2017 - A Year of Self-Discovery

Perhaps it's a cliché - but 2017 for me, has been a year of self discovery. A year that began with unemployment, crippling anxiety and constant self criticism. A year that is ending with unemployment too, but there's one big difference, and that is that I'm ok.

Late in 2016 I had my first experience of anxiety following a traumatic evening in a pitch black restaurant. Subsequently, I couldn't go out for a meal, I couldn't go to the theatre, I struggled going to the cinema - unless I had an aisle seat and knew I could run out. I couldn't be close with relatives or sit on the bus with the windows all fogged up so I couldn't see outside. I couldn't sit in a busy room unless it was by the door. A lot of Christmas was spent in bed, over analysing why I felt so anxious with the people I love and crying my eyes out because all I wanted was to be ok, to scoop up my nephew and cuddle him and not worry about the nearest exit (or the nearest loo). It left me feeling disconnected and numb to the world and it was a real struggle, sometimes impossible to muster the energy to fight back. (A big thank you to my mum who did absolutely everything over Christmas to understand, who hugged me and let me cry as well as propping me up and pushing me on. Forever there to listen to my woes).

Once back in London, January was hard, but it was the first time Kamal and I had properly spent time together since I'd got back from working in Cardiff in November. Slowly, I felt able to take small steps towards returning to normal. Kamal was patient and supportive and he'd constantly remind me that it was ok to step outside if I needed to, to pop to the loo to take some deep breaths or just take my time. I reminded myself that talking it through with him helped both of us to understand that it wasn't an issue between us, it was that anxiety had a grip of every part of me - but slowly the grip loosened. We started going out for meals and to the cinema, not all without a hitch and a few tears, but I was fighting back and that's all we said we wanted. Kamal was happy to spend more time going for walks and being outdoors, because I felt at my most comfortable in the open. I am eternally grateful for having someone who is willing to listen, to understand, to back off when I need to fight things on my own but to always be there when I need a helping hand. 

I told myself that the first step to fighting anxiety was to begin to accept the parts of me that I didn't always like - like my scars. I took some photos that didn't shy away from showing off my scars, they are a part of me and I refused to let my fear of what people thought of me to get in the way of accepting myself. Eleven months later and it's not a total transformation, work being the hardest place to show this version of me - but I hope to conquer that one too.

At the end of January I was finally offered some interviews after three months of unemployment. I met with a producer at the BBC and a few weeks later was back in the world of work - fighting my anxiety quietly in the background. Work has always helped me - focussing my mind on other things, learning about the world and helping to make my problems feel smaller. At work day to day I felt relatively anxiety-free but I was incredibly nervous about the live broadcast at the end of it. I knew that for two hours we would be live on air and I would be unable to step outside, use the loo or take my time. In March came the big day, and I felt myself getting anxious. But despite the craziness of a live broadcast and two newbies to events commentary sitting in the firing line, it all went well (with the assistance of a couple of Imodium). I was proud of myself at having not had a complete meltdown but at the same time, incredibly frustrated that it had taken an Imodium to put my brain at ease. I told myself that next time, I'd fight it without.

I stopped giving anxiety a name because by putting every hiccup or feeling of unease down to anxiety was giving it power over me. We all get nervous, we all have moments where we think we can't do it - that's not anxiety, that's human. I took each day as it came and did my best. For a few months I had barely drunk any alcohol because I feared what the slight loosening of control would prompt of my anxiety and from about March this year I decided that I could throw caffeine out of my diet too. Alcohol has made a comeback without side effect but caffeine has gone for good and I don't miss it one bit.

Since March I've worked across 6 more programmes this year, including plane journeys and immense pressure - and every one without anxiety. Following the successful flights, I'm back to the old me, lusting over foreign excursions and beauty spots across the globe. I've pushed myself in other ways too. Speaking to people on the phone has always been a big deal for me. Being a researcher I have to swallow that anxiety every day because I want to get the job done and do it well. And as soon as they pick up the phone I love talking to them. But sometimes by the end of the day, when you've been battling away the 'don't pick up the phone' demons - you are absolutely exhausted. But I'd done it.

