How a £400 brain zapper finally helped me conquer my depression: ANNE ATKINS suffered for 30 years and nothing worked - until she tried the headset now being rolled out on the NHS
Finally, I admitted it. Crying all day. Staring blindly out of windows. Incapable of the most basic tasks.
Waking with the weight of the whole dark sky on my head, only to long for night so I could go back to bed.
Depression. I had become completely incapacitated.
Six months earlier my science tutor daughter had challenged my fierce opposition to medication as blind prejudice. Now a close and kind friend pitched in, urging me to do something, anything, to get help.
The truth is that over the years, I've tried most things, writes Anne Atkins. I've lost count of the therapists. The best I can say is that some haven't harmed me
'Anne, I just want your life to be better.'
'I'm going to the GP,' I later told my dearest husband. 'To ask for antidepressants.'
'Good idea.'
Is that all? To this bombshell?
For three decades I'd resisted the little white pills, having seen the terrible devastation they can do.
Our bright, brilliant daughter developed severe OCD in her early teens and her first hospitalisation, with its loopy therapy (a story for another day), complete lack of sense such as removing all exercise for both body and mind – and force-feeding of medication – rendered her many times worse and is responsible, I believe, for her still being completely disabled a quarter of a century on.
The only downside was that it cost £399 for the kit: a headset and first box of pads (containing a saline solution to conduct the electric current)
Antidepressants have been linked to numerous side-effects – even suicidal ideation (thoughts) that I've witnessed too – which I'm not willing to risk.
Yet my love didn't react at all. But then, he's so supportive he'd probably say the same if I said I was taking up sky-diving blindfolded to give my life meaning.
I went straight from surgery to pharmacy… but when it came to it, I couldn't do it.
Knowing what I know – and don't know – about medication, I couldn't put the first tablet in my mouth. So I returned the packet to my bedside cabinet and Googled: chemical-free treatment for depression. There must be something.
But same old, same old. St John's Wort. Yeah right. Once, I swallowed the whole bottle – do not do this at home! – with the utterly illogical justification that it's a herb, not a chemical. (And no, two dozen straight off didn't do any more for me than one a day.)
Online therapy: tried it. Chiropody, hypnosis, massage, aromatherapy. All the way from acupuncture to yoga.
The truth is that over the years, I've tried most things... I've lost count of the therapists. The best I can say is that some haven't harmed me.
My GP arranged six sessions of NHS counselling when our daughter first became ill.
The practitioner's almost-opening gambit was, 'Do you feel very guilty?' Because of our daughter's condition, she said, I 'must'. But until she put the idea in my head, it had never occurred to me.
It has been downhill from there. One therapist eventually even rendered me suicidal.
And I didn't think the lotus position or sticking needles in my face would help much, either.
But suddenly, at the bottom of the page, something jumped out at me: Flow Neuroscience.
Within days a beautifully packaged box had arrived with a great big smile on it
On the Flow website was sensible advice on 'exercise… diet… sleep… meditation' and then a fifth weapon in the armoury: 'transcranial direct current stimulation'. Eh? In layman's terms, zapping my frontal lobe with a mild electric current.
I know, I know… why would I find it so much more acceptable to shove electrical pulses through my brain than chemicals?
But the more I read, the more I liked. According to the blurb, 30 per cent of patients experience remission; over 80 per cent see their symptoms halved or more.
Critically, it claimed to be harmless.
The final assurance was that it is even available on the NHS. Admittedly, only in very few areas – and not accessible to me – but this gave me confidence that it couldn't be complete moonshine.
The only downside was that it cost £399 for the kit: a headset and first box of pads (containing a saline solution to conduct the electric current).
If it worked it would surely be worth it and there was a money-back guarantee.
But I'm a sceptical so-and-so. So I wrote to their press department asking if they'd like me to trial it. And within days a beautifully-packaged box had arrived with a great big smile on it.
'Oh, look!' exclaimed our medical student daughter. 'So friendly! You will be kind about it, won't you?'
'I'll be honest,' I replied, primly.
I now discovered a second hitch: the treatment is all via smartphone. I had to start by downloading an app. Really?
I was to stimulate my brain wearing the headset for half an hour, five days a week, for three weeks. And not expect any changes before the time was up.
I plugged in and turned on.
And felt as if I were being very gently stung by a couple of half-hearted bees.
I was allowed to continue normal activity while wearing the headset, except my morning swim. So while my frontal lobe was being stimulated by friendly virtual bees, I went through the various courses on the app.
