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Archive for the ‘6 year old’ Category

To-Do List

Posted in 6 year old, autism, Awesome Psychiatrist, bipolar, blogging, children, communication, crying, depression, emotions, Fab Psychologist, Fantastic CPN, hospital, illness, insight, lithium, Lovely Dietitian, mania, manic, medication, mental illness, money, mother, parenting, recovery, social worker, stress, suicide, support, Wonderful GP, work, tagged , , , , , , , , on September 16, 2011 | 14 Comments »

I think this may be one of those posts on depression I talked about, I’m not sure, I’ll just write and see what happens.

It’s been a funny day- as in not at all amusing in any way shape or form and in fact nothing funny has happened so I’m not sure I can qualify that summing-up. It just feels funny. I’m sure there are many pathological explanations for this- a shift in mood state, the inevitable come-down after a period of elevation, the fact I stopped taking the dreaded lithium on Sunday night? It’s not my area of expertise so I’ll stop speculating.

I’ve had a hard week, again, nothing particularly difficult has happened (especially when you contrast this week with the past 3) and I haven’t actually done anything or been anywhere.

Monday- a social worker from the local children and families team came to carry out an assessment in light of the 3 “child at risk concerns” from the police following my behaviour over recent weeks and contact from the ninja CPN. The assessment was a gruelling affair and ultimately felt like a lynching. I had it all under control for around 45 minutes until the ninja CPN arrived (45 minutes late) and in my words “painted me as a total loony” in her words “told the truth”. Either way the assessment went on too long and I lost it towards the end, partly due to nicotine withdrawal, partly due to being talked about as though I wasn’t in the room and partly due to the social workers insistence on informing me that there may have to be a child protection investigation.

The social worker herself was patronising and clearly had little understanding of mental health. I know I’m not the best mother in the world and I know I don’t always try my hardest but to have to sit and listen to a complete stranger tell me just how badly I was failing was very difficult indeed.

Of course maybe she never implied that at all? I have noticed this week that every interaction I have had with the ninja CPN where I mention something someone else has said, she insists on me recounting it verbatim so that she can point out where I am misinterpreting things, employing magical thinking or just fabricating things. I can’t even trust my own thoughts and impressions any more. I feel stupid, childish and powerless.

I am not surprised or ashamed that my family has come to the attention of social services; I’d be more surprised if we hadn’t. My argument against their involvement is simply that they have nothing appropriate to offer. I was also more than a little annoyed that suddenly they were intruding on our lives when in all the time the 17 year old lived here and his autism wreaked heartbreak and havoc on us all they never offered a service, in spite of being asked. What my family needs in order to function properly is for me to be well- thinly veiled threats about child protection measures aren’t going to help me achieve this. The social worker wants to come back- well at least I think she does, I received a letter addressed to me and the 6 year old, making an appointment to visit the 6 year old and someone else who doesn’t even exist. Clearly just an admin error and my rage over it is no doubt my own fault for being difficult and misinterpreting things but it pissed me off anyway.

I assume the appointment is to see the 6 year old and the 14 year old again. The 14 year old is largely unimpressed with the social worker, her opening gambit of “I know it’s not easy being different, well some people like to be different- like Lady Gaga” sealed her fate with the 14 year old. The 14 year old is a wonderful creature, intelligent, engaging and probably the funniest person I know. She may be a little “old for her years” at times but she can spot a patronising bastard a mile away. I don’t disagree that the 14 year old would benefit from some emotional support, after all if I had cancer others would be falling over themselves to ensure she was ok, I’m just not sure that social services are equipped to offer her the kind of support she needs.

So the intervention of social services has me hell-bent on proving that their services are no longer required, maybe that’s the way it works?

Tuesday- the Fab Therapist visited me at home, she was impressed by my apparent fineness given the horror stories she had been told by other “team members” since our last interaction some 6 weeks ago. I don’t think we talked about much, I’m not really sure but we can’t have done as I don’t recall having a meltdown after she left. It was kind of her to circumnavigate my avoidance by visiting me at home and I expect our next appointment in 4 weeks will only have me moderately filled with dread and fear as opposed to having dread and fear seep out of every pore like usual.

This brings me to the realisation I’ve been generating this week- mental health professionals cannot make me better. I have a great “team” (that makes me want to vomit) an Awesome Psychiatrist, Fab Therapist, Wonderful GP, Lovely Dietitian, Fantastic ninja CPN and even an ok-ish community based psychiatrist (promoted from “dickhead” after he didn’t put up a fight against my discharge from the local bin last Thursday). They are all very knowledgeable, compassionate people that work very hard but there are no magic wands.

