Thursday 31 May 2012

13. Bearer of bad tidings...

As I walked back to the office, the implications of what I had been told started to dawn on me. My car hadn't been trying to kill me, but I wouldn't be able to drive it any more. A brain tumour was an instant licence loser. How was this going to affect my work? The Police Service is supportive of its officers, but what would happen if something went wrong? What if I needed a long period of rehab? I wouldn't be able to drive to any jobs? Could I still pay the mortgage? I had my first wave of real emotion, and realised very quickly that I couldn't dwell on self pity or negatives. Someone was going to go where no man had gone before, and nor should they. The brain is in a closed compartment for a reason, and no-one should ever have to comprehend the thought of someone being inside it. I knew I couldn't dwell on this either...I had phone calls to make.

I arrived back at the office with my thoughts in order, and they needed to be. I wanted to tell Lydia and my parents, and I knew that the next few sentences were going to define their experiences, and certainly the rest of their days. I felt positive, and knew this had to come across that way to get her feeling as I did. At the time, Lydia was on her way to a meeting which I knew was important. I stopped to consider how this was going to affect her. Lydia had offered to join me at the appointment, but I'd declined. It just hadn't seemed a big deal. By way of a bit of background, when I have a problem, I prefer to knuckle down and sort it out, and am not great at accepting help. I wondered whether to wait until she was back, but quickly realised how angry she would be if I'd sat on this information. I don't remember my exact words to Lydia, but they didn't register. Lydia was in shock, and having torn her focus from something else important, she had obviously struggled to process the information. "But I'm on the way to this meeting", she said. For a moment, I wondered if my words had come out properly. Wanting to avoid what seemed like an increasingly inevitable car crash, I decided to end the conversation, "Give me a shout when you're done." I answered. I had made it hard for Lydia to take in what i was saying having been such a closed book until this point - I had shut out the possibility of such a diagnosis. I had shut out emotion to the greater extent. In fact, I had shut out Lydia by internalising so many of my thoughts.

I had found it desperately difficult breaking the news to Lydia, and still had work to do, and was terrified of how my Mum would react. I rang home, and I remember the words. "Mum, I've got some good news and some bad news". "They've found a brain tumour, but it's benign". I couldn't tell you how the rest of the conversation went, but I was so grateful that my Mum had held it together, because it was the worst news I had ever had to give her. In fact, it was the worst news I had ever had to give anyone. I had been on the brink of bursting into tears at the thought of breaking this to her, but knew I had to remain upbeat for her sake. I'm sure my Mum was absolutely devastated, and have my suspicions about what happened after our phone call. My Dad and I are very alike, and think he would have probably tried to remain positive, and upbeat - I hope he did. The truth - I can't stand the thought of finding out what that information did to them, and have never asked. I spoke with my brother a short time later - he was superb. A friend of his had suffered the same, and had been successfully treated. I needed this kind of information - this was the kind of fuel I needed to battle through this, along with a bit of good karma.

I went back to the office, and sat down with my Inspector. I outlined to her what I'd been told, and her reaction? "Go home, Pete". It was a more straightforward conversation than I had foreseen. My boss had correctly gauged my need to get my head around the fact that I had a long uphill struggle ahead, and granted me two days of compassionate leave. I asked her to make some sort of announcement in the office, I tied up some loose ends, and took myself home.

I had a brain tumour, and it had to go. For now though, it was a waiting game while I counted down the days to my appointment with the consultant.

Lydia and I went back to see my boss a couple of days later. My mind was still on minimising the amount of time I had away from work pre-surgery, so I went in trying to tell her what I was still able to do. We discussed my downward spiral, and my prior request for a move. It now all made sense. I thought I had done a decent job of making my case to stay and get my work sorted. "Go home and get yourself well", she replied. "But I still have loads to do, and I can still work". "Go home". I'm not quite sure what she was trying to tell me, but I sat down and prepared handovers for my jobs (which funnily autocorrected to hangovers...which is still fairly fitting), and walked away from the office. My workload had shrunk to one job. Getting well. I am eternally grateful that my Inspector sent me home. Out of pure stubbornness, I would've worked up to the day of my forthcoming operation, but what I needed was to be as strong, fit, and ready for what I was about to face.

