Why do sick people wear pyjamas?

I work in a hospital so sick people wearing pyjamas is genuinely par for the course. They wear pyjamas all the time, go anywhere in them, outside, inside, Starbucks, the lot. It's never really made me think about why, until this morning.

I needed a shower this morning. I don't believe in showering every day (your skin makes natural oils for a very good reason) so I dragged myself up to the bathroom. When I'm 'not at my best', personal care is like climbing a big pointless hill for me. The prospect of putting make up on is, well, frankly hideous. I have to force myself to brush my teeth. Like, really force.

So I dragged my sorry backside in the shower, feeling like I'd achieved something. Normally, I could spend hours in the shower. I love it. Hate baths, adore showers. Then the terrible realisation hits home. Being in the shower gives birth to the terrible reality that I'm going to have to a) get dried, and worst of all, b) get dressed.

I have no interest in putting clothes on currently. They are purely functional items, to stop me getting arrested and/or cold. At this moment in time, selecting five or six individual items to put on my person, is a terribly overwhelming task. If you don't suffer in this way, you may not understand this, but it genuinely is, a terrible prospect. So that's where the pyjamas come in. Warm, decent, comfortable, easy to launder and zero effort involved whatsoever.

I've often thought that pyjama wearing is to do with comfort in hospital or sick beds, but there are lots of items that are just as comfortable. I thought maybe because they are easy to manouvre for proceedures etc, I think that's certainly a factor.

But I think getting dressed is more of a statement. It says - 'I feel okay', 'I am ready to participate in the world', 'I have a sufficient amount of respect for myself and I posess the energy and intention to make an effort and move forward in the world'. Pyjama wearing says 'I have bigger fish to fry than what items to put on' and to a degree I think it says 'I'm healing' or 'I'm not feeling great - putting clothes on is not something I just can do today'

Today is very much a pyjama day. And I still haven't brushed my teeth,

What's the Point?

No, seriously, what actually is the point? In anything? Life?

That's when I know I'm having a bad bout (current status)it's that despite having LOTS of things to look forward to, and I do mean lots, I just can't see the point in anything. We're all going to go the same way in the end, so what's the point.

I don't wish to alarm anyone at all here, I'm not in an 'unsafe place' or anything, but despite knowing full well that the point is to live, laugh, love, participate, enjoy and all of that; but when you're in the dark place you just don't have the courage of your convictions. Well I don't anyway.

I read an article about something related to this a little while ago. It's a milder version but there's a syndrome that has recently been named and it's running rife through all sorts of people of all ages, but particularly the slightly more youthful (although it's creeping into the older generations more and more I wouldn't mind betting). It's called 'Party Syndrome' a description coined by Alfred James who writes the Pocket Mindfulness blog.

The feeling that there is perpetually a party going on somewhere near to you but that you're not invited to. This is exacerbated by marketing executives who sell the image of new motherhood being like a Johnsons Baby commercial (yeah right) and the suave sophistication and sexual prowess you'll achieve if you only bought that new Audi (you get the 'how to drive like a cock' lessons thrown in free) and the fact that if you're not having perfect, spontaneous adventures with your gorgeous friends kite surfing off the great barrier reef at sunset wearing a vintage Armani bathing suit, then frankly, your existence is an embarrassment to the planet.

We all know it's horse shit, but it creeps into the psyche of all of us, and the emotionally fragile even more so.

Of course it's wonderful and necessary to have aspirations, dreams, but they must be yours. I like to travel, haven't done enough of it at all. But I don't like the idea of selling everything I own and travelling the world in a camper van like a wonderful couple of friends I have. I'm jealous of their freedom, I'm jealous of the views the have when they wake in the morning, the fact that their cleaning must take a maximum of 15 minutes a week, but it's not for me. I like my roots. I have to be working towards something planned and specific at all times or life really is pointless for me.

James and I are planning our next holiday away. There are so many places to chose from, but we are thinking we might go for the total opposite of glorious, wonderful Budapest (where I left a bit of my heart). Benidorm. Yes, that really is the opposite - and my god does it sound fun. I'm going to find the crappest karaoke, the corniest cabaret and the dreadfullest (clutching at straws there) drag artists.

I was watching the BBC series Benidorm a while back and one of the characters said "there's two types of people that come to Benidorm. Those who come to Benidorm and those who never go anywhere else." Isn't that wonderful. Unless you're one of those who 'never goes anywhere else'. But then, if they're genuinely happy with that, then they're winning at life more than I am currently.

