Living with Ulcerative Colitis & How it Affects my Mental Health

It’s the 19th of May today, which marks the end of Mental Health Awareness Week in the UK and the beginning of World IBD Day. I’ve decided to share this blog because I’ve lived with Ulcerative Colitis (a form of Inflammatory Bowel Disease) for 16 years and, as with most chronic illnesses, my mental health often takes a battering because of it.

The crossover in dates gives me the perfect opportunity to talk about a depressive episode I suffered in 2018 whilst taking a course of Prednisolone steroids to treat my Ulcerative Colitis (UC), and  the way I approached my most recent UC relapse in January 2019 whilst taking a “new” type of steroid called Cortiment.

Firstly though, I’d like to focus on something positive. I’m happy to say my UC is currently in remission and I have minimal symptoms. This is most likely due to me starting a new treatment called Vedolizumab, which is a drip infusion that I go in to hospital for every two months. I am also taking a break from my 100mg daily dose of Azathioprine (an immunosuppressive drug) because my white blood count is too low. Whilst this could lead to a relapse, I can’t deny that my mood has generally improved, and the feeling of “heaviness” I sometimes experience in my head on this drug has become much lighter.

Since I was a teenager, I have always turned to the pages in my diary to make sense of what I’ve felt, but when I began a course of Prednisolone to treat my UC in March last year, I couldn’t face recording how awful it was. I’ve actively avoided writing about it because I’ve been concentrating on feeling better – but part of getting better (for me, at least) is looking back at what I’ve gone through, and feeling reassured that I’ve survived it.

So, I got ill again in February 2018. Really ill. My worst relapse in the last 3 years. Relentless gut aches and shit and blood and diarrhea: all the glorious symptoms of IBD. I was in pain all day. I had pain before, during, and after opening my bowels (which was up to 10 times a day) and my rectum took such a hammering that if it had tear ducts, I think it would’ve wept on my behalf.

I practically begged the doctors for Prednisolone because I knew nothing else would work, and despite knowing it would send me in to a depressive state – or “steroid haze” as I like to call it. I popped some Prednisolone pills and waited for the awful side affects to kick in. Within 3 days my IBD symptoms improved, but my mental health declined. I became more heavy-headed, was in a constant low mood, and felt overwhelmingly tearful, paranoid and anxious. I have blogged about the severity of the Prednisolone symptoms before, so read here if you’d like a bit more insight.

As always though, most people will not have noticed this happened to me. I made it in to work almost every day, I still went to gigs, I socialised, I kept going. The idea of sitting in my room all day with my own horrifically negative thoughts was something I absolutely could not entertain. I count myself lucky that I was able to get out of bed and keep going, even if I did it with the maximum amount of unease and sadness.

I had to cart pots of my own shit around (samples that needed testing, not just for some weird form of fun) delivering them to the right hospital department, I had countless blood tests, and visited the pharmacy on multiple occasions because they didn’t have enough Prednisolone pills initially. All this, whilst pretending to be absolutely-fucking-fine because I did not want any anyone to know how unwell I felt. I have been trying to get to the bottom of why I try to hide these really important things from people, and the only justification I have is that I like to be seen as strong, dependable, and in control – when you have IBD it robs you of these qualities.

Whilst all of this was going on, I also happened to be dating someone who was kind, open-minded, and patient whilst trying to understand what was going on with me physically and emotionally. I kept blindly insisting I was “fine” because I wanted to convince myself, and him, that I was. But, it turns out, words aren’t a cure for chronic illness or steroid hazes – because if they were, his reassurances would’ve sorted me out in no time. Looking back, I also think I managed to hide a lot of this from him even though I was trying to be honest about it, so perhaps he was genuinely unaware of how unwell I was.

I do have some good news though!

This particular relapse made me realise that I’ve been living in denial about the impact UC has on my mental health for years. This prompted me to seek help. I had in depth discussions with my IBD doctors about the affect Prednisolone has on my mood, and they openly apologised to me for not acknowledging the severity of the side effects earlier in my life (particularly when I was 18). We  agreed that next time I suffered a relapse, I could try a “new” steroid called Cortiment. Cortiment is engineered to target the gut only, unlike Prednisolone which affects the whole body – no nasty mental health side affects!

They also booked me in to talk their IBD mental health specialist. I could be bitter and complain that “they should’ve done this earlier” because I needed this support when I was 18, but in reality their job is to treat the physical symptoms of my IBD (which they always have), and after living with the illness for 16 years I have realised that it’s as much a learning curve for my (incredible) team of doctors as it is for me. The impact IBD has on mental health is something that’s only starting to be addressed now, by patients their doctors and the NHS as a whole.

Whilst I was waiting for this specialist appointment to come through, I was fortunate enough to have the funds to start visiting a private counsellor. This is one of the best decisions I have ever made. It may sound obvious, but I had no idea that simply talking about how much of a struggle it is to live with IBD (and how it will knock me down unexpectedly in the future) would help. I’d never learned to talk about it. Counselling allowed me to sit with those feelings of grief and shame and realise that telling people what’s wrong, and asking for help is key to my recovery, both physically and mentally.

