Chloe Hammond stops by the blog today to share with us why writing helps her with mental health!
However, last year was abnormally stressful in both roles. It was consistently and persistently horrible in a wide array of ways. I felt my stress levels rising, and tried my usual techniques to calm myself, but I didn’t have long enough between each blow to recover. I found myself having extreme physical stress reactions to something as small as going into a shop. I remember one time in particular standing there in the middle of the entry way to the shop unable to decide whether I needed a trolley or a basket. Everything seemed too loud, too big, too close. The whole word was tilting and splintering off at crazy angles. I tried to remember what I was there for, but my brain just felt like a cold, lifeless lump of clay that wouldn’t respond to my desperate attempts to activate it to save me. My chest felt like it had been torn into a huge vacuum so I would never be able to get enough air, and without enough air, I was going to float away. The feeling only lasted a few minutes, but it was horrible, and from that point in May, until December when I finally sort out help, I didn’t feel like myself again.
I was absolutely exhausted, desperate for a good healing sleep so I could start a day at zero, instead of already exhausted and overwhelmed when I woke up. Every time I fell asleep I’d be woken up by terrifying dreams that were so vivid and realistic they shook my sense of self, as they decimated everything I held dear. Then I started hearing things in the middle of the night. Several times I got up and ran downstairs to let the police in in the middle of the night (not uncommon in my world), only for there to be no one there. I heard my phone alarm go off, or my phone ring. I heard the door bell, and people knocking on my bedroom door. All were just aural hallucinations. All woke me up with my heart pounding. It would happen several times a night, every time I fell into a deep sleep. It was like my brain was so used to frequent crises it was creating them before they happened, as though it was trying to take control in a very twisted way.
I tried all the things that normally worked for me, but instead of helping, they seemed to actually make things worse. It was as though as I relaxed and dropped my defences a twisted voice would come forward from inside me and whisper horrible things to me, that were utterly illogical, but shook me too my core. It was terrifying. I couldn’t trust my own head anymore. I tried giving it more time to see if I would get better on my own, but lack of sleep was impacting every area of my life. I had started bumbling my words, I’d think I was saying one thing, but something entirely different would come out of my mouth, or I would type something completely different from what I was supposed to be composing.
Finally I went to the doctors. I hate going to the doctors. I always expect them to treat me like I’m making a fuss over nothing- which was what happened when I went for my tests to diagnose Glandular Fever and Toxoplasmosis. This was very different though. As soon as I started telling the doctor what was happening to me I received his full and undivided attention. Which was scary! Then he asked me the suicide question. No! That was all wrong. I’m the one who asks that! I denied ever feeling suicidal. Which was of course untrue. I didn’t have any specific plan or anything, but I had been so miserable and exhausted for so long that death had started to appear like a more attractive option than life, if this is what the rest of my life was going to be like. I just wanted a rest.
The doctor immediately diagnosed anxiety and depression, and prescribed some antidepressants. I went and got into the car with my husband, crying too hard to even fill my prescription. I was supposed to be going straight to work, but once I had started crying it was impossible to stop. Eventually my boss told me to stay home for the day and my husband got my tablets and tucked me up in bed. The tablets were complete knock out drops. I had to take a week off work to try to learn how to function on them, but I couldn’t. I was described my difficulties to my sister who explained she knew someone who had had the same problems, and suggested the name of one that she felt would be better for me. And indeed they were.
I still get bad days, sometimes I can’t sleep, sometimes I feel very low, but I’ve learned to just give myself a break on those days and ‘roll with it’ I’ll feel better in a day or so. One of the best decisions I made was to be completely open with everyone about what was happening to me. This is not my normal style, I’m normally a very closed book, and I only share information about myself carefully. However I have enough experience of supporting others with depression to know that depression likes to segregate it’s victims off, and I was determined that was not going to happen to me. The result has been suprising. When I’m open to others, they have responded by being open about their own experiences, and this has helped me feel less alone.
Ultimately I am grateful for this experience of hitting rock bottom. It has made me reassess my life, and concentrate on what is important to me, rather than trying to twist and contort myself to please others. The vivid dreams have presented me with a story to pursue- I dreamt several of the key scenes in Darkly Dreaming.
I dreamed the scenes and wrote them up because I felt compelled to. I had always planned to be an author. I just had a problem believing in myself enough to make the leap from one day to today. Feeling so low had left me at a point where I felt I had nothing to lose anyway, so I may as well have a go. I had a lot of extra time as well, seeing as I couldn’t sleep. I wrote up the back story to the scenes I’d dreamt, so that they would make sense, and I wrote a very basic plan of where I expected the novel to go.
Then I completely disregarded the plan and got hauled through the novel by the characters. It was such a relief to have something else to think about. I realised that the only times I slept well were when I wrote. If I had an idea for part of the story, but wasn’t sure how to get the characters there (stubborn so and sos!) I’d go and lie in the bath and picture them at the point I’d left them, and then imagine how they could end up where I needed them to be. Sometimes I’d manage to get them there, but just as often they’d demand a different course of action. Either way I felt hopeful again as I felt the story take place. I hadn’t told anyone I was writing. It was still a step too far to expose my secret hope. Most people knew I had always wanted to write, but I wasn’t going to tell them, in case I failed.
At Christmas time I was browsing the net looking for info on self publishing and how to find an agent when I stumbled on the ad for Britain's Next Bestseller. I immediately loved the idea of the reader getting to choose which books were published. I never lie, but that evening I sent my synopsis in claiming I had a finished manuscript of 30,000 words, when actually I only had a 17,000 word skeleton. In all honesty I didn't expect to hear anything back, so I just got on with writing a bit here and there whenever I had time. Then a week later they emailed me back asking for the full manuscript!
I wrote like a fiend for the next week, and then sent BNBS that draft of my 30,000 word manuscript. They liked it and asked me finish it to a level I was happy with by 1st March, which by some miracle- I'm still not sure how- I did. My 62,000 word manuscript is waiting to get the 250 preorders it needs to be published.
When I came downstairs so shocked after the email asking for my full manuscript, my husband first of all belly laughed that I had been so thoroughly caught out the one time I lied, but then he promised me he would do whatever it took to help me get my manuscript written. He was worried about me last year, when I stopped sleeping and was suffering panic attacks. Seeing how much better writing made me further convinced him that writing is my future.
Not only did he take over all the household chores while I wrote, he even read my first drafts for me, even though he isn’t really a reader, and if he does read it, it’s none fiction, and he professed to love them, and begged me to continue writing, even if only for him. Well! What more can a woman ask for than that? Now he is trogging around helping me promote Darkly Dreaming, which is lucky as it almost kills me to make the first move to people. I can happily chirrup on and on once I sense some interest, but making that initial foray is really hard for me.
When I had written my first few chapters, I was having a self-doubting day, wondering if anyone would be interested in what I was writing. It was still a secret at this stage. No one at all knew I was even thinking about writing a book, never mind that I had started. I was at my hairdressers getting my hair done when I overheard a conversation between one of the other customers and her hairdresser; she was talking excitedly about her favourite vampire book, and I closed my eyes and imagined I was listening to her talking about my book. I imagined she was this excited about going home to read something I had written. The thought of giving someone so much uncomplicated pleasure kept me going any time I doubted what I was doing.
I’ve been amazed by the help and support I received from both expected, and unexpected quarters. One thing I have learned from the whole experience is that I need to write. It is essential to my wellbeing to be creative. I just really hope I can make a living doing what I love.