Barred from court - for being depressed

I had a jury summons the other day.  I duly filled it in and returned it, requesting a deferral on the grounds that as a minister the two weeks before Easter were too busy to be away. I also answered the medical question admitting to depression.  Today I had a letter telling me that I am excused because I am ineligible to serve.

The guidance form has two lists of those ruled out of jury service essentially the bad and the mad - those with a conviction in the last 10 years, or for longer than 5 years; whilst the other list covers 'mental disorders'.  This list covers disorders and disabilities, those with limited capacity, those in hospital and those under the doctor for mental health issues.  Reading that again I should perhaps have realised, but when sending off the form I was naive enough to think that it would take more than an antidepressant medication to be excluded.

Afterall there are others whose illness doesn't automatically exclude them but if too unwell to serve can apply to be excused. There is a difference between times when I have been too depressed to function and times when we are fully functioning - but just because we are on meds we are ruled out. Full stop.

I have served before, in a former pre-collared life, back then clergy were ruled out of jury service so I didn't expect to serve again anyway. But it feels very different to be ruled out on your job than because of your illness. It feels as if I have been labelled as incapable of the role because the condition I am managing is a mental rather than a physical one, it is an assumption not based on my current health but a blanket rejection of a group of society.

Giving up......gaining control

It is Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent, the formal start of the journey towards Easter. What does it mean to you? For my diary it means special Bible studies groups to plan for, soup lunches for Christian Aid fundraising, and a need to find time to plan all the special services. And somewhere in all that I hope to find time for my own spiritual reflections - indeed I must if I am to have anything to share with others.

Lent for many people is a time of giving up something - to fast or go without. Sometimes that can drift into a formal rule but the intent is one of sacrifice, of a commitment that costs - which is why going without coffee would be meaningless for me as I never drink the ghastly, nasty smelling stuff anyway. Others choose to make that commitment by taking something on. Either way it is about a change in the rythym of life that shows a priority to God in some manner.

I have friends who will be away from facebook for Lent, or giving up other time consuming temptations. I have chosen to give up alcohol. Along with chocolate, drinking is one of the common lenten fasts but I have my own reasons why I want to do this.  I have become concerned that a glass of red wine after a busy day has become more than one and nearly every night. I drink alone because I live alone but the warning sign is that I would be embarrassed if anyone knew, even fellow wine drinkers. 

I am not claiming the title but this week's Panaroma looked at 'Hidden Alcoholics'  and towards the end (26.40) one of the group commented that it was not the drunk but could be just two glasses a night if that is a need, and the challenge is whether you can do without it.  Lent seems a perfect time to take that challenge and try and break a habit that I have been increasingly worried about. I'll let you know how it goes on the other side of Easter.

Doh, re, mi....

Today I had my first singing lesson.

A professional singing teacher and friend through the local Am Dram group (we were in a play together in the autumn) has taken me under her wing and offered to help me find my singing voice.  Apparently from today's session I have a big voice, which is a Good Thing but needs discipline.  (Or maybe I am just a noisy bossy type!)

I remember going with a group of us to sign up for the school choir which had just lost a lot of people leaving school and so weren't being fussy about who they took on.  After a couple of times I was asked to mime - I was bad, but worse than that I was enthusiastic and loud enough to drag those around me off piste too.

Yep, you did read that right - I wasn't asked to leave, they were keen enough to have bodies on stage, so I could stay if I mimed!  Didn't see the point of that and left of my own accord. Since then I have believed that I can't sing. Not the greatest problem in the world - I can't catch a ball either - but it does have an impact in this job. I have had funeral hymn solo moments, and it would be good to share new music with congregations but that takes enough confidence to lead it from the front. 

So having some faith in my voice would be helpful for work - but more than that it attacks the ideas I have which focus on all the things I can't do.  As a child/teen I was told by the bullies that I was ugly, and no-one would ever fancy me; I had been bulllied at first in primary school because of my speech therapy, and then told my attempts to sing were a distraction and to mime.  Is it any wonder that my confidence and self esteem were low!

We can go through adult life in a trimmed down version of ourselves - wings clipped by those ideas others put on us in our early days. Or we can gradually spread our wings and find that the bullied ugly duckling is actually a swan.

I stood in the music room today struggling to believe that I could have a trainable, useable singing voice - but if I dare to believe and work at it who knows what is possible? Okay so I might be a bit too busy for X factor or Pop/Opera Idol, but if I can reach the point of believing in myself and singing with confidence in church that will suit me fine.

So I will be practising my suppressed yawn (to get the 'open throat') and my posture, and if you hear a scream or shout it is just me finding my full volume and range!

The power of honesty

Whilst I was off sick the deadline came for my community newsletter article. It was work but I decided to do it – 200 words in which I was open about my depression and discussed how common it was but little mentioned. I sent it off with the usual service dates etc and rolled back under my duvet.  It came out at the start of February and I have had the greatest response ever to a piece I have written.  I had worried if it was a bit self-indulgent, but at the village coffee morning today I had several conversations with people about themselves or family experiences, others have phoned me to thank me for what I had written. When one person is willing to speak it gives others permission to talk if they need to.

