Asking for help when you're a coper

I wouldn’t be much of a writer claiming to explore life in all its messy glory (to repeat my own words) if I wasn’t honest enough to talk about the times when life is too much.

The reality is that I’ve been struggling for a few weeks now, months if I'm being honest. It started with some classic viral symptoms – headaches, sore throats, lack of energy, aching limbs – the usual. But they persisted and were joined by increasingly frequent bouts of tears and arguments about things like what to stuff the Sunday roast chicken with. Until one of my sisters gently suggested that maybe I wanted to think about finding someone to speak to. Someone neutral, a professional, paid to sit there and listen. I took note and started googling local counsellors, I even asked a friend, but didn't get as far as contacting anyone.

Then on the back of a concerned comment from a colleague yesterday morning I rang the doctor and a few hours later was sitting in the surgery, in tears again, for no apparent reason other than the kind GP asked me to tell her what why I was there. A stream of symptoms emerged from my mouth, although I was annoyed because I’d left my list of symptoms at home and was struggling to remember the details, but no matter, the GP got it.

A full body MOT: mind, body and heart

She was superb. She listened, asked me questions and at the end suggested a bit of a body/mind MOT, starting with blood tests. She mentioned anti-depressants too, but emphasised that she wasn’t making any hard and fast decisions, but wanted to see what I thought. I’m not against the idea. I’ve taken Citalopram twice before, first back in 2009 around six months after Saskia was born, and again a few years later after I was diagnosed with ME/chronic fatigue.

I also had six CBT sessions back then, but didn’t find them particularly useful at the time, and I didn’t try again. I did have grief counselling after mum, dad and grandma died, regularly saw a friend for holistic therapy and had a few sessions with a counsellor at Maggie’s when cancer treatment finished. But I’ve never had long term, consistent talking therapy. And there’s stuff from my childhood alone that would scream, 'you should talk to someone Harriet'.

The GP was clear about not jumping to any conclusions about any of it. We agreed that it would be too easy to assume that the chronic fatigue was back, or to blame menopause and tamoxifen for the physical stuff, and it was reassuring that she’s very much looking at my physical, emotional and mental health. I told her that I'd emailed a counsellor just before coming down to the surgery.

When self-care isn't enough

I guess I have to face the fact that there comes a point where self-care just doesn’t cut it. But the difficulty is that I identify as a coper, it runs deep through my core. I hate the thought that I can’t, might not be able to cope because it’s not who I am, is it?

I remember mum saying that if I told her that I wasn’t feeling well when I was a child, she knew to listen, because normally I just trudged on, kept on going, coping. But as my sister pointed out in one of our WhatsApp exchanges yesterday, ‘there’s no need to put up with feeling low, no medals in that, as we know’. It’s just that it’s so much easier to nod along with the articles, podcasts, interviews and conversations about other people asking for help. Yes, absolutely, ask for help, don’t struggle on. Find someone to talk to.

But when it’s you, you’re the one finding life hard and can’t find the words to explain why, why the tears keep coming it’s different. I know I haven’t imagined the headaches, sore throats and viral symptoms, but it’s clear there’s something else going on too.

I know I'm not a failure, but that doesn't stop me from feeling like one

I know I shouldn’t, but I feel like I’ve failed. It would be so much easier to blame a cold or virus rather than feel like all that work I’ve put in over the years to look after myself physically, mentally and emotionally isn’t enough. All those dog walks, Pilates and HiT classes, those morning pages and books I’ve read, podcasts I’ve listened to. That despite all that trying, just like those school reports I found in the garage a few months ago that said, ‘Harriet just needs to work harder.’ ‘Harriet needs to speak up and ask for help.’ ‘Harriet really needs to knuckle down now.’ It's never quite enough.

The thing is, back then I was trying. Trying as hard as I could to keep going, working furiously beneath the surface while it was chaos at home. Living with an alcoholic father, a mother trying to survive, keep a roof over our heads, and food in the cupboards was not easy. I didn't know how to ask for help back then and figured I'd just say quiet, keep turning up and hope things would come good. And seemingly no one at school twigged that maybe I needed something other than 'try harder' in my report either.

Trying too hard and holding on

It’s not that surprising that the weight of the past few years will become too much at times, and that the events of decades earlier will crop up too. As the counsellor I’m seeing on Monday said in her email, ‘It sounds like you have been going through and also "holding" a lot of things' and that was just on the back of a few sentences.

She was right about holding on.

Right here, this evening sat on the sofa watching the Lionesses play USA at Wembley I feel ok. But yesterday I didn't, and I know that there's a chance I won't do tomorrow, and that's why I'm taking a deep breath and asking for help. But I will keep on walking, and moving because heading out for a head clearer on the moor is never a bad idea.

I first published this essay in October 2022.