In August after recovering from an ankle injury involving a curb and a few loud cracks, I decided that football was something I needed in my life again too. Late last year it had really helped to run off the demons with a few 5kms. My belief in my ability suffered a hit at the end of last year on leaving Cardiff City but some games with Orpington Ladies (possibly the most fun and supportive team I've ever played for) and a chance to play at Charlton ground The Valley told me that if I was ever going to do it, then it should be now. So I re-signed with Maidenhead Ladies with a view to play in the Women's Premier League and every Wednesday I've been travelling to Maidenhead for training and every Saturday night too to play on Sundays. Frustratingly my first game resulted in injury, meaning a month of rest, rehab and training which was entirely frustrating and meant a lot of commitment to getting match fit again. But I did, and considering that I committed myself alongside a TV job, which many of you know becomes your entire life - I'm pretty proud that despite anxiety, despite the workload, I came through on a promise to myself to get back in the game. I've got a long way to go to get back to my best, but I'm glad to be in place to do it.

I didn't come out of anxiety completely unscathed. My ability to multitask through a large to-do list left me feeling overwhelmed a lot quicker than usual. By November though, on perhaps the most overwhelming job of them all, remembrance Sunday, I felt back in control and I'm getting better at breaking up my tasks into manageable chunks. I've even got a few edits done at home which have been on a list on my wardrobe for about 3 years!

Two injuries, a few relapses in anxiety-fighting, a cockroach infestation in the flat - all could have thrown me over the edge. In November I was so ill I went through 5 boxes of tissues in a week and even forced myself to drink Lemsip, which to those who know me, is a big no no! And now, in December I'm unemployed. But none of these things won, I did. There were moments when anxiety won, and when the world felt so distant from me that my duvet was about the only obstacle I could conquer - but at the end of the year the resounding victory most definitely goes to me.

I've learned a lot about myself this year. I read a book about my ENFP personality which threw me into a whirlwind of over-thinking every aspect of the way I lived my life, the way I made decisions, the way I interact with others - I had to call it out and forget about it. I learned that analysing everything I do and why I do it is exhausting and sometimes makes a problem bigger than it needs to be, so I've stopped analysing. I've stopped overthinking what other people say to me. I've stopped seeking reassurance from others and tried instead to reassure myself, to be my own best friend, encouraging myself onwards and reminding me to constantly push the limits of what I think I can achieve.

I've pushed myself and tested myself. I've done things that I thought might be too much too soon. I can go to the theatre again, and to big meals in busy restaurants, and venture into the unknown. I may still have to take a few deep breaths to get myself there but ultimately I know as soon as I get there, I'll be absolutely fine. I recognise how much the outdoors benefits me, how much being active benefits me and how lowering my own expectations of myself has been the best thing I've ever done. I've committed myself to football, to work, to various other projects and I've started to feel like myself again - but a version of myself that cares less about what the world thinks of me, and less about piling on the pressure and the constant need to be productive (hence the lack of blogposts this year). I'm ok that right now there's no money coming in, I am deliberately careful with my money for moments like these. I'm ok that a lot of my days off this month I've been in bed til 11 because you know what - I deserve it.

I've been reminded that spending time with friends, family and with the wonderful Kamal is what matters to me and accepting that I am not forever invincible nor always exceptional, may have been a huge shock this time last year, but for now I'm ok with being just ok. My anxiety might still be there somewhere, but it's just going to have to deal with my superior existence - sorry bud.

Dining In the Dark

Well what can I say. My partner & I celebrated 5 years together on Tuesday night. We looked back on our favourite adventures from sky-diving, to caving, to mountain walking and holding our very first nieces and nephews. We graduated, we found our first jobs, and our second jobs and so on. We moved in to our own flat, saw theatre shows, ate LOTS of food, went to gigs and galleries - needless to say, it's been pretty great.

For about 3 years we've both been wanting to tick another experience off from our list. So on our 5th anniversary we made our way to Clerkenwell Green to dine in the dark at 'Dans Le Noir?'

Dinner in the Dark - ESN Aalto

Essentially, the deal is that you put all of your belongings in a locker, choose a vague menu (meat, vegetarian, surprise or fish) and then you enter a restaurant completely in darkness. You place your hand on the shoulder of your guide and are led to your seats by the blind waiters/waitresses that serve you throughout the evening. It was here we were introduced to Jack, who would be looking after us. I must say, at this point I didn't quite expect to need so much looking after.

Let me set the scene... (Imagine...)

The room is pitch black,
you can't see you surroundings,
nor your own hand in front of your face. 