I started with 'The Basics': creating new habits; avoiding the depressive cycle.
I skimmed the other courses: diet; exercise; sleep; meditation.
I've been interested in healthy food and cooking since my teens so decided to get stuck straight in with 'The Antidepressant Diet', the principle being that there is food for brain (as well as body) health.
What I didn't expect was for the information on the app to make any difference.
I was already surely eating as healthily as possible: we don't use sugar or refined food; never buy ready-meals or junk food; and long before anyone heard the word 'keto' I've eschewed carbs and eaten a protein-rich breakfast – poached egg, smoked salmon, avocado.
Now, though, I started adding complex carbs such as chickpeas; baking granary bread; trying black, red and wild rices; brewing kombucha; and to my astonishment, tried (and even liked) kefir.
For the first time since adolescence I was eating anything I wanted – and initially, even lost a little weight.
What next? How about, 'Therapeutic Sleep'? I've experienced insomnia since I was an undergraduate and there's nothing anyone can teach me about sleep hygiene: Go to bed at the same time each night, no screens. Yeah, yeah.
My son challenged this dual approach. 'That's cheating,' he said. 'How can you know any improvement is down to brain stimulation, if you're also eating differently and getting more fresh air?'
Know what? I didn't care. As long as I was getting better. And by now, it was undeniable.
By the second or third day I already felt different. By the end of week one, I sensed genuine improvement.
Because the app controls the electrical stimulation, you can't continue treatment without completing a weekly questionnaire. I look back now on my performance.
When I started in April my depressive score was more than 30, ranking as 'high-moderate' (35 and above being 'severe'), according to the app.
Within three months it had dipped to 13 (12 is remission, 13 is successful treatment), which it has been more than once, and my score has always remained under 20.
As far as I'm concerned it doesn't matter whether this is due to brain stimulation, lentils witchcraft – or indeed, placebo.
Of course, conventional medication and talk therapy can work. I've witnessed the apparent effectiveness of both, in other people.
However, not only has therapy never done anything for me but it is also expensive, there can be a long waiting list on the NHS and there is a relatively high dropout rate.
I suspect the reason that it doesn't help me is because I'm too critical and impatient: I have no time for the touchy-feely and absolutely don't believe in reiterating trauma.
I want to be told what to do. A piano teacher would show me how to practise scales: a personal trainer would put me through my paces. Why can't we have the same approach to mental health?
After all, some actions genuinely do help. During the Covid lockdown I was going through a truly awful family trauma.
I rang my eldest in despair: I wanted to drink half a bottle of whisky straight off but sensed that might not help anything long term.
'Go in the sea,' she said.
'Are you mad? It's November!'
'Go in the sea.' Nothing could hurt like the pain in my head, so I ran right in and straight out again.
I felt immediately better. She was right. Once you conquer the North Sea, you know you can conquer a lot.
Since then, like many, I've kept up the winter dips: breaking the ice; running through snow in flip-flops.
And now the Flow Neuroscience app has told me to exercise more, I'm not just jumping in and out. This time of year: 20 short lengths, in unheated water. And yes, it delivers.
Which is exactly how the Flow Neuroscience approach works for me. It is straightforward and directive. Take specific action. Eat veg. Exercise more.
And what about the fifth point of the pentagon, the headset? How does that work?
People with depression have been found to have lowered activity in the front of the brain, known as the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex.
Sluggishness in this area is linked to tiredness, poor sleep, changes in appetite and problems with concentration: all symptoms of depression.
Introducing a very low current (nothing like electric-shock treatment, which is 400 times stronger) either side of the forehead is said to stimulate activity, encouraging the nerve cells to move more; in turn, reducing symptoms.
An independent study published in the Journal of Psychiatric Research in 2022 showed that this kind of home-based transcranial direct current stimulation 'was associated with significant clinical improvements and high acceptability, which were maintained in the long term'.
And just a few weeks ago, a study by King's College London (sponsored by Flow Neuroscience), and published in the authoritative journal Nature Medicine, showed that after ten weeks of regular treatment, patients with depression who used the device experienced a greater reduction in their symptoms than patients who received a 'sham' version of the treatment.
I continue to stimulate my brain on the maintenance level, twice a week (recommended for six to 12 months) and now look forward to my weekend sessions: early swim, big pot of tea and, now I've finished all the courses on the app, writing my journal or reading while my forehead fizzes.
When my full year is over, I suspect I will miss it.
Given what I've learnt, I would definitely pay £399. And I'm now researching chemical-free treatment for my just-diagnosed ADHD. Watch this space!