At the end of every appointment, at the end of every day, I am alone with the mental.

Part of my problem is I don’t know where I am or what I should be doing. Am I ill? Am I recovering? Am I all better now? Should I be taking it easy? Should I be trying harder? I simply don’t know. The last few weeks have been a kind of perpetual crisis and I knew what I had to do then, I had to fight, fight against the horror that is admission to the psych ward, fight against the intrinsic death that is psychotropic medication. I won both of those fights- my prize?

I’m still mental.

This evening I find myself back to struggling to find the will to live. I am aware I have very few coping strategies for times of “distress” (that also makes me want to vomit) so I’ve had a quick look on some websites to find out how other people do it. I’m still none the wiser. Yes sure I can sit here, in my corner and name all the colours I can see but that won’t help sort out the mess that is tax credits, it won’t help me be able to put up with the simultaneous noise from the TV, the DS and the 6 year old when he is here, it won’t help me be able to sit and enjoy a film and some mother-daughter bonding time with the 14 year old, it won’t get the school uniforms washed, dried and ironed in time for school on Monday, it won’t help me get back to work, it won’t pay the mortgage, it won’t cut the grass or fix the bathroom…..I could go on. When your life is a catastrophe, it’s very easy to catastrophise.

Wednesday- I have no idea what, if anything happened on Wednesday- oh yes, I wrote my last blog post and sure enough as I said in reply to one comment I am still as lost and clueless as I was when I wrote it.

Thursday- again, nothing happened that I can recall but in truth it’s therefore not impossible that there was a zombie apocalypse or a plague of sharks or something, my recall of events is sketchy at best.

Friday- AKA today. Well I think I’ve outlined above where I am today, I’m not sure even if I read it back I will have any idea. I think I’m back at the “must get a grip” stage, I have a to-do list for tomorrow- it has one item on it-

Get washed and dressed

 

In all honesty that will be a major achievement, wish me luck.

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Where I Play And Do?

Posted in 6 year old, blogging, children, emotions, friends, illness, insight, insomnia, laptop, mental illness, parenting, sleep, tea, Twitter, tagged , , on August 1, 2011 | 13 Comments »

And so my self-analysis continues and as promised, blogging continues.

I bring this post to you from the comfort of my old laptop. My old laptop isn’t actually that old, I’ve no idea when I bought it, it may even have been as recently as spring 2010, it became my old laptop today upon the purchase of a new laptop.

The new laptop was a spontaneous purchase; I had been ruminating for a short time about purchasing a new laptop in order that everyone in the house could have their own. Again this morning I had to listen to the 6 year old sob as the 14 year old rose form her bed and reclaimed her laptop from his hands. The 6 year old joined me in bed and requested some time on my laptop; I put him off until I’d “checked just one more thing” several times. I’m not sure why I don’t like others using my laptop, I suspect by the time I get to the end of this post I may have a clearer idea- but I know I don’t like it. I decided in that moment that the solution was to buy myself a new laptop, give my old laptop to the 14 year old and give the 14 year olds laptop to the 6 year old.

I set out on my mission to PC World, I had a vague idea of budget and an even vaguer idea of desired specification for the new laptop. Faced with an array of shiny new laptops in PC World, I discovered I could do only one thing to choose between them- write. On several laptops in PC World, Kingsway Retail Park Dundee today there was a WordPad document that read simply-

“do you like this keyboard?”

I had no idea when I set out on my mission that the one deciding factor for the new laptop would be how it felt. Feelings do not come naturally to me.

I adore gadgets and shiny things in general but today I was not seduced by high-end specifications I was looking for something much more. I didn’t find it. None of the laptops I tried today felt right, I picked the one that felt the least wrong, purchased it and took it home. There followed an afternoon of file moving, browser downloading, account synchronising, log-in detail forgetting, tea drinking, tweeting, housework ignoring and parenting. By dinner time everyone in the house had their own laptop. The 6 year old was delighted and we spent an evening together at the kitchen table- me doing my thing and him doing his. I admired his Bin Weevils nest, we watched a trailer for the new (frankly dreadful looking) Horrid Henry movie together on YouTube, we surfed, read, played, tweeted, emailed and chatted. The evening was so pleasant that it was well after bedtime before the 6 year old finally made it to bed.

