easy raising some kid like me. But thats about it.

Going further back in my past I could see how it has still affected me to this day. I recently turned forty and thought that none of my childhood experiences mattered anymore.

But they most certainly do.

Confronting, accepting and overcoming them would not only help me rest some demons, but hopefully help me become a better dad to my children.

Dealing with all these issues isn’t about making myself feel better for me - but about being a better person to my friends, family and everyone I meet.
In my opinion, this is the real reward.

We leave little traces of ourselves with everyone we meet, and everyone has a different perspective, no one has the complete picture of you. So some people would think I’m neurotic whilst others would think I’m the class clown, or something in between.

I recently got in contact with my local council to read my foster records, to find the truth behind why I was fostered. My parents divorced when I was three, and it’s around then that I have my earliest memories.

I recall going to my first foster parents house, playing for a while with their big shaggy old English sheepdog, then wondering where my mum was. I ran to the window to catch a last glimpse of her being driven off in an old VW Beetle with my social worker. I cried so much that I cried myself to sleep that day. The family were nice to me, they had two older children who were very nice to me, and the parents too.

I recall going back to stay with my mum for a little while after, and then going to another foster parent, this time an old man who lived alone and had a projector which we used to watch silent movies and Road Runner on. I watched two movies on betamax over and over, Battlestar Galactica and Disney’s, The Fox and the Hound.

This is where I struggle with sharing what I have to. We used to sleep in the same bed to begin with, then I got my own mattress. We would go to a pub nearby that used to fly this lovely rainbow flag outside, I would have a small coke, and he would sit proudly with a drink of his own. It’s all dubious, but I don’t recall any funny business, I’m sure about that much.

I remember going to stay with a couple more families, but not long enough for me to remember too much detail other than I stayed no more than a few nights.

By the time I went to live with my mum again, it was difficult.

We were poor.

I recall we used to sit in front of the electric heater all day, no TV, no carpet. We used to have cardboard on the floor from old fruit boxes. I remember the “Chiquita” logos. One day my mum was crying, I asked her why, she said she wished we had more money. I then went and poked through the little circle pieces of cardboard that would provide the fruit some air, collected them up and gave them to my mum as coins. She laughed, but it was painful, I remember that much.

She would feed me bananas and meat as often as possible to make me strong. And she did that much well enough, I was always one of the tougher kids who would fight back if some bully tried it with me. They wouldn’t try often growing up. I was one of a handful kids of my ethnicity in school.

I remember that I was still a skinny kid in primary school. I used to be able to suck my stomach in so much that the other kids thought I was just skin and bones.

I remember one of the kids in school laughing at me for wearing the same clothes all the time. I took it out on my mum and forced her to buy me expensive shoes. She couldn’t afford them and I was so stubborn that I made her buy them. Looking back it must have been really difficult for her, but she did it like most parents would out of love.

When I was living more stably with my mum, my step dad moved in. Not a wicked man, but nothing I was used to. I would get beatings on my hands with the edge of a ruler, or see the back of a slipper when I didn’t comply.
I was tied up with an electrical extension lead once, and forced into a chicken/crouching position for what seemed like ages.

I was never a bad kid, I never stole, lied or did anything like that to warrant this. And I resented it because my own father had never done this. So why my mother and step father?

When my younger brother was born, I was about to turn fourteen. I loved the little kid, I had a sibling of my own. I changed his nappies, fed him, played with him and loved him a lot. I wasn’t jealous, but I could feel the difference in attention.

By the time I was 16, my mum decided I should get married. I was forced into a marriage whilst abroad. My passport was taken from me and I once again lost so much weight that I became almost gaunt. I conceded just so that I could get out of the country and back home.

So I got married at 16, against my will. My mother forced me to do it. I resented her for it. I thought my life was over and started to not give a shit about much. I tried drugs, I tried a lot of stuff, I did a lot of naughty things. But none of it made me feel good, none of it helped me escape reality.

I learnt how to deal with things head on, and how to bury negative experiences. Forgetting became my way to deal with things.

Life at home became very turbulent through my late teens and early twenties. I ran away from home, attempted to cut my wrists (hurt too much) and thought the only way to deal with it all would be to help myself.

I focused on my education and my degree. I needed something that would help me escape on my own terms, using my own abilities. Luckily it did.

I moved out of my mums house when I was 23 and didn’t talk to her again for a couple of years, even though I was about 5 minutes walk from her. I understood how she completely dominated my life and my way of thinking.

I was called a weirdo in many relationships and my friends always thought I was just bit of a nutter.

I understand now why they would not invite me back on holiday with them again. I was too much to handle. Too unstable.

So here I am. I just turned forty. My wife says I should focus on the present and the future. She is right. But I need to confront and let go of my past.

The lessons I’ve learnt are probably a given to most people, but still revealing themselves to me.

1. Your mind is powerful, focus on mental strength. It will push your physical beyond perceived boundaries.
2. When your mind falters, there is a higher power beyond your mental and physical. Call it god, call it spirituality, but it exists beyond just you. Find it, embrace it, love it.
3. Love yourself. You have it within you to overcome most obstacles.
4. Fall seven times. Get up eight – Japanese proverb
5. Love other people, give your time, give your friendship. Sometimes you might just be the one who was sent to save them in that moment.
6. Charity. Nothing makes you feel better than helping people.
7. Keep yourself busy with physical and mental endeavours. They will help galvanise the above points.
8. Eat well. Food is a medicine, treat it as such.
9. Share your experiences. Good or bad, they help shape who we are. Someone else might learn from them
10. Be grateful. If you fingers and toes are still moving and you know what day it is - then you have what it takes to make the day better for yourself
11. Always strive to be better today than the day before.

After getting this all off my chest. I feel free. There is an upside to everything. Life is full of opportunities.

Much love.