"I THOUGHT I WAS LOSING MY MIND"

All was still in my daughter’s bedroom that December evening in 2015, as I pushed the rocking chair gently with my bare foot on the soft carpet, humming a gentle lullaby.

The twilight was spilling across the floor as my baby girl, sleeping soundly on my chest, snored ever-so-softly.

The evening was quiet, and peaceful.

But inside, my heart was racing.

I was trying to decide if an intruder were to climb the darkened stairs in front of us, whether I’d have time to scramble into the bathroom and lock the door.

Would they try to get in? And if they did, should I keep my daughter close, or would it be better to wrap her in towels and drop her from the window to safety? How big was the drop? Would the neighbours hear her cries? Would they hear my screams?

These panicked thoughts now invaded every waking minute and I did my best to drown them out, filling any silence with music or television.

My joints were inflamed by the stress flooding my body, and my muscles ached. I had daily tension headaches, and aching cheekbones. And I was so tired.

My life had become overwhelming to me, and yet - outwardly - nothing much had changed.

I’d stopped breastfeeding my daughter in October and, looking back, I’m inclined to think the change in hormones is what kicked me into that dark and anxious state.

I can understand why people turn to alcohol or drugs to dull the senses when their mental health is unravelling, because during those months it felt as though the protective casing around my emotions had been peeled away, leaving them exposed, like wires dangling helplessly in a hot-wired car.

When my husband and daughter played, I’d busy myself cleaning. When they laughed, I’d put the kettle on. I became merely functional, paying the price of joy to keep the fear at bay.

And I kept it all locked away. It wasn’t until the following March that I broke down to my husband, and it all came spilling out. I shared my greatest fear: that I was losing my mind.

And then the strangest thing happened; it was as if a lamp flicked on in the corner of my dark world.

He held me, listened to me, and it was as if saying the words out loud gave the darkness in my head a little less power.

Of course it wasn’t an overnight shift, but in the weeks ahead, the wave that had been pushing me down finally broke over my head.

Five years on, I still have anxiety flareups, but these days I have coping mechanisms in place and, unlike that first time, I know they will pass.

I’ve learned that exercise helps, as does going for a walk, or a drive with the window down, especially if the sun is shining.

I know that a plate of vegetables will make me feel better than a bag of Maltesers, and take time away from news and social media when I really need to.

With time, the anxious periods have gotten fewer and further between, and no bout has ever felt as hopeless and dark as that first one.

Globally an estimated 284 million people experienced an anxiety disorder in 2017 - and only time will tell how the events of the past year have impacted these figures.

These days my daughter, now seven, still often asks for a lullaby at bedtime, and I’m always happy to oblige.

I never take for granted the freedom my peace-of-mind grants me to focus on her lovely sleepy face, rather than the dark shadows around me, breathing in the preciousness of the fleeting moment.

I'm grateful that, today, my life is filled with sunshine.