IN the mirror, I apply a sweep of bright red lipstick.
I don't know much about the woman I'm meeting. I found her profile on a website where you search for this sort of thing. But she has a kind smile in her photo and wrote that she understands this is a strange way to meet someone. I absolutely concur. I think we'll get along.
I've chosen my outfit carefully. I want to look together, smart, maybe a little bit stylish, but like I've made no effort too. As I nervously prepare to leave the house I’m already formulating the small talk I’ll offer up to ease the awkwardness of those first few minutes before we get down to business.
I know what you're thinking. But I'm not about to cheat on my husband. I'm off to my first counselling session.
Like one in six people in Scotland, I’ve long suffered from mental health problems. In my case, I got an unlucky double whammy: a long line of generational mental illness featuring big ticket items like schizophrenia and bipolar disorder and then a childhood deprived and chaotic enough to ingrain the belief that the world was a harsh, frightening place.
Read more: The Herald's new columnist Kerry Hudson on Glasgow community
If you're reading this and you’re part of my dubious club, then first of all, congratulations, you made it through January, the bleakest, skintest, darkest month of the year. It’s no small feat just to make it to February and we’re so almost there with every day bringing a bit more light.
I recently told a friend that I white-knuckled my way through my twenties, on a roller coaster propelled by my messed up brain chemistry. I grew up in working class communities where mental illness was simply called being ‘highly strung’ and everyone had problems with which to contend.
The idea of talking therapy never even occurred to me, that was for rich women who wore pearl earrings and called olives ‘amuse bouche’ without any irony. My dad had been addicted to Valium and so I had a deep fear of mental health medication. Instead, I used crying on buses, extreme diets and enough booze to satiate a tanker full of sailors as my main coping mechanisms. Not so much crutches as sticks to beat myself.
But when I was 32 an amazing, astounding thing happened: Random House decided they would publish my first novel. Me, a girl who grew up in what other people thought were the worst parts of Coatbridge, who had left school at 15 to work as a waitress, I was going to have a book published.
Because that felt like a fairytale, I began to believe that maybe magic was possible. Maybe a different future was possible, and so I went to the doctor and I told him I was scared all the time and I couldn’t stop crying. That, though it looked to everyone else as if I was smiling and waving, I was drowning.
The doctor was gentle and entirely unfazed by my decade-long secret. First, he prescribed little pink pills to ease my sudden bouts of anxiety that would lead to me twitching and gasping for breath. Later, we supplemented these with lemon and lime Prozac capsules which settled over me, subduing my ever-present feeling of dread like a warm, soft blanket.
I want you to know that if you recognise some of yourself in these words things can get easier and better. It's been on my mind often that the cost of living crisis will have affected people who were used to certain things to cope: gym membership, therapy or simply a little bit of time off work when they needed it.
Add that to the constant, grinding financial pressure most of us are facing and it’s absolutely understandable to be struggling. I hope it will help you to know that it is possible to come through the hardest of times and not just survive but actually be joyful.
I do wish I hadn’t left it so late. I wish I had gone to the doctor sooner, sought out sliding scale or free counselling. I wish I had known that simply seeking help, admitting I wasn’t OK, would feel like a pressure valve being released. That the one step forward, one of the hardest I’ve ever taken, would be enough to motivate myself to take another step forward and then another until I reached ‘here’.
Read more: Kerry Hudson – 'Libraries were a lifesaver for me'
‘Here’ for me has been no picnic, in the last three years. I had a much-longed for complicated pregnancy during a pandemic in a foreign country, found out I had an incurable near-fatal rare airway condition and then realised that we'd have to leave our adopted Prague and take our family of five – me, my husband, our Tasmanian toddler, a rescue dog the size of a small pony and neurotic black cat – home to Glasgow to access medical treatment.
But ‘here’ is manageable for me now in a way it wasn’t in the past. I want my son to grow up with a stable parent who models self-care. Ironically, now I have access to counselling regularly, I probably need it less than ever. Over a decade of mental health medication that works, dipping in and out of low-cost therapy, meditation, sleep hypnosis, exercise, plus, honestly, luck and cathartically writing about my own experiences, means I’m doing OK.
Back in Glasgow, I hurry through the drizzle. For once this counselling is not an Elastoplast on a broken arm. Instead, this is maintenance on the life I have built. I walk down into the office; two small green velvet chairs, a box of tissue on the table between us. My counsellor smiles, warm, professional, her accent reminds me of the strong women I grew up with. She asks, ‘How are you feeling?’
I smile and I tell her, genuinely, ‘Actually, I feel really good.’
Kerry Hudson is an award-winning Scottish author
For free/low-cost Scottish health resources: https://www.citizensadvice.org.uk/scotland/health/nhs-healthcare-s/mental-health-s
Why are you making commenting on The Herald only available to subscribers?
It should have been a safe space for informed debate, somewhere for readers to discuss issues around the biggest stories of the day, but all too often the below the line comments on most websites have become bogged down by off-topic discussions and abuse.
heraldscotland.com is tackling this problem by allowing only subscribers to comment.
We are doing this to improve the experience for our loyal readers and we believe it will reduce the ability of trolls and troublemakers, who occasionally find their way onto our site, to abuse our journalists and readers. We also hope it will help the comments section fulfil its promise as a part of Scotland's conversation with itself.
We are lucky at The Herald. We are read by an informed, educated readership who can add their knowledge and insights to our stories.
That is invaluable.
We are making the subscriber-only change to support our valued readers, who tell us they don't want the site cluttered up with irrelevant comments, untruths and abuse.
In the past, the journalist’s job was to collect and distribute information to the audience. Technology means that readers can shape a discussion. We look forward to hearing from you on heraldscotland.com
Comments & Moderation
Readers’ comments: You are personally liable for the content of any comments you upload to this website, so please act responsibly. We do not pre-moderate or monitor readers’ comments appearing on our websites, but we do post-moderate in response to complaints we receive or otherwise when a potential problem comes to our attention. You can make a complaint by using the ‘report this post’ link . We may then apply our discretion under the user terms to amend or delete comments.
Post moderation is undertaken full-time 9am-6pm on weekdays, and on a part-time basis outwith those hours.
Read the rules hereLast Updated:
Report this comment Cancel