Being human

Recently I looked after a mental health patient. They were admitted to our ward after having been assessed by the out of hours mental health worker and were waiting for a formal review by the psychiatric team. This happens uncomfortably often on the paediatric ward and really highlights the rise in mental health problems in young people.

As a medical doctor, I saw this young person on the paeds ward round that morning. This was a teenager, a child who was so distressed, terrified and overwhelmed by their own thoughts. Their face was emotionless, yet their eyes full of sadness and fear. The room was silent. The curtains still drawn.

In that moment, I saw the fifteen year old me staring up from under the covers. Exhausted. Vulnerable. Hurting.

I knelt down by the side of the bed and listened. As the patient talked I moved closer. I held their hand. I stayed there.

Some would say this was not in my remit as a medic. After all, I had been told to “go in, say a quick hello and make sure they were medically fit before psych come”. But in that moment, there was no way I was leaving.

So I stayed and I did and said all the things I wish the professionals had said to me the first night I was in hospital at that age. And once the young person felt safer, only then did I leave.

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As soon as I had closed the door, the emotions were overwhelming. Tears poured down my cheeks as I ran towards the doctors’ office. The junior trainee followed me in, sensitively checking I was OK.

I have been pretty honest about my struggles at work- people know that I have had serious mental health problems and talking has helped break down the stigma. As I sat crying, the two junior trainees with me were incredible. I told them my story. I told them about my admission aged 15 to a psychiatric hospital. I told them I had been suicidal. I told them I had had anorexia… And they listened.

They listened without judging as I explained that I had wanted to open up to the patient. I had wanted to expose my vulnerability and highlight that mental illness is all around us; that they truly weren’t alone. But it seemed wrong; as though I would have been crossing an invisible line between doctor and patient; as though it was a deeply unprofessional thing to do.

My colleagues told me otherwise. They empowered me, they believed in me and they encouraged me to do what felt right.

So later that morning I popped back to the young patient’s cubicle. I knocked, went in and sat on the edge of the bed. I asked permission to tell them something personal that I had never told a patient before but I thought it was important for them to know. They looked confused but agreed.

And so I did it. I explained to the child that at the same age, I had been depressed, I had thought about ending my life and that mental illness is all around us, we just don’t know about it. They were not alone. There was hope that things could be different.

As I stood to leave, the patient whispered

“Please can I have a hug?”

That hug will be one I carry with me forever.


My journey back into medicine

May 2018

I sat sobbing. Unable to see through my tears, I pulled over. My body was shaking. It was early afternoon.

The ward had been exactly as I remembered, yet the familiar surroundings had failed to comfort my growing anxiety. The smiling faces of people I knew were scattered among a sea of others I didn’t recognise. And all I could notice were repetitive, circular thoughts persistently interrupting me.

What do I say? How do I justify my long absence? What words should I use? What will they think?


July 2018

“Come in, take a seat” I chirped, as I ushered him into the clinic room with his parents. We talked, we laughed. I examined him, formulated some kind of a plan and then sent him on his way for a few months. As he left I sighed. The smile slid from my face. Behind the closed door the exhaustion crumpled me once again. I typed my notes staring blankly at the screen.

I took a deep breath and stood to call the next patient.

“Come in, take a seat” I chirped.

Again and again.


August 2018

The child must have been about 7. He was a funny kid, good at football. There was nothing particularly exciting about the consultation but as he left I realised that my smile was no longer as forced. Elements of that interaction that had felt real.

There was feeling where before there had been none.


September 2018

There was a boy on the ward. He was sick; I mean properly sick. I had done what needed to be done from a medical point of view. But this wasn’t about medicine. This was about a poor family, whose life was about to be changed forever.

As I drove home that day, I wished I could have done more, said more. Been there.


November 2018

I was called urgently by one of the nurses. I followed her into the cubicle. Anxious parents hovered over a cot. The baby was listless, skin as white as the sheet upon which she lay. She was sick.

I knew what to do. I did it; almost automatically.

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A lot happens in six months.

From panic attacks at the thought of being on the ward, to leading a resus situation; yes, in many ways I have done it. I have got back to medicine from a place where I thought I could never return.

I am a different doctor now: one who knows their limits, who understands when to slow down and how to ask for help. I am a doctor who accepts their vulnerability.