I find when I'm not very well that my mind likes to hurt me just that little bit more by pointing out that I'm 'wasting my life', 'will never come to anything because of the shitty life choices you've made, which means you'll never snorkel in Armani off the Barrier Reef because you won't be able to afford it' (I don't even like snorkeling - there's fish in there you know). This ideal life that they're pushing everywhere you look, it's not healthy. It's putting too much pressure on us and we're not learning how to deal with it. We must teach out children that media is not real. Beauty is not perfection, and their ideas do not have to be the same as your ideas of what makes a valuable life.

It's mean and it's cruel and it's not fair. I find myself now able to self check with kindness and compassion, this is utterly down to Mindfulness practice, but it doesn't take away the underlying feeling. No, I don't react to those feelings any more - I can manage my chimp much better than I used to be able to, but it's tough. And tiring.

So if you ever feel like you're missing out on all this fun that everyone else is having because they all have a) more friends b) more money c) more free time and d) perfect mental health - it's a myth. We all feel like that from time to time, sadly some more than others. I know life will regain it's purpose and point soon ( I hope) but currently, it's a bit hopeless.

Ah well, at least I'm not Kanye West, eh? Every cloud and all that...

First (and hardest) Port of Call

The slippery slope is well and truly underway and you're hurtling, full force, towards a feeling that you will never be less exhausted, less desperate, less isolated and less "black" ever, ever again. You have to do something. You mentally and physically don't know what to do with yourself.

So what do you do?

Only recently has it become apparent that every A&E has an emergency mental health team dedicated to it. I bloody wish I'd known about it when I was 16. They were some of my worst times and they truly scared me. Young, naive and utterly clueless, there were some bad, bad times. I spent a few miserable nights in the Samaritans offices in Newport where I was advised to see my GP. I had no idea what about, how, why etc. etc. etc.

And that's where the GP misery started.

"How can I help you today?" The dreaded words. Ummmmm...

First, you have to explain what you don't understand yourself. The whole time trying to justify yourself AND get across the fact that that you no longer want to exist any more but at the same time the whole British "stiff upper lip" that is intrinsically embedded in our terribly British psche is playing fuck with us for being impolite and a bit embarrassed; all while telling a potential complete stranger of the darkest, terrifying parts of your mind.

Then you have to wait, mentally stripped naked and the most vulnerable you've ever felt, for the verdict.

It could go a variety of ways. And trust me, over the years, there have been some variations. Some kind, well meaning Doctors have tried to help in generally clueless ways - a few years ago I was prescribed gardening (I was suicidal at the time) as a great way of "taking my mind off things" where as in approximately 1995 while living miserably in Neath, socially isolated from everyone I knew and realising that I had made a terrible mistake in my choice of life-partner, I broke down on my GP - with hindsight suffering from severe post natal depression.

"My life's a mess, I'm miserable I'm alone, I have no one, I have no idea what I'm doing with this baby, I'm scared but I don't know what of etc. etc. etc...." (I was 18 years old at the time) crying my heart out so much so that I couldn't breathe. The GP very helpfully offered in return "So what do you want me to do about it?"

I pray to Dog no one ever has to go through that these days. But I'm not entirely sure.

I've seen some GPs who stop you within one sentence, acknowledge your mental anguish and kindly and gently direct some appropriate questions at you to give you the best help they can. Some will go waaaaaaaaaay over the allotted time for you because they see your desperation, and appreciate the situation. Who knows, maybe they've glimpsed this misery themselves?

My very good friend took herself to her GP a year or so ago. She'd recently been diagnosed with Adult ASD. The GP told her she was "too intelligent" to be autistic and that she should "just get on with it".

But I suppose mere mortals aren't immune to the unhelpful advice either. "Stop moaning and get on with it", "what have you got to be depressed about?", "what are you feeling anxious about?" all NOT HELPFUL. But that's a different blog post.

The worst part for me about being ill is having to go to a GP. It's not just because of the bad experiences, it's unpleasant trying to explain something invisible to someone and simply rely on their sense of empathy to treat you accordingly.

My GP is great and I know she will always be great. But what if she's sick that day and there's a locum? What if she's having a bad day? Unlikely, but possible.

Stories regularly find their way to me about terrible GP experiences and I feel this to be totally unacceptable. It's dangerous. I'm quite a tough old bird who knows the lie of the land, but what if the patient is sensitive, fragile, even more vulnerable and they are met with that response. Well, I bet terrible things like that have actually happened. And they mustn't ever again.

I am seeing change in the NHS treatment of MH conditions, but it's just too slow. Too little, too late.

I'd like to hear from you. What have you experienced?

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