Wednesday 23 May 2012

12. D-Day

I attended my appointment with a light hearted attitude. Dr Wihl had seemed confident that nothing sinister would be evident from the MRI, and I thought the last minute appointment was just indicative of people's attitudes towards NHS hospital appointments - simply that a slot had opened up.

I walked into Dr Wihl's office, and as I approached his desk, I noticed the screen of his computer. The screen showed a scan of a side-on cross-section of a human head, in which I could see a large growth. Thanks to Dr Wihl's closing gambit on my previous visit, I didn't read anything into it, and I remember thinking to myself, "I feel sorry for that poor bugger."

Dr Wihl was accompanied by a nurse, and asked me to take a seat, thanking me for coming at such short notice. You may have realised from my previous posts that I seldom visit doctors, and have been fortunate to have enjoyed good health - this situation was alien to me. I felt calm and relaxed, and waited for the doctor to collect himself. Dr Wihl took a breath, and said, "As you see from your scan...". I was the poor bugger. For a moment, my brain blocked out what was being said, and I focused on the screen. I felt a small sinking sensation in my stomach as I looked at the screen. The image was much like the one in the back-drop of this blog, but in the top-centre of the brain, there was a large circular mass. It was in clear contrast to the spaghetti-esque appearance of the rest of that part of my brain. It was a single solid colour, and had a discernible outline. I realised that I was still zoned out, and Dr Wihl probably had a lot more information that would seriously affect my ability to get through my day in one piece.

I zoned back in, and composed myself. Dr Wihl's tone was unchanged - he was still calm and assured. My brain had leapt to the obvious conclusion of 'brain tumour', but the doctor used a much less sinister vocabulary to describe what was going on. He described a "Mass", and used the words, "Probably benign". Boom. He followed up with the words, "Urgent referral". My attention was patchy. I had a moment of quiet contemplation as I collected my thoughts once more, and then the questions started. I needed to know more. Was a mass still a tumour? Yes. I had to check that benign was the good kind of tumour. It was. Why was my referral urgent, and what was the likely outcome? I had a lot of questions. Dr Wihl told me that he had made the urgent referral as I was healthy, but the signs were that the tumour was putting pressure on parts of my brain, and he wanted to protect what was still healthy to avoid any further damage. He told me that the likelihood was surgery. I peppered him with surgical questions, but he resisted. We both knew that until a surgeon had seen the scans, there were still a million possibilities. I swallowed...I was going to have brain surgery. I felt a peculiar mix of emotions. I was expecting to freak out at the prospect, but didn't. The scientist in me wanted all of the facts. I knew there was a mass in my brain. The doctor had told me that it was 55mm...roughly the size of a satsuma...all I could see was that it was taking up what seemed like a vast amount of space in my head. I knew it needed to come out, and was heartened by the fact that I was still deemed as healthy, and they wanted it out fast. I was impressed with speed of my appointment, and was now aware that this was no coincidence. I eagerly anticipated the appointments to come, and had confidence in my ability to deal with it. But how would I tell the people closest to me? That was another problem for another inner monologue. Doctor Wihl showed me scans which showed pressure on the speech centre in my brain, and on my optical nerves. Was my eyesight at risk? Time was of the essence. I had no more questions, and Dr Wihl had no more information. I thanked him, and stood up feeling like I was aware of the magnitude of the situation, and that I had the tools to deal with it. The nurse looked at me quizzically. "Are you ok?" She asked. "I'm fine." I replied. I was fine. It seems laughable - I was dealing with the most catastrophic news I had ever received, and I hadn't even flinched. The problem-solver in me had kicked in, and I knew what I was fighting, and what I had to do. I needed to tell my family, and I needed to research.

Wednesday 16 May 2012

11. Neurology in action...

It was at this point that the paper trail began. I still have the ream of paper that constitutes all of my medical correspondence. Initially these were kept simply as records of my treatment...now, however, they represent a chapter in my life.