So, in January 2019 I had another UC relapse. Again, it was brutal. My New Years Day started at 6:30am with me trapped in the bathroom, unable to leave the toilet for 2 hours. I was almost retching because my abdominal pain was so bad. I wanted to cry (and I probably did later that day), but I made the proactive decision to get in touch with my doctors and get on a course of Cortiment steroids. I also told work about my symptoms and asked for some flexibility with start times and hospital appointments, and I told my (then) boyfriend that I wouldn’t be able to stay over at his place until my symptoms calmed down. I couldn’t control what was happening to my body, but I could control how I dealt with it.

Some more good news: Cortiment steroids worked and my mental health was unaffected! They took a fortnight to kick in (much slower than Prednisolone) but once they were properly in my system, my symptoms reduced and I made my way in to remission. I continued with my counselling, and I am pleased to say it was the smoothest relapse I’ve ever had, because I was honest with myself and with everyone else around me about the limitations UC puts on me. I stopped counselling at the end of January this year, and I feel prepared to face any future relapse with the same outlook.

I should also say that my very good friend Katie was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease (a sister illness to UC) during the time between my two relapses, and whilst I wish she never had to hear that diagnosis come out of a doctor’s mouth – I cannot tell you how unbelievably vital her own experiences of IBD have been to me. Our WhatsApp conversations now consist of a mixture of messages like “Can’t wait for dinner and drinks tonight!” and “I’m so bloated and gassy right now, plus I shit blood this morning lolzzzz”. We have been coaching each other through endoscopy tests and medication adjustments for the last few months and have helped each other to accept that living with IBD is shit – but we can live with it, and it’s a lot easier if we can live through it together. We’re planning to start a Podcast about it actually, which will quite literally be full of shits and giggles.

So many people are struggling with a chronic illness and so many people have similar experiences to mine, and yet, it still takes me an essay like this to feel okay about it all. And, despite ignoring the need last year, I do need to write about it when it all flares up again. Shit things happen, and sometimes just admitting that makes everything a whole lot easier.

If you’re living with IBD and need more information or support, check out the Crohn’s & Colitis UK website (or drop me a line if you like x)

 

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SUNDAY #90 – Only

I said I wouldn’t talk about Glandular Fever any more (#getoveritKate), but when I returned to the office in July after a month off sick, one of my senior managers asked how my recovery was going. Physically, I’d completely recovered, but when he asked “How about mentally?” I decided to tell the truth and say “Not all that great”.

Post-fever, I naively expected to pick up where I’d left off and go back to my old self. Instead, I spent weeks feeling like I was sat behind glass, separate from situations I would normally be engaged in. If I managed to experience a drop of emotion, it was overwhelming, and it often brought on a panic so severe that I’d feel paralysed by it. Weirdly, I hid these panics exceptionally well, so I imagine anyone who’s reading this who knows me in person will be surprised to hear I almost wept at my desk (and on the tube) on a daily basis.

I didn’t tell many people I felt this way. My sisters knew, I told a few close friends, and I wrote pages of notes in my diary about it when I couldn’t sleep at night (despite being fucking exhausted). I read the entries back recently, and it made me sad that I felt such a strong and strange need to keep my feelings a secret. That’s madder than anything I was feeling at the time.

What gave eventually gave me comfort and some perspective was that my senior had been through the exact same thing when he contracted Glandular Fever years ago. He told me that for months after his initial diagnosis and recovery, he would burst in to tears for no reason, and couldn’t regulate his emotions. Even on the worst days when I’d come back to the flat after work, wrecked internally by nerves and paranoia; the comfort in knowing I hadn’t “gone wrong” (as I put it to my flatmate Kelly) and that this state was only temporary, was immense. That’s why I’ve written about it here. It’s important to tell people if you’re struggling.

Do you know what else helps? Music. Endless amounts of it. Even when you don’t want to dance to it, cry to it, or feel to it – music is always there to distract and eventually, to motivate you back in to health. We all need something to lean on when we feel weak; and Nine Inch Nails’ desolate, raging, brutally honest lyrics have been medicine to my ears on the most toxic days. I’m also grateful to my older brother for not being mad at me for ignoring his suggestion to listen to them five years ago.

Whether you’re feeling low due to poor physical health, or just generally out of sorts; put on a record, whack your little diary out, and write until you don’t make sense anymore. Read it back when you’re feeling better, and cut yourself some slack. Life can punch you right in the tits sometimes, but if you tell someone how you feel (or write a blog about it), you’ll be surprised at just how much relief it can bring.

I can’t wait to show you what the spoils of shaking off Glandular Fever look like for me. Keep your eyes peeled for more news, and listen to this vital tune in the meantime.

Re-blogged by The Belle Jar: Men, Feminism & Mental Health

My third article for The Belle Jar Magazine.

Belle Jar

A while ago, I came across this fascinating article by Holly Baxter. It discussed the ‘clear gender bias’ in suicide statistics. Jane Powell, the head of the male suicide prevention charity Campaign Against Living Miserably (CALM.) states:

“The simple, numerical fact of the matter is that men are dying by their own hand far more than women. We need to tackle that immediately.”

I mentioned the article to my Mum. She knows many of the people I admire (Kurt Cobain, Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf) all ended their lives through suicide, and she often worries this is the aspect of them that I idolise. It isn’t, I admire the artists, not their demise. However, I am interested in mental health, and strive to understand people and their perspectives. Fortunately, we have never lost a loved one through suicide and hopefully it will always be that way.

mental health

The conversation stayed with me…

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