I thought I’d start this blog off by giving you all a little insight into my story so far. It’s quite convoluted and complicated and I will probably talk on for a fair while so apologies for my inability to write anything concisely.

My mental health journey properly started when I was diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa, Generalised Anxiety Disorder and Depression at the age of 16. My life very quickly became a whirlwind of doctors’ appointments and sessions with a therapist at CAMHS. I’d never even heard of an eating disorder when I was diagnosed – or maybe I had and I just refused to give myself that label, because of course nothing was wrong with me, right? Mealtimes became fraught with arguments happening more times than they didn’t. I don’t actually remember many arguments, but my sister and parents have both assured me that it was fairly commonplace and so I’m trusting their version of events! It really does go to show how an eating disorder can warp your reality and tint all your memories.

School lunches became an extremely tense and anxiety provoking time – I had to eat with a teacher to ensure that I was actually eating. I hated it. My friends got to go out for lunch or eat together in the common room whilst I was sat in an office with a member of staff keeping tabs on what I actually ate, or in many cases, didn’t eat. I remember more arguments at school, as if I thought I was more likely to get away with it there. The rules were pretty set in stone though – I ate, or I went home. And if I didn’t turn up to the office at the right time then I was pulled from my 5^th period lesson. All of this was going on whilst I attempted to study for my AS Levels in Psychology, Biology, Theology and English Literature. It’s probably unsurprising to learn that I didn’t fare particularly well because my eating disorder, in particular, was dictating my every move. 

I ended up repeating my first year of A Levels and somehow managed to leave Sixth Form with grades of AAB and a place at university to study Psychology. Finally, my life felt like it was gradually getting back on track. To cut an incredibly long story short – things weren’t really back on track, and I had to leave after 6 months which was absolutely devastating but looking back some years on, I can absolutely see that it was the right decision and is something that I have started to feel at peace with. Of course, no one wanted my attempt at university to ‘fail’ (I don’t think it’s fair to say it failed completely – I was doing well academically, I was just still incredibly unwell without really realising it) and even though I can see that it was the right decision to leave, it feels very bittersweet!

18 months later I was ready to embark on the university journey once more. I felt confident that things would be different this time around – I had support in place from the get-go and I was so excited to be back studying again. I was also closer to home this time and also had my car with me which definitely helped me to feel more confident – I knew I could go home whenever I wanted, and I’d like to think that both myself and my family had begun to learn from the mistakes that I made the first time around. But my body had different ideas. This time it wasn’t my mental health that started to deteriorate, rather my physical health.

In December of my first year, I went into urinary retention spontaneously. I just woke up one morning and couldn’t wee. This had happened around 5 months prior but was linked with a kidney infection and resolved itself as soon as the underlying infection was treated. This time there was no infection to treat. There was no obvious cause to the retention, and it did, unfortunately, take doctors some time to actually believe my version of events. I know that it was an unusual set of symptoms and therefore no one really knew what to say or do, but it dragged on too long and I ended up taking myself to hospital after 5 days of being unable to empty my bladder. This should be physically impossible, but that was the problem – for some unknown reason, it wasn’t impossible. I was called a medical mystery one too many times but eventually had over two litres drained from my bladder – I’m lucky it didn’t rupture! 

Unfortunately, the hospital tried to blame my mental health. They, wrongly, assumed that I had taken an overdose and asked the mental health team to come and assess me – something that really confused myself and my mum when they came to introduce themselves to me! Luckily, I had mum to back me up, and we assured them that I had taken nothing and didn’t need to see them. I was allowed to go home which was just as well as it was the week before Christmas, and I didn’t fancy Southampton General Hospital being the place where I had to celebrate. However, no one had checked that my retention had resolved itself and, as it hadn’t, I went straight back into retention. Christmas that year was pretty miserable – I seem to remember a lot of curling up in a ball and trying to pretend I wasn’t in pain when it was incredibly obvious that I was in a considerable amount of pain.

Mum convinced me to go back to the hospital local to them on Boxing Day and I reluctantly agreed – I didn’t really want to go back somewhere where I felt they would just place the blame on an overdose that I hadn’t taken. However, our experience couldn’t have gone any better – firstly, we got to the hospital before any of the Christmas ‘rush’ and, secondly, they actually believed me and took me seriously (that’s probably the more important takeaway from this)! I was catheterised fairly quickly, another huge amount was drained, and I was sent home with a catheter in situ and an appointment with urology for the new year. I’m pretty sure we stopped at McDonalds on our way home – because nothing says Boxing Day like a burger and apple pie, right?! (It obviously doesn’t – I’d much rather have had leftover turkey sandwiches but hey ho). 

When I returned to university to start my second semester things felt very different. I had a catheter for one and whilst it may seem like something insignificant, it didn’t feel it. I had to try and adapt to life with an extra bag attached to me and I didn’t know where on earth to begin. I was eventually taught how to self-catheterise which is where you insert a small catheter into your bladder but then remove it once you are done – it’s something that is far more discreet than having a permanent tube and bag. But with this self-catheterisation lesson, came the devastating news that the urology team didn’t feel my bladder would ever regain its function. I was given a diagnosis of detrusor failure and Fowler’s Syndrome. Detrusor failure means that the main muscle in my bladder has failed and doesn’t contract and relax as it should and Fowler’s Syndrome is, it’s simplest form, when the urethral sphincter doesn’t relax to let urine out. Some people with Fowler’s are in partial retention and some, like myself, are in full retention.

I’m very lucky that my consultant in Bath has been amazing right from the start because I genuinely couldn’t have gotten through things without him in my corner. Fowler’s is something that people have never heard of – rarely have doctors that I meet come across it, let alone people without medical training. This development did cause a drastic decline in my mental health (understandably so – I had a whole new life to contend with) and I did eventually end up being detained under the mental health act for several months. I was NG tube fed against my will and eventually transferred to an adult acute psychiatric ward in the city where I now live. I’m aware that I’m skipping fairly briefly through this – partly because I feel I have rambled for long enough now, and partly because it still feels very raw and painful to think about. I had some incredibly traumatic experiences during that time – some of which I am sure I’ll cover in future posts, but some are for therapy talk only. I was discharged from the admission to a mental health residential care home where I lived for 18 months – COVID life in a care home was a strange experience for sure, but again that’s a story for another time! And I eventually moved on to my flat which is where I have been for another 18 months. Which brings us to now – not exactly loving life, but not hating it either. Not really living, kind of just surviving and plodding along – but sometimes that is all we can do. And hey, I’ve been on my own for 18 months which is a pretty huge achievement! 

I’ll wrap things up now – this is my journey so far. Long, convoluted, messy, painful. But also filled with moments of joy and some pretty amazingly incredible people on my team. 

All my love,

Anna x