Within a couple of weeks of my latest appointment with my GP, I received a letter confirming an appointment to see Dr Gunther Wihl - a consultant neurologist at Harrogate District Hospital. As I sat in the waiting area, my fear and trepidation had been replaced with a sense of defiance. I felt I had a grip of the situation for the first time, and was confident that I was on the right lines for getting myself sorted. When I entered the office, Dr Wihl got up from his desk and shook my hand. He was a warm character, fresh faced and younger than I had expected. He carried an air of confidence, and reminded me of some of the more positive attributes synonymous with Germany. He spoke clearly, concisely, and efficiently. He wasted no words, and made every point understandable. We spoke about my history, my symptoms, and moved quickly onto the co-ordination tests I had already undertaken. I felt like I was being taken seriously, and the fact that I had been referred seemed to carry weight. Like Dr Brook, Dr Wihl was unable to see anything that concerned him, although he accepted that I was suffering from some troubling neuropsychological symptoms. We discussed the way forward. Dr Wihl decreed that he would send me for an MRI scan, but in the same breath, told me that he doubted that it would show anything sinister. I was soaking up information for the first time in what seemed like an age. I was over-joyed that he seemed prepared to embark on expensive techniques to find out what was wrong, and was buoyed by his enthusiasm to find out what was wrong. "What if nothing shows up?" I asked, clinging onto his doubt of there being anything sinister. "I'll refer you to a psychologist, and see where we go from there." He answered. We discussed the processes and time-frames involved, and the appointment ended as it had started - with a hand shake. It was fair to say that I felt in safe hands.

I left the appointment feeling like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I was no longer trying to swim upstream, and felt like I was getting genuine value for money from the NHS for the first time.

10. Consultation v.2

I sat down in front of the doctor and reverted to my 'script'. Full disclosure it was. I took her through every little symptom that I could tie in to this sequence of events, and threw in my theory about my car poisoning me. She blew that one out of the water with a single waft of my blood test results. The doctor took a different tact this time. Having heard my tale in full, and with a better sense of chronology and crescendo, she set about carrying out co-ordination tests. I like to think I covered just about every square centimetre of the consultation room floor as I walked, balanced, tip-toed, and extended. I turned after my final test, and saw a slightly confused look on the doctor's face. She could see nothing wrong. To be fair, I could feel nothing physically wrong, and hadn't been convinced that she would find anything. I sat down again, and the conversation turned in a manner that suggested that the doctor had lost faith in her assertion that there may be a problem greater than stress. It was my last chance. I needed to support her theory, so with a sense of 'Last Chance Saloon', I reminded her of my symptoms. Olga appeared to be having an internal battle as to what to do next. After a couple of moments of quiet contemplation, it came out. "I'm going to refer you to a Neurologist, but I don't think they'll find anything." I felt a sense of relief. I felt validated - the doctor had taken me seriously, and I knew what an uphill struggle that could've potentially been. I had passed the exam. My grades were good, and I was no longer fighting the budgetary constraints, or the ten-minute time slots of a GPs surgery. For me, Olga had shed the old GP stereotype of 'Generally Poor', and I was no longer fighting the regular Joe stereotype of over dramatic, hypochondriac, worry-wort. It was a small victory, and I waited to hear of my Neurology appointment.

9. Groundhog Day

It was four days later. It was 06.37...again. I woke up unassisted, and the whole horrible chapter played out again. This was different to the Bill Murray film, as I had no opportunity to make things better the second time around. Again, I had a spell of alertness. Again, I was rendered unable to speak. Again, I was floored by the crushing sensation which had befallen my head the last time. The pain was worse. I have always had a high pain threshold, but the pain reduced me to tears, and had nowhere to go. It was in my head, and mangled every thought that dared to pass through my brain. I hurriedly took the seemingly ridiculous amount of painkillers that the doctor had suggested, and mercifully, my body succumbed to the pain and I passed out.

I returned to the doctors at the earliest opportunity. As I sat in the calm, open environment of the newly built reception area, I practiced what I was going to say. I knew the doctor wanted me to ride the storm, and maybe I had been reluctant to give her the full magnitude of the situation. I had been eager to avoid being labelled with a medical condition that might affect my career, my driving, insurance policies...use your imagination. I am a person who finds it very difficult to accept weakness...to accept defeat. I don't like being wrong either, but that's another story. I felt weak. I stood defeated. I had nowhere else to go, but full disclosure. I had taken a lot of time to think about the little events that had brought me to this moment...and had battled to keep them at the forefront of my thoughts. Looking back, it seems daft that the things I couldn't stop thinking about were so difficult to string together on the carousel of my conscious mind. When I saw my name pop up on the announcement board, I felt like I was about to walk into the most important exam I'd ever sat...and no matter how much I'd revised, I hadn't got a grip of the subject matter.