That said, I still don’t know how I really feel about it all. Somehow the love and enthusiasm that I had in abundance are still not there. Instead, medicine feels somewhat unfulfilling. I leave work wanting more of the things that fall outside of my role. The care, the compassion, the psychological support, the following up and checking in. The being there.

Perhaps it is time for me to think about other options; because yes, I now realise I CAN be a doctor with mental health problems, but the question is, do I WANT to be?

The value of listening

Spring 2001

I lay on the small bed, staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t usually this late.

I had been an inpatient for 2 months by now and knew the drill. He came in the evening, wearing his suit, straight from his practice in town I assumed.  Generally he would knock, then push the door open and perch on a chair squeezed in between the small table and my wicker bed. I would talk. He would act interested. Then he would leave. He rarely, if ever, said anything.

Once in a while I would go to his office. He’d peer over his imposing wooden desk, fountain pen poised over crisp white paper, waiting for me to utter something worthy of scrawling on his pad. On my way back to the ward I would push my way through the overcrowded smoking room, acrid smoke stinging my eyes. At the top of the stairs I’d shuffle past the nurses’ station and slip into my room unnoticed.

I lay waiting but the consultant didn’t come that night. Instead his registrar appeared as I was getting into bed.  Embarrassed, as I was wearing particularly hideous yellow pyjamas, I pulled my duvet up to my chin and shuffled down the mattress. He sat down and started talking to me. I can’t even remember what we talked about but I remember him.  I remember him because for the first time, someone had seen beyond my label, beyond my diagnosis. He saw me.

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Earlier that Spring, the anorexia had reached a point where I couldn’t carry on. My weight was at a critical point. My periods had long stopped. I had been started on antidepressants with little effect. My poor mother didn’t know what to do. I agreed to be admitted but there were no local eating disorders units for me to go to. The postcode lottery meant that this hospital, over an hour from home, was the only place I could get a bed. Somehow it seemed better than nothing.

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Nearly 20 years have passed since I lay on that bed in the psychiatric hospital. A vulnerable teenager locked behind huge iron gates; not allowed to leave.

I can still see people’s faces: the middle aged lady who sat beside me describing her suicide attempt, the bearded man who sat on my bed and cried.

I remember.

I remember the face of the young woman I befriended who then tragically took her life. I remember it all. That was my normal.

And as I replay these images like an old movie in my mind, I see the registrar. The only doctor during those three months who saw me, who listened and who reached out to a young lonely teenager.


Be that doctor. Listen to your patients. See beyond their label. See them for who they really are.

“We all need somebody to lean on”

In the run up to returning to work I tormented myself for days about how I was going to explain my absence to my colleagues. What words could I use to justify being off sick for a year? Should I make up some excuse, pretend I had had another child? Perhaps if I was suitably vague people would get the hint and not ask. A friend jokingly suggested I should explain I’d had really infectious and deadly disease and then cough all over them!

Facing my colleagues was the real hurdle of returning to work. The medicine per se felt like the bit I could do. The rest…. I was returning to a culture that didn’t get me. I was a broken doctor, a doctor who couldn’t cope. A failure.

This is genuinely what I believed.

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Whilst I had been off work things had got pretty bad. Large crowds, busy places and travelling on my own had all become fraught with panic and overwhelming upset. I had isolated myself in order to avoid triggers. I had a few ‘safe’ friends, but gatherings with more than three people…. arghhhhhh. I can still feel it now: tightness in my chest, an irrational fear mixed with dread and panic. Unsurprisingly, I wasn’t exactly relishing the idea of returning to work and having to face a room full of people I didn’t really know.

The first few times I uttered it I remember my voice sounding wobbly: “I have been unwell and had some time off sick.” It sounded so wrong, so foreign. Admitting vulnerability is not something that we do as medics. You could see in people’s response that it isn’t something we are used to hearing  either. A sort of embarrassed “Awww” followed by silence. Why do we find it so hard?

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After a few weeks of being back I started to talk a bit more. I found myself using the phrase “Mental health problems” and surprisingly, nothing bad happened. I began to realise that the worst mental health stigma was in fact what I was inflicting on myself. As I looked around, I saw other doctors struggling, trainees talking about the pressures, the rota gaps, the constant unrelenting demands on them. And then I found Twitter, which has given me access to people, ideas, discussions, support that I cannot begin to describe. My twitter world has made me realise I am not alone. I am not broken. I am human.

With that in mind, I decided that I would speak out. Silence had got me nowhere. Now it was time to share my story. As I described my experience, I hoped that someone somewhere might take solace from knowing they weren’t alone.