When the 6 year old was in bed and the 14 year old safely home from her trip to the cinema- with a boy, I settled down, as is usual these days, at the kitchen table for the evening. I still can’t stand the omnipresent TV so I avoid the living room, I am trying to do the mentally healthy thing and stay out of bed unless I am “sleeping” in it so I have annexed the kitchen. Our kitchen is now home to my paper, pens, crayons, notebooks, post-its and of course my laptop- tonight, my new laptop. I did the things I usually do, read emails, re-read some things I’d written, tweeted, read some blogs, read some articles and checked the news and weather.  By 10pm I had identified some tangible problems with the new laptop- namely that the space bar was insensitive and the keys didn’t sound right.

I love the sound of typing, I love the way I feel when I can hear myself typing, I’m not sure what that feeling is- I’ve likened it in the past to feeling efficient but it is so much more than that. I adore the way my thoughts and ideas are transported to my fingertips (two of which are still numb as a result of illustrating the Lunatics Lexicon) there is a freedom for me in the air  between fingers and keyboard that I never seem to achieve between heart and mouth. The keyboard on the new laptop didn’t make me feel any of those things and the continued failure of the spacebar to respond to my touch made me feel very inefficient indeed.

I didn’t dislike the new laptop, specification wise it was much the same as the old laptop and once all my “things” were installed it looked much like the old laptop too. It just didn’t feel right.

I don’t like change and I am inclined to avoid it wherever possible, I have several identical items of clothing, have used the same shampoo, deodorant and toothpaste for years, I don’t smell like myself if I am not wearing the same perfume I have worn for years, I eat the same foods repeatedly, I purport to be fiercely brand-loyal but the truth is I just know what I like and like what I know. It should’ve come as no surprise to me really that I wasn’t comfortable with the new laptop.

I attempted to tough it out, to challenge myself and my fear of change but as I stood smoking in the garden watching our resident hedgehog I realised that I was feeling very sentimental about my old laptop. My old laptop has been there for me throughout my journey, it was where I sent and received all those emails, where I viewed all those photos, where I had all those conversations and of course where I created one of the best blogs on the internet.

My back was aching from a day spent sitting on a kitchen stool (we live in the smallest house in the world- furniture must have storage incorporated or it must be stackable), so I retired to my favourite place- bed, taking the new laptop with me. I had decided that the litmus test for the new laptop was going to be blogging, I knew what I wanted to write- it was this post or something largely similar and I settled down to write it.

The words came easily but they didn’t sound right, I wrote and deleted, wrote and deleted over and over again- on the old laptop I write and I write, I correct as I go along, I re-read then I publish. After writing for a while I decided to get my old laptop back.

There followed another period of configuration and I settled down to write this post.

I have thought about today’s events in my usual all or nothing way- I was “pathetic”  for pining for my old laptop then I was right and justified to have formed an attachment to it after all we’d been through together. I was hoping by this point, 1173 words in that I would be a little clearer as to what I was really feeling that I had chosen to project onto an HP Pavillion Dv6, I’m not sure I am.

Perhaps it was just one transition too far given the recent, significant changes in my life?

I suspect Winnicott would have had many theories on my experience today and I note that the one key on my very well used keyboard that is worn so much the letter is almost invisible is “I”.

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Positive Integers

Posted in 6 year old, Anxiety, blogging, children, Eating Disorder, emotions, Fab Psychologist, insight, insomnia, mental illness, mother, parenting, recovery, sleep, the room, therapy, Twitter, tagged , , , , , , on July 28, 2011 | 16 Comments »

It’s been 8 days since I last blogged, I have spent much of the last two days castigating myself for not blogging yesterday. I had decided that in order to be a “good blogger” I had to update my blog weekly- no more, no less. As a result of this self-imposed regulation I have spent much of the past 8 days resisting the temptation to write blog posts when inspiration has struck- I didn’t want to blog too often- after all I did write, illustrate and publish two books in one week, I didn’t want to bore my audience. So yesterday when I hit the 7 day self-imposed deadline I was dismayed to find that in spite of all my scribbled notes and ideas- I had no urge to blog.

It is though I am somehow dissatisfied by the rules imposed on my life by society, principles, time and the law- I appear to have an almost constant need to impose further rules upon myself. This is evidenced in many ways and I have discovered that even abiding by the rules does not bring me fulfilment; I simply make new rules and move the goal posts even further.

