Preparing to recrudesce

“Recrudesce” is a word I discovered in Sarah L. Kaufman’s fun little book, Verb Your Enthusiasm, which I’ll confess I bought solely because of its title.

To “recrudesce” is to break out anew following a quiet period, so it’s a particularly appealing verb for those autumnal re-entrances into work and life.  But it’s also an appealing verb if, like me, you are going through what the NHS describes as a “mental health crisis”.

I’ve always had mental health issues (doesn’t everyone, I’m tempted to insert here, and indeed I have!).  They’ve smouldered in the back of my mind, where there’s a continuous hum of anxiety that sounds a bit like a knackered old fridge.  The noise isn’t right; it’s a sign that you should fix or replace the fridge… but not now, because the milk is still fresh and there are more important things to do.

And then the fridge breaks down completely.  It’s annoying and it’s inconvenient and it takes you utterly by surprise, even though (of course) it was inevitable, and now, suddenly, you’re on a desperate quest for a new fridge.  One that will hopefully be delivered and nicely cold before everything that was in the old fridge goes off and starts stinking the place out.

Let’s be clear, I’m not actually talking about a fridge. Fridges are just easier to talk about, or at least to introduce into a conversation, than fragile states of mind.  What tipped mine over the edge is hard to pin down exactly, but the weather hasn’t helped.  There’s been something terrifyingly apocalyptic about these shouty, violent, non-stop heatwaves, hasn’t there?  (Or, as all the terrible comedians say, is that just me?).

Then there’s the fact that I’ve just turned 49, which someone once told me is the climacteric, because the cells in your body replace themselves every seven years, and 7 x 7 = 49.  There have been some major family bereavements, and then we arrive at menopause.  Look: as much as I hate all the banging on about it, menopause does not help.  I saw my GP today, because I am desperate, and the moment he saw my patient record, he laughed.  “You’re 49,” he said, knowingly, as though that in itself is the problem.  But then, maybe it is.

I didn’t think I would be 49.  I worried about anything and everything when I was a kid, and top of the list was that I would certainly die before I turned 22.  My terrible mother was studying palmistry, and when I peeked at one of her silly books on the subject, I saw that I had a short lifeline.  (I was eight years old, of course I had a short lifeline!).  I don’t know how 22 came into the mix, but I was convinced all the same.  I was not going to live to a ripe old age, and I was not going to live a happy life.  Disaster was coming for me, but probably when I least expected it, so best to stay alert and on guard.

I’ve been alert and on guard for my entire life, and it’s tiring, is what it is.  Something has to change.

My husband David says he’s proud of me for seeking help* with this “mental health crisis”, which is exceedingly, brain-shatteringly scary, and unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.  But I suppose I’m proud of myself, too.  Seeking help is standing up for yourself; it means you think you’re worth seeking help for, which I do.

And here we reach the whole “preparing to recrudesce” thing.  Because trust me, when I do recrudesce, it’s going to be fantastic.

*Here’s what I’ve been doing and using, just in case you’re in need of help, too.

• Neurocycle app which takes daily work and effort, but the little breakthroughs are real and the science behind the process is solid.
• Talking to my husband and best friend, who are my favourite people in the world and who utterly, 100%, have my back.
• The School of Life articles, for calm wisdom in strange moments of dread.
• Talking to my GP, who aside from that initial mention of my age, was helpful in recommending next steps for me. I’ll admit I didn’t want to go to the surgery, but as I said, I was desperate so I did.  Happily, when I got there I wasn’t made to feel like a burden, or that I was wasting my GP’s time.  I was taken as seriously as I should have been.