Hello, My Name is Anxiety
Niki Burton is currently undergoing mental health treatment. There is one rule: it's exclusively hollistic.
13 months ago my life disappeared down a rabbit hole. In the space of an afternoon I went from a high performing, fully functioning, independent adult to a person who, at my worst, can’t get out of bed, can’t hold a conversation and can’t even take an unexpected visit or phone call without breaking down in sweat, tears and vomit. Back in January 2015, I set off for a stroll around the shops to mull over some issues I was having at work and make the most of a day off. As the afternoon progressed I started to feel under the weather. Within an hour I had lost most of my vision, and after managing to stagger in to a local department store I promptly vomited on a horrified sales assistant and collapsed. And so begun my struggle with my mental health.
Sometimes it feels less like a struggle and more like guerrilla warfare. I have had to argue, fight, cajole and flat out plead with medical professionals to try and get consistent treatment plan. I have gone through invasive medical procedures including an endoscopy and an MRI to try and find out what is happening to my body. Even now, 13 months down the line I am still bouncing around waiting lists trying to get to the top of the right one. I have been on 13 different medications that all came with a range of side effects from hot sweats and skin sensitivity so severe that I once had to sleep in a bath of tepid water, to those that left me in a semi-vegetative state for days on end. My medicine cabinet now has a street value to rival any celebutante’s clutch bag and still I am imprisoned in my own mind and body. Whilst once I would be out every evening and weekend at restaurants, bars and the homes of friends, I am now so afraid to leave the house that just the prospect of a trip to the local grocery stores leaves me shaking and sweating.
"My medicine cabinet now has a street value to rival any celebutante’s clutch bag"
The loss of control has almost destroyed me on more than one occasion. I am a big fan of boundaries and I freely admit that I need a clearly defined start and end in order to relax. I am so anally retentive when it comes to organisation that my friends gave me the not particularly snappy nickname of Captain Spreadsheet whilst in high school. To be completely out of control of my own mind and body is harrowing. My reactions to everyday situations are so completely unpredictable that I feel like a ticking time bomb, only instead of exploding, I implode. With no warning at all my body will turn on me, crumbling from the bottom up. My legs shake, my stomach starts to churn and I can feel the acid forcing its way up my throat and I know that if I don’t find somewhere to hide I will lose it in front of everyone and there is nothing I can do to stop it. The shame and humiliation are absolute and it never get’s easier.
Before this started I had just started a high pressure, highly paid job in a major corporate retailer. This job was supposed to be my big beginning, the start of my career that I had been looking for since graduating with first class honours. After dragging my wretched body through the last year I finally bit the bullet and got myself signed off from work for a month. Everyday had become a game of Russian Roulette, waiting to see how far I would make it through. The pressure of anticipation was crippling. Following the advice of a sympathetic occupational health worker, at the beginning of this year I embarked on a journey to try and find a holistic method of relief.
"Everyday had become a game of Russian Roulette, waiting to see how far I would make it through."
After a not very efficient Google search, I booked my first acupuncture appointment. On the day of the appointment I dragged my body kicking and screaming out of the flat and headed to a small basement office in central Leeds. The air was moist and minty and left a light, tingling film on my face. A very smiley receptionist balancing on a yoga ball handed me a mountain of forms which I completed without reading lest they give me an excuse to turn around and run back to the safety of my bed. My treatment took place in a small, oppressively hot room underneath the main entrance to the building. As I lay there on the table which was far too small for my gangly frame, and tried to ignore the crop of needles smattered across my body, I tried to relax and let my mind wander. I listened to the sound of the Headrow just a few hundred metres from where I lay. I imagined all the people coming and going along that busy route on a Friday afternoon and jealously wondered where they were headed. I listened to the ambulance sirens wailing through the city and reminded myself that someone, somewhere, was having a much worse day than me. Then out of nowhere I felt a rush of panic ripple up from my stomach. I struggled to stay still as a wave of nausea washed over me, leaving me dizzy and giving me an immediate and pounding headache. I had a sudden vision of hopping off the table and running through the reception, trouserless, nauseous and covered in needles like some kind of hysterical Hellraiser.