I have ripped up the rule book as regards blogging so tonight I bring you the last 8 days in eight numbers- completely random numbers, in no particular order at all.

60-

The number of mg of Tamazepam I have taken in an attempt to sleep- without the nightly horror sleep has become. I witter on about sleep all the time- and I never did write that post. Sleep has always been an elusive creature for me, the only thing I have in common with Margaret Thatcher is that I do not need a lot of sleep; but I do need some. I have never slept well and I have always had trouble getting off to sleep. These days I can’t sleep at all without medication, even then I sleep briefly, wake frequently and early. My nights are filled with an unknown terror, I often wake myself screaming or shouting but retain no memory of what it was that was so horrific during the night. I wake very early every morning feeling unsettled and traumatised.

I’m not supposed to have the Tamezepam; I was prescribed it ages ago, back in the early stages of mentalism when I was still considered responsible enough to be trusted not to abuse prescription medication. I am running out, I can’t imagine the prescription will be refilled. I combine the Tamazepam with double doses of Zopiclone in pursuit of unconsciousness as opposed to actual sleep, sleep brings with it fear and fear is something I’m keen to avoid.

My own unique, personal manifestation of mentalism appears to bring with it the added joy of getting to watch myself “sleep”. It’s as though I stay up all night watching my poor shattered body struggle to stay asleep as my mind attempts to torture it. I feel sad for myself and wish I could help myself but it seems all I can do is watch until morning- very early morning.

2- 

The number of people I heard outside my open bedroom window discussing the state of my front garden. I am quite good at gardening, I used to have a beautiful garden at the front of the house and I grew veg out the back. I used to enjoy gardening and was proud of my little patches of green, my flowers and my veg. Since I became unwell and I find it takes me all my energy and motivation to wash and dry my hair, I no longer have any desire to tend to the garden- lawns and privet hedges are very quick to advertise neglect. The only attention the grass has received of late is from the rabbit- he’s a lovely rabbit but very small and there’s only so much lawn he can eat. The hedge was so big it was sucking all the light out of my living room we lived in the kind of gloom befitting a Dickensian novel- a gloom only shattered by the odd beam of sunlight, light that would sneak around the hedge and highlight all the dust hanging in the air.

The last proper gardening I did was last summer- it was the kind of gardening one does with a chainsaw, it saw the removal of an 8ftx10ft privet hedge- which was never replaced with any sort of boundary marker- the neighbours have yet to forgive me. I have the kind of neighbours who only cut “their side” of the hedge so I can only imagine what they thought about the state of my gardens.

When I heard those lovely locals criticising my garden I dealt with it in my usual healthy way. I was already in bed, already in pyjamas all I needed was alcohol and a healthy dose of self-flagellation- so I drank and felt ashamed, then I felt ashamed for lying in bed drinking wine at 5.20pm, then I got pissed, then I woke up two hours later with a hangover. So I have yet again entered a period of abstinence- this one will last until I know I’m not going to sit in my bed with a bottle of merlot feeling sorry for myself.

There was so much I wanted to say to the lovely locals but didn’t- I wanted to be angry and say “fuck off, mind your own business”, I wanted to be pathetic and say “I’ve not been well you know, please cut my grass”, I wanted to be political and say “you have no idea how pervasive mental illness can be”. Instead I said nothing; those lovely locals have no idea of the story behind the state that was my garden. Those lovely locals have no idea the woman that has let that garden run to seed is the same woman they would’ve called for advice on planning applications, double yellow lines, HMO applications, parks, benches, green belt and schools. They have no idea that the very thought of spending the necessary amount of time in my garden required to cut the grass would leave me feeling as exposed and vulnerable as a broken tooth. They have no idea that I was as horrified by my garden as they were.

I called a gardener to come and sort things out, I don’t know his name but I can highly recommend the first gardener that comes up on Yell.com when you put “Gardener St Andrews Fife” into the search box. My garden has been reset and I hope now to be able to “keep on top of it”. It’s not the garden it once was by any stretch of the imagination but it’s not a garden to be ashamed of either.

7- 

The number of times the call handler at BT told me today that the proximity of my router to the TV was the reason my wireless connection was either painfully slow or non-existent. I made clear to the gentleman on the phone that the router and TV had shared the same electromagnetic field for some years- the problem with the wireless had only occurred in the last 2 days. My anxiety at being on the phone was overtaken by frustration and irritation at the call-handlers inability to go off script.

