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Under the ivy

Author: Steff
Published: May 2011

Still in her early twenties, Steff has moved on from her experience of psychosis and is using her new found confidence and insight to help others. Embracing life and gaining new skills from her recovery journey, she shares her thoughts on medication, having a supportive relationship with medical staff, the positive effect of volunteering and her passion for blogging to share her recovery experiences.

I rarely think about the past – if I'm being honest. When I do allow my conscious mind to wander there I find myself struggling through a pool of thick grey sludge. Psychosis has done this to me, making the few memories from my most difficult time vague and dark. The tiny fractured particles that I do remember are that of nightmares. My past was once hopeless. However, despite this somewhat bleak history, I currently find myself at a balanced point of life and with an optimistic future. How did I recover?

I should start by saying that I have by no means made what I would consider a full recovery, but when I compare myself to how I was at the start of all this then I am very proud of what I have managed to achieve and am grateful for the support that I received (even if it was not appreciated at the time) from my mental health team, family and friends.

My story begins in 2007. I was half way through the third year of my radiography degree and I was struggling. Having just returned from a successful clinical placement in Dundee I was back in Glasgow learning how to operate the intricate machines. In the space of the next few months I went from a cheerful and able student to someone who did not want to leave the house. I was persuaded by my concerned friends to visit the doctor where I was diagnosed with depression after a ten minute consultation and given the usual drugs. They did nothing for me. When I managed to actually drag myself into placements I found that the pills made me too drowsy to operate the machinery safely so I was forced to saying goodbye.

I spent a lonely year under the radar, living on my partner's meagre wages and my ever decreasing student overdraft. It never occurred to me to claim benefits at this time – I did not think I would be entitled to any and anyway that would have involved going outside. I refer to this period as ‘the isolation’. We lived in a tiny dark flat miles away from our friends and in a part of the city too expensive for us. Fearful as ever, I now would only leave the flat after dark for a heavyhearted walk around the area where we lived. I spent my partner's working day lying in bed – drifting in and out of miserable sleep. It was around this time that I became fed up of the drowsed state that the antidepressants put me in so decided to stop taking them.

Things seemed good for a little while. Without the cursed drugs slowing down my responses I felt that I had been given a new lease of life. We moved into a flat three miles down the road and in one of my favourite parts of town. The flat had mice and damp but I couldn’t have been happier; unfortunately I was fighting a losing battle. The feelings of wanting to be alone suddenly intensified. I had real trouble sleeping and then one dreamless night I got up and opened the window for some fresh air. It was then that something flew through the window and into my soul. I could not see it but it made its presence known!

Despite feeling this thing grow inside me I decided that it was high time that I got myself a job. I got some interviews and eventually landed an easygoing job dealing with people's benefits. Things were getting desperate. To avoid giving myself time to think I started a course that would allow me to volunteer as an English tutor with refugees. This was, of course, counterproductive. I had been hearing the voice of the thing inside me for months at this point but it was now joined by a cruel chorus of dead relatives. They told me that my co-workers wanted to get me sacked. Terrified, I retreated into a corner of the office and shook. The radio stopped its playlist and began to broadcast my petrified thoughts. I started to spend hours in the toilet – feeling safe behind a locked door. I stopped being myself – I became something unexplainable.

I quit my job. This did nothing to relieve the symptoms of what was now a full blown episode of psychosis. I had become delusional about my partner and would scream whenever he came near me, culminating in the police coming to our door. They advised me to seek help. It was at this point that I was made to get that help by my partner and a very caring medical student friend.

This was my first stay in a psychiatric ward. The hospital was many miles away from my flat and in quite a rough part of town that I had never visited. It might as well have been the moon. Of course, like most first timers, I didn't think I should have been there at all and I deeply resented the whole experience. I was started on antipsychotic drugs and responded well enough to be allowed to go home after a short period.

Not enjoying the side effects and being rather petulant, thinking that I knew better than any of the experts I had encountered, I ceremoniously threw my tablets in the bin and had a massive relapse. I was hospitalised again but it would take yet another self-caused relapse and a third stay in hospital before I managed to gain enough insight into my condition to see that I needed the drugs and to rationalise to myself why they were necessary. I believe that it was at this moment that I finally began my long awaited journey to recovery.

The first positive thing that I did was being truthful with my medical team; no longer having to lie about taking medication or my symptoms meant that I could open up to them about other issues. When I had been ill and unable to manage my affairs either my medical team or my family dealt with my housing and money. Now that I was feeling better I was able to manage my finances on my own, which increased my confidence and made me feel more self-reliant. I was able to negotiate a move into a new flat, which gave me a much needed fresh start. However, this in itself was not enough. I wanted to do more. I wanted to embrace life. I wanted to make up for lost time.

It was a long time coming but I was finally able to use the people skills I had gained on my course by volunteering with asylum-seeking women at a local charity. I am still there now and, even though I can only currently manage a few hours a week, the effect it has on me is tremendous. Dealing with refugees who have suffered a great deal has made me put my own illness into perspective. I also feel that I have developed an empathy that allows me to successfully work through the problems that they face. Through this I am slowly starting to like myself again. If losing my sense of self was death, then I have been reborn.

Psychosis is a destructive force on the life of a young person. It damages your life in so many cruel and interesting ways. I lost all that I considered important: my future career, a fair few of my friends and my creativity. However, I no longer see psychosis as the end of my life – merely a fork in the road. Recently I have been given new and radical insights into what path my life should now take and I have found new ways of coping with my illness. I have a new, more positive perspective and I am realistic about my aims. I have made peace with the fact that I will not be able to be a radiotherapist and I have discovered that, even after everything, I am still patient and caring but now I am also strong and able to deal with tough challenges – skills that I hope will lead me to a career in social work.

In regards to friends who stopped speaking to me when I became ill? I used to spend hours agonising over this and blaming myself for people abandoning me, but now I can see only the positives – the fake friends have been weeded out and I have been left with the supportive friends, the caring friends and those who are not afraid to treat my condition with black humour. I've learned to laugh along. Giggling is terribly important in recovery!

My desire to write has also returned. When I was in hospital I would sit with a white sheet of paper and stare at the page unable to fill it. Now my brain is full of ideas just waiting to burst out. The internet has been a wonderful tool in regards to this – blogging has given me a platform for all my little words. I write almost exclusively about mental health and specifically recovery. Through this I have received messages from around the world. Whilst my concentration is still not good and it takes me a long time to write anything, I am happy that I am able to do it.

Mental illness has certainly changed my life almost beyond recognition but I am claiming it back bit by bit.

Visit Steff's blog: psychosis and soyabeans.

If you’d like to share your thoughts or experiences of recovery, then contact the Scottish Recovery Network on This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it or 0141 240 7790 to discuss.

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Story disclaimer

The stories presented here are for information only. They are meant to inspire hope and show that recovery can and does happen. The stories highlight various examples of recovery and we do not advocate any of these experiences as the ‘right’ way to recover. Recovery is an individual and unique process, each person must decide for himself or herself what will work for them. Please carefully consider any decisions you make about your own recovery and consult with someone you trust if you feel unsure.

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