Depression Can Be Fun Magazine Interviews
Marie Claire Magazine, South Africa
‘I SPENT R4.5-MILLION IN 18 MONTHS’
‘All she ever wanted was a little credit,’ was the tagline for the film Confessions of a Shopaholic, but what happens to shopping addicts in the real world? Helen McNallen shares how her addiction nearly destroyed her
‘It all started at work. As a high-flying city trader working in London (the only female on an all-male trading floor) I wasn’t coping with the stress, but I was playing with the big boys and couldn’t admit that I was drowning. We all have our coping mechanisms: some people self-medicate with drugs, food or sex, believing these things will make them feel better. My “medicine” was shopping and as trends were constantly changing, there was always something new to buy. I bought skinny jeans only to suddenly discover that boyfriend-style jeans were back, then grey was the new black, then purple was all the rage. Shopping made me feel good.
Then I lost my job. A year and a half into my fast-paced, demanding career I had finally cracked. I don’t remember much of it but apparently I tried to throw myself off a building. I was diagnosed with clinical depression and spent three months in The Priory, London’s most renowned rehabilitation centre. As a result of a course of “last resort” electroconvulsive therapy (ECT), the chemical imbalance in my brain was altered and I developed bipolar depression. This led to manic highs, when I would do everything in excess, followed by huge crashes and deep depression – this was when my urge to shop became dangerous. Society’s take on “retail therapy” as something positive didn’t help: every day we’re bombarded with media images of happy, smiley shoppers showing off their latest purchases – implying that the hottest new handbag, car or pair of shoes is the solution to all our problems.
SHOPAHOLIC
Helen McNallen spent millions on art, designer clothes, jewellery and antiques – all to help ‘take away the horrible feeling of emptiness’.
After losing my job and being diagnosed, I was practically housebound but still found ways of spending money. It wasn’t long before I discovered the enticing world of on-line shopping. I focused my purchasing efforts on jewellery – particularly from Tiffany’s. By then, my husband Duncan and I had moved to Edinburgh, and once my health improved I started going into town and shopping. Because it seemed as though I was finally getting my life back on track, my friends and family were supportive and didn’t question me.
One of my first big spends was a set of expensive designer suits, which I now realize was a reflection of my desperation to get back to work and reclaim the status I once enjoyed. At the time, I couldn’t get through a day without medication. The only thing I didn’t need help with was shopping: it gave me the same buzz I used to get from work. I would buy things I knew I’d never wear. I remember once buying a pair of Yves St Laurent shoes with six-inch Perspex heels (I’m nearly six feet tall and never wear heels); I’d go shopping for sunglasses and return with eight pairs; if I popped into the health shop to buy yoghurt I would come out having spend £150 (R1 950).
There was a definite correlation between how low I was feeling and how much I would spend: when I was down, there was a bigger void to fill. Unfortunately, my shopping habit wasn’t limited to “affordable” items like clothing, shoes and accessories. I started going to art galleries and buying expensive paintings – despite having no real interest in art.
ROCK BOTTOM
Helen eventually got help for her mental illness and shopping addiction. Sadly, it was too late to save her marriage.
It was the status and semblance of culture that I craved. One day, I reserved two paintings at an exhibition that cost £4000 (R52 000) each. When Duncan found out he called the gallery and explained that I was suffering from depression and asked if he could cancel the purchases. The gallery agreed that if anyone else wanted to buy the pieces then we wouldn’t have to, but we ended up having to honour my offer. We hung them on the walls in our home and Duncan later told me how much they haunted him.
One day, a van arrived at our house with £25 000 (R325 000) worth of antique furniture that I had bought on a single shopping trip. I was out shopping when it arrived. Duncan was distraught – he had come home from a business trip to find the delivery of purchases waiting for him (he has since told me he just wanted to turn around and go back). The furniture didn’t even fit inside the house.
I wasn’t selfish with my spending, either. I used to buy outrageously expensive gifts for other people: designer bags, luxury-brand clothing and jewellery. I realize now that these gifts made people uncomfortable. I was out of control and so was my spending. I believed “stuff” would make me feel better and take away the horrible feeling of emptiness. But the buzz of having something shiny and new in my hands lasted only as long as it took for me to pay for it (with my credit card), get it home and unwrap it. Then the guilt and anxiety would set in: if I couldn’t afford what I was buying at the time, how could I afford those things in six months’ time? Everything I bought was on credit; my overdraft was also expanding rapidly. I’d lie about my purchases, particularly to Duncan, and would hide them away. I reached the point where I had to borrow money to feed my addiction and ended up owing so much money that we almost lost our home. I don’t know how many people who live within their means, but I now plenty who live beyond them and I could no longer deny that was who I’d become.
There was no reasoning with me. Duncan tried. He begged me to get help. He was the only person who saw how serious the situation was, but when he tried to tell my family and friends, they didn’t believe him. My father went so far as to tell him it was impossible for me to have a shopping addiction as I’d always been so sensible when it came to money. In an effort to make me aware of my spending, Duncan gave me a book in which to write everything I bought every day. The truth was that I didn’t want to know. Duncan was under incredible pressure to try to stop me from spending such obscene amounts, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. I would lie, shout, scream and threaten to kill myself. I never thought about how my behaviour affected those close to me, especially my husband. In a ridiculously short space of time I had frittered away over £350 000 (R4,5-million) of our money.
Eventually I agreed to go for cognitive behavioural therapy and psychotherapy, which got to the root of my problem and helped me find ways of dealing with my issues. Had I sought help earlier I believe I could have avoided the dire consequences of my bipolar episodes. I no longer take anti-depressants and now stick to a healthy eating plan (that includes omega 3 and vitamin B supplements) and strict exercise plan, which together help me maintain a good hormone balance, as well as keep me mentally and physically well.
We constantly hear about celebrities “in rehab” or on medication for depression and mental health problems, but these illnesses don’t happen only to the rich and famous: research keeps telling us that one in four people will suffer from depression at some point in their lives. Part of my recovery involves trying to raise awareness around mental illness and so I launched Depression Can Be Fun (Depressioncanbeufun.com), an on-line forum intended to provide around-the-clock support.
Despite my recovery, my marriage sadly couldn’t take the strain. The debt I’d run up caused too much resentment and Duncan and I struggled to move beyond the patient-carer roles we’d been forced into. We’re now divorced, but are still close friends – he is such a good man. As for me, I no longer feel the urge to spend extreme amounts of money, but more importantly, I no longer measure my own value in terms of wealth and materialism. I am free.’
For info about mental health issues, contact the Mental Health Information Centre on 021-938-9929.
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