You shuffle to your seats in tandem and feeling for your chair, you sit down gradually.
Jack tells you where to find your cutlery, glasses and napkin.
He advises that you wear the napkin.
He also explains that there is only one strict rule at the restaurant, and that is that you cannot leave your seat and try to navigate unaccompanied.
You agree that's probably a good policy. You laugh.
He then leaves.

As you adjust to your surroundings, Jack quickly returns with water and wine and a guiding voice.
He hands the bottle of water to your partner to pour the water for you both. (I wasn't planning on getting wet tonight I'll be honest).
Then Jack's voice vanishes again.
Your partner successfully pours your water, luckily not in the glass that contains your wine.
For a few moments you both talk idle chit chat, but you find it difficult.
You strain your ears to hear your dinner date but struggle to understand over the noise of others.
You reach out your hand across the table and feel around for his hand.
You seek reassurance that he's still there, somewhere in the darkness.

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Jack's voice appears again, and with it, your starters.
A meat dish for your date; 'kitten' says Jack, and a vegetarian dish for you, 'some leaves'.
Jack disappears again.
You let go of his hand, and immediately mourn it's loss from your fingertips. 
Your eyes are still trying to understand why they cannot see and it starts to make you queasy.
You shake it off, and fumble around for your knife and fork, and stab at the dish in front of you helplessly until it meets some resistance.
Sweeney Todd and Mrs Lovett's pies come to mind for some reason, but you shake your head and ignore the thought and shovel the mystery meal messily into your mouth anyway.
It was a crunchy texture, but softer in the middle. There was a sauce, and some seeds. And some salad. It's nice. You both comment on what you think you're eating.
You ask to try some of your partner's, and realise what a terrible idea that is.
He likes the challenge and brings his fork to your mouth and you guide his hand until you manage to grab the food from it with your teeth.
Mmmmm, you say. 'Kitten doesn't taste that bad'.
You laugh.
He says lamb. You think beef. Nice beef.
Your turn to try and feed, and never before have you realised how hard it is to put salad on a fork without your eyes to help you. 
You stab and scrape your dish a few times and, feeling the fork is heavier, your right hand (the steadier hand) begins it's journey across a never-ending table. He guides your hand and bites down on the fork. 
He manages to lap up a leaf. Nothing much more.
Good attempt. You laugh.
You both finish your starters and talk about how hard it is to do such simple things without your sight. Again you strain to listen but find it hard to separate his voice from the noise of the dining crowd around you.
You reach for his hand again. He's still there.

You are starting to feel slightly dizzy, as your eyes seem to panic at their lack of use. Your stomach is churning a gentle turn of anxiety. You decide to close your eyes and you feel a little better.
Your stomach groans again. You hold his hand a little firmer than before.
You take a swig of water, it tastes funny. You take another, that tastes funny too. 
You put your fingers in your drink to work out why it's so horrible, you realise then that the food you destined for your partner's mouth, had in fact lost itself in your water glass half way. That's why only a leaf was left at the other end.
You laugh. Your partner laughs.
Jack's reassuring voice reappears from the darkness, and asks if you're ready for your next course. 
You say yes, 'and a replacement water glass please!'
Jack clears the table and disappears.
You await his return.

Your attention turns again to feeling a little bit uneasy, a bit odd. A product of the noise, and the growing anger of your insides as they churn. You can't quite put your finger on what's bothering you. You try to forget about it, drink in your surroundings and allow yourself to be immersed. But 2mins of conversation ends with 5 of convincing yourself that you're ok. Disorientated, you await that calming and reassuring voice of Jack.
You wait.
You distract yourself by chatting wth your partner.
You hold his hand tighter still. 
You look in the direction of the exit, to see if there is light anywhere in the room but you see nothing.
You begin to bounce your leg up and down. You clutch a hand in your left hand and a glass of water in your right. To feel them in your fingertips offers reassurance in sensation. 
You breathe deeply. 
You open your eyes, and close them, you open them, and close them. You give up, there's no difference. But you keep them shut to help you feel less nauseous.
Jack's voice appears in the dark, thank god.
The main course is here.