8. Professional help...

I went to see the doctor, and discussed what had happened. As most GPs would, Olga checked my blood pressure, listened to my heart, and asked about my family history. I've always treated GPs as a last resort. I have studied the human body, and the human mind over the course of my education, and feel I have a strong grasp of the subtleties and workings of the human body. I have often felt that my understanding of MY body, is better than that of most GPs I've had to darken the door of. This was different. I was looking for answers, and could only dream of a GP-esque diagnosis of "soft tissue damage" or "a virus". I could tell by the way she was lingering on the subjects, that she had her heart set on either hereditary migraines, or stress. "When was the last time you had a holiday?" She asked. I replied coarsely, "I don't need a holiday - this isn't stress!!" She moved on, "Are there migraines in your family?" "That isn't it either...my Mum gets migraines but they're diet related - I've done nothing different." I answered. I saw a hint of frustration on the doctor's face, but knew that she would face thousands of people every year whose own prognosis was worse than reality. I pleaded with her, "I never come to see you - I'm not a hypochondriac. Something is really wrong." The doctor squinted, and asked, "What do you want me to do?" I'd stumped her. She asked me to see how I got on, and suggested pain killers to take the edge off. She offered to prescribe me 'something stronger', but I declined. I didn't want to hide this...I wanted it sorted. A sample of my blood was taken, and I went home.

I tried to think outside the box. What else could've been causing these problems. I scoured the internet in a vain attempt to find out what was going on. I glanced out of the spare room window to see my answer, or at least I thought I had. "Carbon Monoxide!" I shouted. That's it!!! It was a genuine 'Eureka' moment. I went back on the internet and researched the subject. When I'd looked out of the window, I'd seen my 1995 5-series BMW. It had cost me £560, and I'd been dubious of the validity of its 12 month MoT. It hadn't missed a beat, but had it been slowly poisoning me? I looked at the symptoms of chronic carbon monoxide poisoning - it was like reading the transcript of my visit to the doctor. Fatigue, headaches, concentration issues - I was convinced that I'd found the answer. I bought a pack of carbon monoxide detectors, putting one in the car, and one in the kitchen. I set the car running outside the flat, and left it for an hour. Excitedly, I went out to check it. Nothing. Foiled again.

Monday 14 May 2012

7. Enter the headaches...

06.37am...a time I try to avoid as best as I can, but a time that will now be etched on memory for ever. Personally, I find any time starting with 06 or less, to be quite vulgar. I am not a fan.

It was late December 2009. I woke up with a strange feeling...that of feeling as if I had bypassed the first two hours of the day. I sat bolt upright, feeling alert, bright, and most of all - awake. I looked at my clock to see the time - it was 06.37. I can't remember now if this was a working day or not - an occupational hazard of shift work. I looked over to see Lydia asleep, and set about sneaking out, so not to disturb her. This was strange for me. It was rare that I should wake up without the assistance of an alarm clock, even more so that I would wake up first. And to wake up feeling so alert? I was a little perplexed. I left the room and watched the television quietly in the next room. A small amount of time passed before I went back to the bedroom. As I went in, Lydia stirred. She asked me if I was alright, and I tried to answer. I say "tried", because when I formulated the words in my head, gibberish came out of my mouth. I knew what I was trying to say, but what came out was if I were speaking in tongues. Pure nonsense. I was scared. I tried to form the words again - this time, I managed first word, but failed with the rest. I gestured that I wanted to go back to sleep. Lydia's expression echoed my own thoughts - something was badly wrong. It was with this that a sensation came over me that I can scarcely describe. It was a headache, but not like anything I've felt before. It wasn't a migraine, and it wasn't like a blow to the head. It didn't feel like any headache I'd experienced before. The only way I can describe it is to imagine someone placing a vice over your brain, tightening it, and then tightening it some more. The pain was excruciating. It didn't matter what I did, I couldn't make it go away. Lydia was in a state of panic, and I was scared. I'd never experienced pain like it, and couldn't understand why it was happening. I hadn't been drinking the night before, I hadn't eaten anything different, or done anything different to my knowledge. I collapsed on the bed, and buried my head in the pillow. I grasped at my head in pain and desperation, writhing with pain. With that, I passed out. One of my last memories before losing consciousness, was hearing Lydia on the phone to the doctor's surgery. She spoke to me in a brief moment of consciousness, and handed me a double dose of both paracetamol and ibuprofen on the instructions of the doctor. I woke up again a couple of hours later. The headache had gone. I felt no after effects, no pain, no residue of the agony I had been in. My speech had returned to normal. Only fear about what had happened remained. But what was it?