I’m not sure how much the non-internet dependent understand the internet dependent. My need for a wireless connection to the internet is even more pertinent than my need for stationery- I would happily sell organs in order to obtain both. Should BT or Rymans ever decide that they will only offer goods and services in exchange for bodily tissues, I will be unperturbed. Fixing the wireless got immediate priority on the to-do list and it was even worth making a phone call for. The phone call lasted 22 minutes and it was possibly the most infuriating 22 minutes I have ever spent on the phone to Bangalore.

I eventually realised that the problem I had encountered (trying to change the channel on the router) was in fact due to Google Chrome and to my relief it’s all sorted now. I besmirched the good name of  BT all over twitter today and they apologised for my “frustration”, it wasn’t frustration it was sheer panic at facing a day without the internet. Nothing starts the day better than a cup of tea and the www- after all my day starts at a time when no-one else is around- nobody wants to chat at 4.45am in the real world.

9- 

The number of biscuits I have eaten- various biscuits, mainly digestives but with the occasional piece of shortbread or rich tea finger thrown in for variety. The 14 year old put the contents of a packet of ginger biscuits in the biscuit tin so all the biscuits taste the same- faintly ginger- we have a tin full of strawberry blonde biscuits. The number of biscuits is a good reflection on my general relationship with food at the moment- not too few and not too many. I feel a bit like I am discovering many foods for the first time and am actually deriving real pleasure from eating. I am enjoying no longer being leg chewing-off starving before I eat and I am discovering a lot about what I need and what I want. I have my bad days but the good far outweigh the bad and I feel so much better for having regular, decent amounts of food inside me.

My diet tends to be very much centered around poached eggs, mushroom risotto and various breakfast cereals (both generic and branded) but it is a million miles away from the diet I had even two weeks ago. I have noticed a tendency to starve myself whenever the going gets tough but I am noticing it and most of the time rectifying it immediately. I see no reason for this to change and I find myself looking forward to the day when I can look at my own forearms without being repulsed by how thin they are.

3- 

The number of things I have rewired. I have replaced the sockets and the light switch in the  6 year olds soon to be  bedroom. I have no idea how long I have been working on this room- the preparation and painting has been a painful protracted affair and there is still much to do. I have never liked decorating, mainly because I am very bad at it and partly because it draws my attention to the state my house is in. I have promised the 6 year old that he will be in it for the end of the summer holidays (20 days to go) and I have no doubt he will be but he may well be in it without a blind, door or furniture and without the coving I will need to put up to disguise the horribly inaccurate paint line between the walls and the ceiling. Every day the room renovation throws up a new problem- today’s is that I cannot get B&Q to deliver the coving and the door I need, I can’t fit these items in the stupid car so for today have given up trying to procure them at all. The room is now a standing issue on the daily to do list- annotated by my attempts to persuade myself to make progress-

I have yet to actually list all the outstanding items, preferring to take a haphazard approach and just hoping that I will hit the target eventually. The room is now a vision in metallic blue and “sky”, the (chosen by the 6 year old) bright red blind sits on the floor, mocking me and my fear of being able to cut it correctly and accurately. I have been told by many that I will get “a real sense of achievement” when it’s done- I wont, I will just be relieved and delay even further the decorating that needs done in the 14 year olds room.

17- 

The number of years I have been a Mama, my eldest child turned 17 last week. I don’t feel old enough to be the Mama to a 17 year old but at the same time I feel very old. Parenting the 17 year old has been a tremendous challenge from day 1, I am told I have done a good job but in common with most mothers I don’t doubt for a second that I could’ve done things better. In those 17 years I have learned a lot and at the same time remain that unsure, self-doubting creature I was before I even considered embarking on motherhood. I will be a Mama for the rest of my life, 17 years is not a long time in the grand scheme of things- but in 17 years a Mama can find an awful lot of reasons to pick holes in her performance. I was relieved to see that the 17 year old is well and happy; in fact he seems happier than he has for around two years. I am trying to see this as a good thing I have achieved now as opposed to a lot of bad things I have achieved in the last two years. Motherhood is very difficult and it’s very easy to get things wrong, it is a continuous learning curve and there are no prizes for just having done it for a certain period of time. It is the ultimate dynamic role and I often find it difficult to keep up, it’s a role that deserves a post of its own so I will leave it there for now.