And I have benefited from similar honesty at a meeting of a group of ministers this week, discussing stresses, loneliness, spiritual struggles (as well as the joys).  The opening devotions started with a list of the official criteria for being a minister and how wonderful we must be to tick all those boxes, followed by a clip from the first series of Rev where Adam is ready to lose it in frustration at the job. Being real is part of the chaos of life, and each of us has our own variation of stresses, mine don’t look so bad in comparison – or at least they are familiar and I am used to their quirks.

So all in all I feel affirmed in my wobbliness – we all wobble in our own way and this is mine. And I feel loved and cared for by the people I know and work with.  Nothing is technically different about any of these things today compared to last time I wrote but today I have been very aware of the good stuff, and enjoying that.  Days like today are the life jacket for when the waves crash over and to be savoured.

Learning to swim and breathe

 So just over a week back in work – and it has been the proverbial curate’s egg, good in parts bad in parts. (Makes tangential visit to google to find out where the phrase came from)

It was really good to be back in action on the first Sunday, and though I was underwhelmed by my efforts at Monday’s funeral the congregation was all very positive, and I even fitted in a trip to the gym afterwards.  Elsewhere in the week I had meetings, coffee morning, visits and catching up with youth club admin. 

The start of the week was a high point, I was glad to be back and coming at things fresh, I really felt better than I have in a long time. By Wednesday eve I was emotionally flagging, and on Thursday when an early call let me know that the only thing on the agenda was cancelled, I was ready to call it my day off and spent most of it under the duvet.  I did go out to do some errands as a force of will by teatime, but it was hard going. Friday was a slow start until the gas check engineer arrived when I got myself more organised for a day of admin and achieved a lot before facing my first day back at youth club.

Saturday was a write off – a pyjama day again, whilst fighting a computer infection and thinking about sermons – or mostly not. Sunday was good again – a cosy communion with those who braved the icy pavements at my nearest church and a sermon that somehow came together on the day.  It was another of the ‘world is my oyster’ days with an afternoon trip to the gym followed by facing up to the youth club finances for the weeks I had missed, and with the evening service cancelled for fear of ice in the dark I had enough time to finish the job.  Then this morning another crash day – and as the only day clear of diary commitments (since I am in meetings on my usual day off) decided to roll over and stay there.

It is still early days on the new antidepressants, and at first it can feel like being brought up from the depths to that sudden gasp of air and bright light. I remember from last time as well – it can kick in so suddenly that it is like a diver at risk of bends.

But just because I have been dragged from the depths to the surface doesn’t mean I am fully ready to swim or surf the waves. Just as to a drowning person that first rush of oxygen is almost overwhelming and intoxicating – but it is just the start of the process.  It can feel very threatening to feel the release and then have the waves come back over and catch you off guard.  When you are underwater you are not trying to breathe, even the tiniest baby has the instinct to hold their breath in water. On the surface your mouth is open and when the wave comes you end up swallowing water. At first that seems worse than before but that is the stage I am at now and these swings are part of it. 

Don’t be under any illusions – I can be rational about it now on here but earlier today I felt totally beaten down and overwhelmed, even forcing myself to the gym to ‘do something’ didn’t get my happy chemicals up, I was pushing myself to avoid weeping at one point.  Just one of those swallowing and spluttering moments.

To hope or not to hope - that is the question

You sometimes see them on lampposts, sad, faded, weatherbeaten pleas for help finding a lost pet. Posters from months ago, are they still searching? If not when did they stop, and how do you decide when to let go of hope?

And what about when it is not a pet but a runaway teen, or a missing pensioner...?

In one of the villages I work in the searches have gone on – crowds of volunteers turning out day after day. But when everywhere has been searched, every stone turned, every shed checked, when the regular rhythms of life call out – then the searchers go home. What happens next?

Logic may say hope is gone, but that kind of grief seems wrong, like giving up on someone before it is absolutely certain. Yet it has to be faced, and somehow life for everyone else has to go on, but how? And the community effectively has to ask if it is okay to smile or laugh at things again, whilst living a life that still looks over its shoulder, alert to any clues to the mystery.

But according to the charity Missing People an estimated 250,000 people go missing in the UK each year. Some are like our local experience – where confusion or vulnerability appear to be a cause. Many of them are by choice, getting out of difficult situations or as a result of family tensions, but they become vulnerable by setting out without any resources or support. Often the wider community aren’t involved, family and friends have to deal with it themselves. You hear of parents staying in a house and keeping the missing teen’s room as it was, waiting for them to come home one day. But the prodigal son returning home isn’t that common - is it better to wait in endless, wishful hope, or to move on? Are there times when hope is not good for you?

Now back at work, on Monday I led a funeral, this is both a privilege and a responsibility of my role as a minister. The ritual of a formal goodbye and a time of remembering and celebrating a loved one’s life is important whether done religiously or not. Moving on without these psychological markers, moving on when nothing is definite, is incredibly difficult.

And so I will go to the village hall coffee morning tomorrow, with no answers, no promises of hope, but to sit with them as we ask our questions together.