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You get the point. I was gradually losing control of my mind, I was disorientated and I was beginning to panic. I managed to distract myself from it for brief moments, to taste my food or make a rubbish joke but it began to feel overwhelming. My conversation slowly petered out, and instead we sat there in relative silence. My stomach was forcing out nervous wind, and I felt sick. When Jack returned I asked if I could be escorted out to the toilet. My partner said it was ok for us to leave but I said I'd see if I felt ok in the toilet. He agreed. I shuffled back to the light of the corridor, squeezing Jack's shoulder as we went. as we reached the light, I suddenly realised I'd been holding my breath for longer than normal and breathed out heavily. I ran to the toilet and my body caved. My face was a blotchy red, my stomach had turned to liquid and I looked vacant in the mirror. After I'd sat down in the light for a while, given myself a talking to in the mirror, told myself 'you jumped out of a plane for crying out loud', I regained my composure, took some deep breaths and decided to give desert a go.

For 5-10mins I felt great. The people on the table next to us had left, and the room felt a little quieter and less overwhelming. My partner and I talked and Jack delivered us with desert. Almost as soon as we'd stopped talking to concentrate on the navigation of our food, somewhere in that darkness in front of us, the feeling came back. I focussed on the eating. I shovelled it fast in the hope that once we'd finish we could leave. But Jack took a long time to come, or at least it felt a long time. He has other people to serve I rationalised. He returned to the table to serve the couple next to us. My partner found the voice I couldn't and asked if we could be excused. Sensing no panic in his voice, Jack told us he just had to serve desert to others in the room first. It was pitch black, how was he supposed to sense the panic of an invisible and silent girl sat at the table he served.

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Jack vanished into the dark again and this time, I couldn't help myself. Before there had always been another course to come, a reason for Jack to come to the table. This time, I felt abandoned. I clutched my partner's hand tighter than ever, downed water with my other hand. I breathed in deeply and rocked back and forwards, half in panic and half in REALLY needing to nervous wee. I got evermore desperate both to escape the dark and to urinate. I downed every last drop of water.

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I rubbed my hands over and over my forehead and clutched my face. It must only have been a few minutes, but it felt like much more. I heard someone clearing the table not far from us and I couldn't handle it anymore. I turned to the darkness, turned in the direction of the noise and pleaded, eyes wide but seeing nothing. 'Excuse me, I need to leave'. 'Excuse me, I need to get out, I need to leave'. My partner did his best to calm me. He shouted Jack's name in the hope he might be nearby. The girl on the table with us asked if I was ok, and all I could make myself say, to her, to my partner to anyone, was 'I need to get out!'. I was near tears.

Jack's voice appeared, ever calm and ever reassuring. I was immediately silent, to hear his instructions. He addressed us by name and calmly escorted us both outside back into the light. I could have hugged him, I could have cried tears all down him. This man, had led me back to a place I felt safe, where I was in control, where I relied on no-one. I stressed as much as I could 'Thank you so much for looking after us', hoping that he'd hear just how much I mean that in my voice. I ran to the toilet rejoicing in the things I could see. I felt my heartbeat slow and my smile return to my face.

I couldn't wait to get outside for some fresh air, and left my partner to pay on his own. For someone who feels the cold even in Summer, I was now completely immune to the cold. I opted to walk the 40mins to Waterloo station drinking in the sights of London from Blackfriars Bridge, watching the lights ripple in the water, realising just how much my sight informs my adventurous self, how much it encourages my curiosity, and polishes my confidence.

I felt guilty at ruining our meal, and possibly other people's meals wth my desperation to escape. It's such a shame, because I couldn't enjoy the food like I would normally do, for panic. We'd been looking forward to this for years and instead, I became a nervous wreck, pleading with the empty darkness to get me out.

I never thought that I would be saying, after skydiving, bungee swings, going freelance, nearly drowning in waste-high water (don't ask) - that dining in the dark would be the most terrifying thing I've ever experienced. Every technique I've ever used to get over panic was stripped from me in the darkness that I couldn't get out of until someone escorted me. I was trapped and I felt utterly helpless. My legs were like jelly on leaving the restaurant and my nervous tummy was churning for over 24hrs. It took a good cry to let out the suppressed fear, to recover.

So I feel it's a little unfair to review Dans Le Noir (how people manage to date in the dark I'll never know). If nothing else, it gave me a huge respect for the blind, an even greater respect for our waiter Jack, and a realisation that though I may think I'm fearless, apparently I'm not fearless enough to get over a fear of the dark!

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