200- 

The number of times I am tweeting per day on average at the moment. Twitter has become more conversational for me lately so a lot of those tweets are exchanges between me and others- a lot of them are my continued stream of consciousness. Twitter has become the ultimate recording device for me- it allows me to retrace my steps I have a permanent record of what I’ve said and done and where I’ve been. I have days when I use it less if I am occupied by another task and days when I use it more but I always make sure I check in regularly both for my own benefit and to stop my followers from worrying about me. I spend a lot of time thinking about twitter and its ramifications for me, fellow mentalists and the world as a whole- there is an article  published by SRN where I talk about it some more. I am impressed that the author managed to obtain such succinct comments from my pages long response to her interview questions about what is clearly one of my very favourite topics.

1- 

The number of major breakthroughs I had in therapy. I have being seeing the Fab Psychologist since January- every two weeks. Every two weeks I would go to the local hospital for 11.30am on a Tuesday having spent at least the previous two weeks dreading that hour. That hour, every two weeks felt like emotional evisceration. I have largely spent most of my therapy hours like this and stuck to my old mantra of “leave them smiling and they will think you are fine”. I don’t know what it was but something made me keep going back. I have an almost infinite list of reasons why I don’t like therapy- they range from the valid- “I don’t like to talk about myself” to the invalid- “she moved the furniture” but there is a strange pull I cannot define. I’m not sure if I have made any progress since January, I’m not sure I really tried; perhaps just going back was trying enough?

This week it was different in a way I have not yet managed to put into words- in spite of numerous attempts. I came away from that hour feeling unsettled but curious, scared but optimistic I even think there was a point where I was looking forward to my next session, that feeling has since vanished and been replaced by the usual dread- but I will go.

I feel as though I am finally on that journey everyone has been talking about for so long, I am experiencing the same mix of fear and excitement that I would experience embarking on any journey. I don’t know what my destination is and so I have the added fear the unknown. I fear that my journey will be interrupted at some point and I fear that my journey may be too arduous and I will simply give up. My theme of late has been “feel the fear and do it anyway” so I will carry on, there are no rules on this journey but it is almost certain there will be lots of blogging.

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Self-Defence

Posted in 6 year old, bipolar, blogging, children, crying, depression, emotions, Fantastic CPN, insight, mental illness, mother, parenting, stickers, suicide, tea, tagged , , , , on July 13, 2011 | 30 Comments »

I’m always a bit wary about blogging about depression as posts about depression have a tendency to be very depressing and as you know I like to entertain my audience not drive them away. But I do like to blog about me and my days so I’ll throw caution to the wind forewarn the Samaritans and go ahead and write.

Today I am very, very depressed I’ve never been very good at imagery so I’m not sure whether I feel completely hollow or filled to the brim with a toxic, black sludge. My chest feels crushed, it hurts to breathe, it hurts to move, I have lain in bed all day, my body aching and my mind tender and throbbing. I find the abject misery of depression difficult to put into words. I could draw it and I think I may have done in the past but I feel bad enough without having to deal with the utter boiling frustration that my interactions with a scanner appear to bring.

Obviously I’ve been here before several times but yet again I didn’t see it coming until it hit. A cursory glance over my last few blog posts will reveal the pattern that my illness has become, I wish I’d taken time out to read them.

Depressive episodes are very hard to bear and I decided today, not for the first time that I wasn’t going to put myself through it again. At 10pm tonight, Wednesday the 13th of July 2011 I was going to take my own life.

I have harboured a latent desire to take my own life for some time now and it has rapidly become my normal, the motivation to actually do it varies in intensity but the desire to wake up the next day dead never leaves me. Today I had the desire and the motivation.

Like many mentalists I have a plan, my plan involved large amounts of various medications that I have accumulated throughout my journey- my stash. I have lovingly nurtured my stash for some time now; adding to it when anything my careful research told me would be helpful in fuelling my final journey was prescribed. I have an inventory of my stash at the back of my diary and a handy note of how much of each to take and in what order to ensure that the outcome was death and not just a quick trip to A&E followed by a spell on the local acute psychiatric ward. My stash was kept in a shoe box in my bedside cabinet, close at hand so that when the time came, I could grab it, jump in the stupid car, drive to my desired spot (here) and carry out my plan.

So today, I decided, was the day. I was being tortured, I have no idea how long the torture will continue and I know that I will be here again at some point in the future- so it was time for it all to stop.

I checked my stash, checked my diary, consulted Dr Internet to ensure I had the most up-to-date (over)dosage information and made up my mind that this was going to be my last depressive episode- ever.

