When you’re working on your mental health, one bad day can make you feel like a failure

When you’re working on your mental health, one bad day can make you feel like a failure

Nearly three months after I finally asked for help with my mental health issues (depression, anxiety, panic attacks, obsessive worries – you know, all the fun stuff), I’ve actually been feeling pretty positive.

The antidepressants seem to be working.

Things feel lighter, easier.

Paralysed mum with locked-in syndrome has written an entire book using her eyes

I’m not 100% better, but just opening up, coming out about what I’m going through, and talking about how I’m feeling has made a huge difference to clearing up the dark thoughts and secret sadness, while the pills have bumped me up to a level of happiness that means I’m not coming home from work and crying until 1am.




My mood’s improved. My relationships have become better now I’m not hiding a massive part of what’s going on.

It’s been great, really.

Which is why when my symptoms came back this week, it felt like such a blow.

(Picture: Ella Byworth for Metro.co.uk)

On Wednesday, I had a lovely day. I had a good day at work. I went to the Aquarium (which is one of my favourite places). I headed home.

Everything was brilliant.

So why did I start feeling tension knotting in my stomach and along my spine as I headed home?

Why, when I settled into bed, did I find old worries popping back up, creeping in and telling me I hadn’t really closed the front door, that someone would break in, that I had to go downstairs and make sure the door was closed, now?

I tried to calm myself down. I told myself the door was closed. I pictured it in my mind, trying to grasp at the memory of myself walking in and closing it, because I knew I had.

But all I could see was the lock unturned, the wood slightly out of place, and someone lurking behind it.

I wrestled with that worry for a good ten minutes.

(Picture: Erin Aniker for Metro.co.uk)

I knew that if I gave in and checked, I’d set myself back into a cycle – one I thought I’d escaped from.

But the more I tried to ignore the worries and go to sleep, the harder they fought to be heard.

I went downstairs.

I opened the door and closed it again. I tried to focus on the sound it made. I told myself to capture the moment, the movement of turning the locks and hearing them click into place. I took my time. But the second I turned away, my brain poked doubts in the memory.

Had I actually just pushed the door locked? Or had I pushed it in a way that actually unlocked it?

I turned back and did the same thing again.

I went back upstairs, even though my brain told me to go and check the door with every step.

I raced back to my room and quickly turned off the switches around the room that had suddenly regained their presence as overwhelming, terrifying, fire risks.

I lay down and all I wanted was to walk back downstairs and make sure the door was actually closed. There was no way to sleep. I didn’t feel safe.



I thought about all the switches downstairs in the kitchen. The microwave left on. The oven that one of my housemates may have forgotten to turn off. The iron. The kettle. Every tiny electrical appliance multiplied in size and took up space in my brain, each worry shouting over another to be heard.

I felt like I couldn’t go downstairs and check the switches, because I’d have to walk through the living room where my housemate was watching TV.

I didn’t want them to see me at a low point. I didn’t want to show anyone the person I am at nighttime, scurrying around to switches, turning them off, then going back to check they’re actually turned off over, and over, and over.

(Picture: Shutterstock/ Ella Byworth)

But I’m trying to be more open. And thankfully, this time around I had someone there to say the right things.

I told someone I care about all the stuff that was going on in my head. I cried. I apologised for being a mess.

They didn’t judge me or dismiss my worries. They didn’t make my obsessive thoughts even worse with an offhand comment like ‘well, the boiler could explode at any minute’ (thanks for that complex, friend who said that).

They told me to take my time, do what I felt I needed to do, and told me I was okay. They were patient, understanding even though they probably thought what I was saying was weird and didn’t make any sense. They didn’t get infected by my nerves and start worrying about locked doors too.


It’s a pretty powerful thing, having someone who’s good at being there for you – someone you can actually talk to about what’s going on in your head.

And that person stopped me from completely spiraling.

(Picture: Ella Byworth for Metro.co.uk)

But before I finally drifted off to sleep, I felt an overwhelming sense of failure. And that’s something I carried through to the next day, and the next, and the one after that.

I was supposed to be better. I was supposed to be fixed.

I’d let myself think that because antidepressants had lifted my mood and quieted the ‘everything’s going to kill you’ monologue in my mind, all my issues had magically gone away.

I was wrong.

I felt frustrated at myself for giving into obsessive behaviours and letting my worries overwhelm me. I felt like I’d let myself down, that all my progress was in the bin.

I felt genuine anger at myself for not being able to deal with obsessive worries when they came up – for being stupid enough to assume that I was entirely better and my brain wouldn’t go a bit mad again.

(Picture: Ella Byworth for Metro.co.uk)

Then I realised that of course I’m not able to deal with stuff – I haven’t been taught how.

Three months into taking antidepressants, I still haven’t been given any therapy.

I’m on the waiting list for online therapy sessions, which I was convinced to try after being told that in-person therapy would have a months-long waiting list.


I was told I’d probably get to talk to someone by March.

It’s now April.

An important thing I’m learning about mental health is that while medication can help – and for me it definitely, truly helps, pulling me out of the deepest depressive pit and getting me back to being myself again – it can’t fix absolutely everything. There needs to be emotional support, too.

(Picture: Ella Byworth for Metro.co.uk)

Even when antidepressants work, there are still going to be problems that’ll come up and that I’ll need to deal with.

Bad stuff will still happen. I’ll still feel sad sometimes. And that’s okay – I’m leaning that getting better is something I’ll have to work on for a long time, not something I can tick off after downing a few pills.

Having a low moment doesn’t mean I’m a failure or a f***-up. It doesn’t get negate my progress or mean the medication isn’t working.

It’s just a reminder that I need help to figure out how to deal with things – because clearly, that’s not something I can trust my obsessive brain to figure out on its own.

My brain thinks the solution to fear is panic attacks, switching off lights, and checking things seven times.

(Picture: Ella Byworth for Metro.co.uk)

My depression will tell me that if things go wrong, the solution is hiding in bed, telling myself all the ways I’m rubbish, or killing myself.

Antidepressants lift me up away from the negative thoughts and feelings, but they’re still there, lurking, and they’ll occasionally pop out.

I need help to learn how to cope with them when they do.

That doesn’t make me weak, or a failure. It makes me a human that sometimes has to face challenges. And it means I’m making a genuine effort towards getting better.

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