And so I talked. I talked to colleagues over coffee, I listened to them share their struggles. I talked at departmental and regional teaching sessions. Because mental illness can happen to anyone and no one should feel ashamed of it. And as I talked, I felt empowered.

Disclosure isn’t for everyone and potential consequences need to be considered carefully. I certainly haven’t shared all the details of my history and what I speak about varies depending on the situation.

But the shame has gone. I feel like I now have permission to be me.

De-stigmatising mental illness in doctors is clearly not going to happen overnight but we can all make a start. Dare to share how you feel. Talk to your colleagues about what you do to relax or wind down after a busy day. Discuss mental health. Prioritise well-being. Let’s face it, if we don’t, no one will.

And in the words of Bill Withers:

“Sometimes in our lives
We all have pain
We all have sorrow
But if we are wise
We know that there’s always tomorrow

Lean on me!
When you’re not strong
And I’ll be your friend
I’ll help you carry on
For it won’t be long
‘Til I’m gonna need
Somebody to lean on”


I am a doctor and I have mental health problems

Yesterday, I sat with my Granny in her residential home watching the Victoria Derbyshire show. She held my hand as I cried. Finally a topic so close to my heart was being given air time. Everything I feel and have felt for years was being said.

The report told the story of two doctors who took their own lives in the last year. That could have been me. It highlighted the amazing work of the Practionner Health Programme (PHP), set up for doctors with mental health difficulties and addiction. The team are incredibly experienced in dealing with barriers to seeking help and the challenges faced of being both a doctor and a patient. At the moment, only funding those in London can access the service. Dr Clare Gerada, the clinical director, and her team continue to fight to extend their provision to the rest of the UK. I am fairly certain that if I had had access to this earlier in my training I would not have got to the dark and distressing place I was last year.

A few weeks ago I was approached by a journalist via my twitter account @doc_bipolar about featuring in his film for the Victoria Derbyshire program. I thought long and hard about it. I spoke to Lucy, the CEO at the PHP, who was very helpful and supportive. She empowered me to do what was right for ME something I have never been great at. So with that in mind, I explained to the journalist that I felt unable to feature in the film at the moment. Instead I decided to write an anonymous letter to illustrate my points. I didn’t ever think it would be used.

So here is my story.

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“I am a paediatric doctor. I work in the North of England and have done since I graduated from medical school ten years ago. I have battled with mental health problems on and off throughout my training. Things got pretty bad and I was signed off sick for almost a year. Only very recently have I felt empowered and able to reach out and talk about my difficulties.

So why didn’t I ask for help sooner?

There is still a huge amount of stigma around mental illness in doctors. It has always felt as though I am expected deal with everything and anything that is thrown at me in the same way that those around me do. Head down and crack on. Patients come first. Never in my training did anyone teach me to look after myself. People didn’t really share their struggles. We learnt how to take blood, insert catheters, break bad news etc but the self care skills, the skills that I now realise are essential to the sustainability and the well being of our doctors, these were never spoken of.

I was always terrified (and to some extent still am) of what would happen if someone found out I had mental health problems. Fear of what it would do to my reputation. Would I be chucked out of medical school? What if my colleagues no longer trusted me? Maybe I would be reported to the GMC?  Worse still, what if a patient found out and then I was struck off?

As it happened, things got a lot worse. It was initially quite difficult to access support at work and my attempts were met by resistance. I was referred to a psychiatrist by my GP and not long after was signed off work. Last Christmas I was diagnosed with type 2 bipolar disorder. I considered leaving medicine altogether, I couldn’t see how I could still be a doctor with this label. But somehow, with support and care, medication and therapy I found a way back. I am now well and back working in paediatrics.

I am not yet functioning at the level that I used to but I am getting there. I am regaining my confidence and reminding myself that I can do it. And this time it feels different because I have learnt to prioritise my own wellbeing. I work less hours, I leave on time, I refuse to work 13 hours without a break.

So now, by starting a conversation and sharing my story (generally anonymously on twitter or on my blog) I find that others are opening up about their difficulties. I am not alone after all. If only I had known this back then…

Culture change will take time. There are improvements but we are not there yet. Until that time, I don’t feel able to go completely public with this and I worry about how one negative or ill informed comment or reaction would impact on my own emotional wellbeing.”

