GUEST POST: How a nervous breakdown helped one woman rethink her entire life

Dear Mia
I have just discovered a letter I wrote to you – but never sent – deep in the recesses of my laptop. How is that for a disconcerting opening line??

It was written in May 2007, a few days after you had given a speech at a law firm in Sydney where I worked at the time. You had just resigned from Channel 9 and said you were planning some time out to plot your next venture. At the time I was desperately unhappy as a junior solicitor. I was, and remain, passionate about journalism and I was so taken by your speech that I remember thinking, if I sent you a letter, in the same vein as the one you penned to Lisa Wilkinson, then maybe you would swoop me under your wing. Clearly my plan was flawed. You had resigned and explained you literally didn’t know what lay ahead. Details aside, I figured whatever your next venture, I could be the personal assistant you had always dreamed of. As an avid voyeur of Mamamia, I know how naive I was – honestly believing that mine would be the first such letter you received.

In the end I didn’t send it because a few days later, at the tender age of 25, I suffered a nervous breakdown. It started in my office, one night when I collapsed with vertigo. I spent the next four months, in bed, in and out of hospitals, unable to walk because of this debilitating dizziness.

I took an extended period of leave without pay from work. I stayed with my parents in their home in country New South Wales because I couldn’t look after myself. The 45-odd square metre apartment I shared with my beloved boyfriend in inner-Sydney was not exactly suitable for another person and between completing uni and being a professional athlete, he couldn’t take care of me every day.

My head was spinning and my world went with it.

In search of an explanation, over the next four months I saw five general practitioners, two ear nose & throat specialists, three neurologists, three gastroenterologists, one gynaecologist, one physician, one counsellor, one acupuncturist, one naturopath, a yoga guru, two osteopaths, a dietician and two psychiatrists. I told, and re-told my story. Over and over. Time and time again.

I had an MRI, an MRA, a CT scan, an ultrasound, a colonoscopy, two audiology tests, three neurological assessments, one balance test and too many blood tests to count. I tried countless diets – sugar-free, gluten-free, dairy-free, salicylate-free, alcohol-free and caffeine-free.

And at the end of all that, there was still no answer. I was as dizzy as ever and terrified.

Despite no medical professional agreeing, logic suggested to me and those closest to me, that my meltdown was most likely the toll eight years’ of Crohn’s disease had taken on my body. Crohn’s is a form of inflammatory bowel disease. It’s very ugly, and very painful. The most polite way of describing it is to say it’s like having Bali-belly. But without the nice holiday in Bali. And there’s no cure, so give or take nasty medication, it’s pretty permanent. My attitude towards Crohn’s from the moment I was diagnosed at 19, consisted largely of unabated denial. I was determined not to let it interrupt life. For years I thought that worked.

Wise words from a kind 70-year old physician, proved the turning point. He held my hands and told me this vertigo was my body’s way of telling me something. In his experience, he said unexplained physical symptoms are inevitability a symptom of stress. He said stress has a very real impact on the body.

Unlike when other doctors had asked if I was feeling stressed/depressed/anxious, when he said this, I didn’t feel the urge to scream from the top of my lungs “OF COURSE I’M FEELING BLOODY STRESSED/DEPRESSED/ANXIOUS BECAUSE IN CASE YOU HAVEN’T NOTICED I’M 25 AND I HAVEN’T WALKED PROPERLY FOR MONTHS AND NO ONE CAN TELL ME WHY!!!!”

Instead I listened. I knew it was true. I resigned myself to the fact there was no magical cure for my spinning head. Up until that point, I believed I was losing my mind because I had lost my body. Ironically, I was losing my body because I had lost my mind.

I started seeing a psychologist, I started taking medication for anxiety and I started to relocate my feet. It was symbolic, because I hadn’t been there for four months, but I resigned from the law firm. At that point it was a no-brainer, but after slavishly devoting myself to six years of uni in a bid to secure myself a job in a big commercial law firm, and a few years living that reality, it was still terrifying.

I spent a fortnight of my own volition in a seriously unglamorous rehabilitation facility. I took part in group therapy, I learned a lot about anxiety and depression, I did yoga and I enjoyed having some space. I started to feel like me again. But a better me. The dizziness started to subside and within a few weeks I felt like I had disembarked the boat ride from hell.

As I assume is the case with all major meltdowns, the experience redefined my life. Nothing like a few months living with your parents, facing the prospect of being unable to do anything for the rest of your life, to realign your priorities.

My idea of a successful day went from surviving an 18-hour working day in the law firm, proofreading mind-numbing product disclosure statements, escaping the wrath of pathological partners without bursting into tears, to washing my hair and getting out of my pyjamas. And guess which one made me happier?

After my stint in rehab, I moved back to Sydney and eased myself back into life. I started working casually in a clothes shop, I swam, I did lots of yoga, I read and I was kind to myself.

A few months later, when I was looking to start full-time work again, a friend told me about a research position that was being advertised at a magazine. It was a 3-month contract that involved working closely with journalists. I applied and got it. On my first day, I met the editor in chief and explained that I wanted to be a journalist. At the end of my contract he gave me a permanent role as a real-life journalist. It was a dream come true. That was eighteen months ago and I absolutely loved every single minute of it.

This is much longer than I anticipated. I was going to pitch a few ideas to you for Mamamia – either as guest posts or something different – but before I started writing, I looked for that letter I wrote to you a few years back. I found it and reading it floored me.

Knowing those words were written just a few days before my meltdown, visible proof of how trapped I felt and my desperation for an out. In one paragraph I even wrote of my job The honeymoon is well and truly over. I can’t go out anymore without looking at other people’s careers with predatory desire. The letter brought home just how much I wanted a career in journalism and how unattainable I remember it seemed. It was overwhelming to read how much I wanted, what I was lucky enough to get.

My idea for a guest post or topic for discussion on Mamamia stemmed from my annus horribilis. I am passionate about anxiety and feel incredibly fortunate to have been forced to navigate the steep learning curve that is good mental health, relatively early in life. Prior to my meltdown I was essentially a battered mind, with the perpetrator being none other than moi. Therapy and a stint in rehab taught me this.

I learned maintaining good mental health is a lot like maintaining good physical health. I’ve always been conscious of eating well – more for health’s sake than body image. I love all types of food – including cakes, ice-cream and all things yummy – and am far from Gwyneth’s macro-biotic lifestyle – but on the whole I try to put more good things in my mouth than bad. I never adopted the same approach for my mind but it’s exactly the same. If I eat hot chips, chocolate, lollies and fast food for a few days straight, my body will feel like crap. If I feed my mind a constant stream of negative morsels – dwelling on all the things I don’t do well, don’t have, can’t do … I will feel like crap.

The most effective tool I was taught to overcome anxiety or feelings of inadequacy, was also the simplest. At night when you put your head on your pillow think of three things you did that day that made you laugh or feel happy, proud or positive. Don’t think about the phonecall you didn’t make, or the birthday you forgot, or the words you snapped to someone who didn’t deserve them, or the dinner you didn’t cook, or the email you didn’t send. Instead dwell on three things you did – no matter how inconsequential – that made you feel good. It’s a surprisingly easy habit to develop. Once you turn your mind to it, breaking a pattern of negative thoughts is easy. Until then, for many many people, it is second nature to beat yourself up, without even knowing.

While obviously varying in severity, duration and cause – depression, anxiety, feelings of inadequacy, and guilt – are things every single one of us will grapple with at one time or another. I wish I’d been better prepared when it came knocking on my door. Maybe reading my experience will help someone else recognise the warning signs.