"I had a sudden vision of hopping off the table and running through the reception, trouserless, nauseous and covered in needles like some kind of hysterical Hellraiser."
The image distracted me for a moment, just long enough for my muscles to seize the chance to relax. I could feel them loosening up, almost painfully at first as though they had been held tight for so long they were almost reluctant to submit. My breathing slowed and the knot of tension that now lives at the base of my throat subsided for a minute. Whilst the experience as a whole didn’t necessarily leave me any more relaxed, I consoled myself with the thought that I had made it out of the house on the own, to somewhere unfamiliar and most definitely out of my comfort zone. A rare victory that I accepted as a step in the right direction.
In addition to my forays in to acupuncture, I’ve also tried a couple of less “outdoor intensive” treatments. The most obvious of all is of course, the hot bath. That time-tested, old favourite of mothers everywhere. If in doubt, have a hot bath. Now, generally speaking, I am not a fan of baths. There is something about wallowing in a big bowl of what is essentially You-Soup which feels redundant not to mention disgusting. But I swallowed my prejudice and pressed ahead in the name of research. Candles were lit, lights were dimmed and mood music gurgled soothingly from the iPod as I slipped in to a scalding hot bath of lavender bubbles and awaited mental bliss. After about ten minutes of gently broiling myself however, it appeared as though relaxation was still out of reach. My mood enhancing ylang-ylang soy candles had started to mix with the lavender bubble scent, creating a rather acrid mushroom cloud which filled the entire bathroom. The effect was less relaxation, more asphyxiation. As I tried to get out of the bath to snuff out the offending candles I tipped a tsunami of water across the floor, soaking my towels,my floors and of course, the iPod.
"if my neighbour across the way was to look out of his window into my living room and see me lying, apoplectic, on the floor, he might think that I was dead."
Ankle deep in soapy water and still desperate for mental relief, I was led to my final and most recent attempt at relaxation: Guided Meditation. As this fell in a week where I was unable to leave the house, I decided to turn to the all-knowing power of YouTube to find my guide for this most spiritual of journeys. Which was how I found Jennifer. So there I was, laid out on my yoga mat (purchased in a New Year health-kick about 3 years ago and still unwrapped from when it was delivered), eyes closed, ready to free my body and mind. Unfortunately, Jennifer had the intonation of a valley girl on Quaaludes which made it rather difficult to take her seriously. As I lay there, trying to concentrate on my breathing and surrender my inner core as instructed, it occurred to me that, if my neighbour across the way was to look out of his window into my living room and see me lying, apoplectic, on the floor, he might think that I was dead. And so ended my trip to a higher plain with Zen Jen.
I will readily admit that none of these attempts has proven particularly successful. I am still struggling to sleep through the night, constantly waking to dwell on fears both real and imagined. I continue to spend my days counting off the hours between attacks of vomiting and dizziness. But in the middle of this, most amazingly of all, I finally have my sense of humour back. It’s really hard to laugh when you feel bad. It’s hard to laugh when no one understands what you’re going through and when it feels like there are no words to describe what you’re feeling. There is nothing to laugh at when you’re lost somewhere deep in isolation and misery and there feels like no way back. But one thing I have learnt is that being scared of going crazy is a sure fire way to make sure that you do. Rediscovering my sense of humour has been like finding scrap of my old self again. Just when I thought that I had changed beyond recognition, I’ve found something that reminds me of how I used to be. It gives me hope that one day my mind will make it back from wherever it’s gone and that I’ll be able to step back through the looking glass and out in to the light, into a world that I don’t need to be afraid of and where I can live as a normal, happy, healthy person. In the meantime Zen Jen and the ylang-ylang candles are on standby.
To keep up to date with Niki's mental health journey visit her website.
Illustrations by Hannah Brattesani