And so as bits of my letter were read out on BBC 2 yesterday morning, I sobbed.

Maybe I can do this after all. It turns out I am not alone and maybe, just maybe I can inspire others to keep going when there seems to be no hope.


I wrote this piece last year and found it among various other bits. It reminds me of the pain and the exhaustion that come with depression. It contains strong words and references to suicidal feelings that may be triggering. Please be kind to yourself. It is OK to ask for help.



Blinded by darkness, it’s the only way out.

The final solution to an exhausting battle.

Suicide is my comfort.

A bleak stillness steals my last breath,

Suicide… The echo that remains once I am gone.


Except I don’t go…

I stop.

I notice.

The comforting call of suicide continues. I listen. And I notice.

I notice a solitary bird in the sky. I notice the icy wind on my face. I notice my regular long deep breaths.

As I notice, I reconnect.

Gently waking from a long and painful sleep.

Rediscovering life’s unassuming moments.

Strangely beautiful.


And then I talk.

An unfamiliar voice at first.

My own.

Outstretched hands I had never noticed.

I share. I talk.

My load is lifted.

No longer lost and alone in the battle.

Talking has forged me an army.

An army that has made me stronger.

An army that has saved me from suicide.


Be someone’s army.

Start by talking.

I have always wanted kids

There is a question that runs through my head from time to time…

Would I have rushed into having children if I had known I had type 2 bipolar? Let’s face it, I could have passed this hideousness on to my girls…

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I always knew I wanted children but I knew that my background put me at high risk for postpartum mental health problems.  I remember highlighting this to my midwife at my first booking appointment whilst also being terrified she would black mark my notes and contact social services.

“Do you have any worries?” she asked.

“Well, yes…. I worry a bit about how I’ll manage emotionally because I am pretty high risk for postnatal depression”.

“OK, why do you say that?”

“I was an in-patient in a psychiatric hospital for three months as a teenager with anorexia and had a tough time at university too.”

“Alright, so we will keep an eye on things.”

What she actually meant was “Well you look a healthy weight and you are smiling so you must be fine.”

That was it. That was the grand total of my antenatal emotional wellbeing assessment. And unfortunately it was no better the second time.

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The days after my second daughter was born I was running on adrenaline and excitement.  Her birth had been so much easier than I had expected (the first one was bloody awful!) and I felt lured into a sense of “everything is going to be OK.”

Except it wasn’t OK. As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, I slowly fell deeper into the darkness of postnatal depression. I existed solely for my children. I sat breast feeding at night, tears tumbling down my cheeks. My life had gone. I was going through the motions. Doing what I had to do to keep everyone alive and happy. Inside I was dying.

Yet somehow people didn’t know. I had developed such a slick and seamless act that people couldn’t know. Over time my show started to fall to pieces. My skin was terrible. My eyes became glazed and exhausted. My brow was lined with deep wrinkles of worry. I cried in public.

My health visitor advised me to see the GP. I was started on medication and referred for talking therapy. But I continued to deteriorate whilst I waited. I had no choice but to find a private therapist. Two years on, I am still in therapy. At Christmas I was diagnosed with type 2 bipolar and started on new medication.  The private sector saved me. I was fortunate enough that I could pay. Not everyone can.

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As an NHS worker, I feel guilty, saddened and disappointed that our system is failing so many. When you have lost all value in life, when everything is bleak and death seems the only way out, waiting for six months to get help only adds to the feelings of worthlessness. Every day that you don’t get that help, the enemy is winning the battle.

Could my illness have been prevented… probably not. Could I have been better equipped and more prepared for the challenges that being a parent brings? Almost certainly yes. Antenatal care is the place to start. Emotional support for all parents. Identifying triggers and teaching families about self care. Everyone needs this stuff. People like me need it that little bit more.

So going back to my girls, yes, they are at higher risk of developing mental health problems. Yes, there’s a chance they might have bipolar. Do I worry about them, yes. Do I regret having children? Not in a million years.

My girls are growing up knowing that their Mummy takes medicines to help her feelings. They know it’s OK to talk about emotions. They have parents who are armed with strategies to help them deal with difficulties, and as my husband put it the other night:

“What parent would be able to deal with their child’s mental health difficulties better than you?  You understand it and are learning how to manage it.” Maybe he’s right.

I am bringing my children up to know that there is no shame in having a mental illness.

#PND #MentalHealthAwareness #Bipolar #motherhood #newmum