6. Odyssey [od-uh-see] - 2. a long series of wanderings or adventures, especially when filled with notable experiences, hardships, etc.

In this world, I find that there are some people that when you chat with them one to one, sparks fly, great ideas are thought of and forgotten, and your brain comes away enriched and well exercised. I was sitting in the pub with this friend (Jon), and enjoying a few beers and some energetic conversation.

As a lover of exercise, when Jon dropped his idea into the conversation, I was enthralled. The idea was to carry out a coast to coast run, along the length of Hadrian's wall over three or four days. The pace was going to be steady, the distance made easier by a banal conversation, and the prospect of completing the Odyssey á la Jon and Pete. In theory, despite the distance, it seemed like a great way to get away, and clear the cobwebs that were causing me increasing difficulty. The idea was lodged, loved, and left...we both knew it would develop over the passage of time.

By rights, the idea should've been unpalatable just by the fact that it is a really long way to run. I've never shirked a challenge though, so I just ignored that small fact and moved on. I tried to think about the logistics - how would we get there? Where would we park? Where would we stay? How fast would we run? How many beers could we realistically drink and still carry on? All the important stuff. The more I tried to think, the hazier it got. I tried to write things down, and became more reliant on the idea as a way of getting over whatever it was I was suffering...as a way of halting my decline. I spoke to Jon on a few occasions by text, and in person, and the idea was becoming more real, but the task in my brain appeared further and further in the distance, as my ability to focus on any concept suffered blow after blow.

My frustration and anger had reached new levels. I asked myself, "I can't even plan a simple fucking jog in England...what will I lose next?!" I had no answers, and for the first time in my adult life, I felt pathetic, and bereft of confidence. I was Pete - capable, forthright, well spoken, eloquent. What had happened to me? As hard as I had tried to find the answers...tried to make things right...things had only gotten worse. I picked up my phone and dialled Jon. Jon answered in his typical bright and breezy manner. My mood, in contrast, was sombre. "Jon", I said, "I can't do the Odyssey". I took a deep breath, and chewed the words over in my head before uttering them. "I think I'm having a nervous breakdown". I let out a small laugh, but not out of humour, but nervousness.

I put the phone down, and settled on the fact that I had probably found my answer, in spite of my brain disputing the fact. I had never struggled to cope with the events in my life...why now? I harked back to my A level studies in psychology. Stress, I recalled, was thought to be the human brain's inappropriate response to stimuli. What was my stimuli? What was I dealing with? It seemed like business as usual...so why had everything become so difficult? I had many questions, but only one answer...and I didn't like that at all. I had tutted and huffed about people around me who had complained of stress...surely I hadn't become one of them. What was next? I couldn't stomach the idea of going to a Doctor - I didn't want the S-word peppering my medical notes, to be hung around my neck for the rest of my life. I had to take action. I set about streamlining my life, to give myself the minimum responsibility possible. Then they struck.

5. Down the pan

I was trying desperately to cling on to normality, but normality as I knew it was unravelling before my eyes. "Normal is as normal does", I told myself. I tried to continue doing the things I loved, being what people expected me to be, and to try and embrace new things as they came along. Being what people wanted me to be offered me some solace, but the truth was very different - I was falling apart.

Life was getting more difficult, more puzzling, and frighteningly frustrating. My previously buoyant confidence was diminishing by the day. I couldn't complete simple tasks without becoming distracted. I would be separating light washing from dark, and wander off, only to return hours later to two piles of unwashed laundry. This doesn't seem much of an issue, but the frustration I felt at not being able to complete the most mundane of tasks was overwhelming. My hand-writing was becoming worse - I put this down to laziness, or just being tired of having to write so much. My right foot became worse and worse at football, and despite being left footed, surely it had never been this bad?! I became less inclined to try the adrenalised activities I had once loved, or put myself in the more hazardous situations I once enjoyed in the course of my work. I would see photos of myself posted on Facebook, and remark to myself how sallow and drawn my face appeared. Again, I just assumed that being thirty-ish was as bad as others had made out, was it all downhill from here??? I look back now, and can see the link between these symptoms and what I was going through, but as I looked at myself, all I felt was despair and disappointment.

Friday 11 May 2012

4. Mouth malfunction.

Over the weeks that followed, I became proficient at bridging the gaps in my speech...I became an expert in eliminating the umms, errs, and stutters that my brain tended towards mid-sentence. Instead, I employed deep breaths and wistful stares. Every point appeared well considered...carefully delivered. The truth, however, was that I was struggling desperately to hold simple sentences together. I could feel myself withdrawing more and more.

When I think back, I'd experienced these symptoms before, but in far greater peaks and troughs. An example being at a close friend's wedding. I had hit the wine in quite a spectacular way, but still maintain that falling flat on my arse had been the result of an ill placed plant pot. The second malfunction of the evening, however, had been the result of something more sinister. As the evening wore on, so did people's patience. I was trying my best to integrate with the group, many of whom I'd never met before, but words were becoming ever harder to come by. By the time I had joined my friends in a taxi towards home, venturing for a final beer in town, I had lost the power of speech entirely. This was the source of much amusement for my friends, and endless frustration for me. I was not accustomed to being lost for words, but to lose the power of speech completely was devastating. It was all I could do to make hand signals and gestures in a desperate attempt to let people know what I was doing. It was easy to pass my difficulties off as drunkenness...little did I know that this was my earliest and clearest warning of what was lurking beneath my skull.

3. That sinking feeling...

So, there I was...stumped at my inability to work out what was wrong. Frustrated, feeling isolated, and just trying to power on through, in the hope that I might come out of the other side of a dark period. 

It was a normal evening after work, we'd eaten dinner and were chatting about nothing in particular. I forged ahead with a sentence, having to think hard to finish what I had started without losing my thread. Don't get me wrong - I wasn't musing about astro-physics, or a complicated concept of any sort. I was struggling to link together short sentences, and desperately trying to claw words like 'and' or 'these' from the depths of my vocabulary. I looked into my wife's eyes, and received instant feedback. As a considerate human being, Lydia wouldn't have interrupted to ask what I was on about, but her eyes were saying, "Spit it out, this is really hard work!!" I hadn't noticed this look in her eyes before, and immediately thought to myself that despite my best efforts, I was failing miserably to keep the conversation together. I tried to continue my thread. The harder I tried, the worse it became. I had to say something...what was I putting her through? If this was happening regularly, I must be one of the most frustrating people on the face of the earth to speak to.

I gave up, and I broke my silence, "I'm really sorry, Lyd...I don't know what's going on." My heart sank as it dawned on me that the one thing I had always felt safe in offering - a level of assured dependability - was slipping away.  I swallowed hard, and tried to control my emotions, "I'm trying to fix it."

Thursday 10 May 2012

2. Frustration, focus, and...err...

If you've ever been involved in those banal conversations that take place over beers, you'll probably understand where this next concept came from. During a conversation recently at the pub, I was described as a logician. A problem solver that uses the power of logic. That pretty much sums up my approach to life. I like this about myself, and it's got me this far in life, so it can't be that bad. I employed this approach as I tried to work out what was going wrong.

Being a simple soul, I took for granted the fact that my casual mix of movies, music, football, and buddies was all in order, and  tried to break it down the leftovers...what problems did I have in my relationship? What problems did I have at work? Was I happy in both, or either. I tried to go about making changes in my work. I had difficulties in my relationship, but nothing that I thought would unsettle me to this degree. I knew that I felt unsettled at work, and as I've described before, I was finding it more difficult to complete routine tasks, to get my head around the evidence, to keep track of what I'd done and not done - all of which had come easily to me before. Maybe I wasn't cut out for this kind of work. Complex casework had seemed like a good idea, but had I bitten off more than I could chew? Day by day I was becoming more frustrated, less motivated, and I knew it was time to talk to my boss.

I sat down in the Detective Inspectors office at Harrogate Police Station. My boss was a calm and assured woman, who I had enjoyed working for. I always felt that I had the necessary support, and had seldom felt the need to ask anything of her, so I felt confident that my concerns would be taken seriously. I've never been a whinger, and I've never shirked work, so felt that if I could vocalise my concerns adequately, I would be supported for a move. I'd identified another area that I thought I could try, so went about discussing my concerns. I tried to explain that I wasn't enjoying the work I was doing. This wasn't strictly true, as the truth probably would have been that I now felt unable to do my work properly. My boss' answer was to shift my focus where I was, and use that to motivate me. Of course that was her answer. It was the right answer. She didn't want to wave goodbye to a a member of staff, irrespective of my worth. She'd be giving away a pair of hands for no good reason. I was forced to accept this, and continue. The truth is, she had re-motivated me, but the real issue was still ripping through my every thought. 

I had two main cases at the time. One, an international fraud which demanded a continuity of thought process that I was rapidly losing. The other, an arson, where an elderly couple had very nearly lost their lives, as well as their home. I owed it to the victims of these crimes to do a proper job of investigating their crimes. I demanded it of myself, to investigate their crimes fully, and to the best of my ability, but in truth, my confidence in my ability to do this was waning rapidly. 

Where was I supposed to go from here? I asked myself this regularly. I was trying to solve my own problem, and stop this decline in my happiness...in my confidence...in my feeling of self.

I spoke with one of my closest friends, in the hope that by talking it through, I would be able to trigger some sort of epiphany. My friend listened brilliantly, and gave advice as only he can, but still nothing was clear. There simply didn't seem to be a problem of the magnitude that I was feeling the effects.

1. The first episode....little did I know.

It was September 2009. I was sitting in the centre of Harrogate in a franchise coffee house with a large latté. From my man-bag, I produced a spiral bound notebook and pen.

What was I doing? I was trying to work out what had gone wrong for me. Now don't get me wrong. At this stage in my life, to the casual observer, my life was fantastic. I'd been married for just under a year. I lived in an amazing flat in a picture-perfect town. I was doing a job that I loved - working as a Detective in my local Police force. I had plenty of friends, and social activities keeping me busy. I just couldn't decide why I felt so unhappy.

As I sipped my latté, I considered how I felt. My overwhelming thoughts were those of sadness, confusion, distraction, frustration. It was like a fog had descended over my thoughts, leaving me unclear about who I was...what I was....what my future held. I was 29...I wondered, could these be a sign of age?! Some sort of crisis? Surely not. Was I unhappy in my relationship? I didn't think so. Was I unhappy with my work? Again, I didn't think so. Every other aspect of my life was unchanged, and I'd never been one to crave change for change's sake...only when I was unhappy. It just didn't make sense.

Prior to what seemed like the sudden onset of these thoughts, I'd been very much the confident, outgoing, gregarious individual. I grasped even the most difficult tasks and processes with ease, and was considered a good operative at work. Now, I shied away even from light conversation and small talk, disappearing into my own thoughts in the hope that things would come clear. Speaking to people was becoming ever-harder to me. Concentrating on my cases, and completing simple tasks becoming more arduous. "What's wrong with me?!!" I ranted to myself.

I opened my newly purchased notebook...I'd elected to try writing my thoughts and feelings down - my brain on paper. I was struggling to focus for more than a few moments, so thought if there was a continual thread and record to my thoughts, I might do better.

I removed the cap from my pen, and decided to start with the date. S-E-P-scribble-scribble-scribble. I looked at what I'd written. It looked like I'd got bored half way through the word, and like a Doctor's signature, decided to just scribble the less important bit. As a bit of a perfectionist, I wasn't prepared for the first word on the first page of my notebook - my brain on paper - to be crossed out and re-written. I tore the perforated page from the book, screwed it up, and tries again. "Take two", I said to myself remembering an out-take from I song I'd heard years earlier. I pictured the word in my head that I wanted to write, and started again. This time my pen touched the paper, and in a more controlled, purposeful manner, I started to write again. S-E-P-scribble-scribble-scribble. Nonsense. I became frustrated at myself, as I tore another page from the book, and tried again. The same result. I tried once moire, again with the same result. After six attempts at the word September, all with the same result, and an increasingly large pile of screwed up paper in front of me, I decided I was in the wrong frame of mind, and would only get worse if I persevered. I put my book away, re-capped my biro, and tried to relax with my coffee. There was something wrong. The screwed up pieces of paper went some way to represent how I felt, and I had no idea what was wrong with me...and it would only be months later that I would find what I was looking for. This, it would transpire, was the first piece of a puzzle that would change my life forever.

I got home later that afternoon, and out of curiosity, tried writing September again. I wrote it first time, and wrote my experience off as a bad day.