So I lay in bed, motionless and played my plan over and over in my mind to ensure everything was in place. I gain comfort from my stash and I gain comfort from my plan, today my plan had got closer to the action stage than I’d previously been comfortable with but playing it over in my mind reassured me I could escape, I was getting away, this was going to stop and it was never going to happen again. I sunk even further into the stinking pit of depression. I berated myself for being an awful mother as the children were left to fend for themselves. The 14yo has applied undercoat to the walls of her brothers bedroom and the 6 year old has lived on Quavers and shortbread all day. In my suicidal state I theorised that they would be better off without me.

So I lay there thinking, occasionally weeping somewhat self-indulgently and just generally feeling tormented.

At some point my rather petulant, self-protective side snuck out and firmly stated it’s refusal to be “complicit in my murder”. I was a little confused by this turn of events and frankly cringing a little at the sheer drama of the statement. I mulled it over for a bit and realised I was getting into very unsafe territory and that I was indeed planning to murder myself- which seemed odd as I can’t imagine, even given my desire to cease to exist that I would just stand there and let someone murder me. I certainly wasn’t going to stand back and let me murder myself.

Have I mentioned that I am mental?

I knew what I had to do- I had to get rid of my stash.

For someone who is usually chronically out of touch with their emotions I began to grieve very quickly for my stash and started weeping uncontrollably. I texted the Fantastic CPN and requested she come and collect my beloved pharmaceutical death-cocktail, having theorised that if I simply put it in the bin, I could simply take it out again.

The fantastic CPN arrived, we drank tea, chatted, I ranted and cried at the sheer horror and unfairness of it all and basically spent over an hour putting off actually handing the stash over. I eventually handed it over; the Fantastic CPN told me I was “taking responsibility” which was nice of her- but not as nice as what she did next.

The fantastic CPN gave me two stickers in return for my stash. I was elated- well as elated as anyone with severe depression can be. For a moment as I held those two stickers in my hand I really felt like I’d achieved something.

Of course I then immediately began to question The Fantastic CPN as to why, since our first encounter in December 2009, she had never given me stickers before- did she give other patient/clients/mentals stickers and what had they done that was so good they deserved stickers? I know I must be one of the most irritating mentalists to have in one’s caseload but surely over the past 19 months I have done plenty to deserve the odd sticker?

The Fantastic CPN and I discussed alternative activities to my planned suicide and I decided upon a hot bath. The Fantastic CPN left, taking my stash with her- I shut the door, sat on the floor in the hall and wept. I wanted my stash, I wanted my escape. I didn’t want to be responsible I wanted to be dead. Though I do also want more stickers so I dried my tears, got up and carried on.

I’ve had my bath so now I’m clean and suicidal. I’m blogging in an attempt to stop me researching alternative plans. I will never have access to the kinds of drugs I had in my stash in such large quantities again and at the moment my paranoia and social anxiety prevent me going into shops so replacing the stash in any form is going to be difficult if not impossible.

So far so good, it’s now 10pm and I’m still here- still dreading waking up tomorrow, still despising my lack of insight, my illness and mentalness in general. I don’t have a plan now and I feel a bit adrift so I suspect I will make another at some point but today I deserved stickers.

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Problem Solving

Posted in 6 year old, art, bipolar, book, children, communication, diagnosis, high, love, mental illness, single-parent, Twitter, tagged , , , , , on July 12, 2011 | 80 Comments »

I agonised for ages (well about 2.63 minutes) over what to call this post, the other titles in the running were-

Never Underestimate The Productivity of a Mental

What I Ended Up Doing With That Anger

For Anyone Doubting That Bipolar Diagnosis….

I Wrote A Book! (but it’s not the book I thought up in Paris)

My Hands Are Covered In Felt-Tip

I could go on. Anyway I’ve ranted about children’s books somewhere else in this blog- I was annoyed last night about the lack of books available for children of single parents- all the families in books are one mum, one dad, kids and a smiley dog. My research last time I ranted about this told me there were more books aimed at the children of LGBT parents that there were of single parents. This turned into a Twitter conversation about the lack of books for the children of mentalists. I had a quick look on Amazon and there are a few rather dour texts about depression but nothing aimed at the children of bipolar parents.

So I had an idea- a great feeling that I haven’t had for ages, sat down at the kitchen table at 8.30pm last night and here is what I came up with. Again I lament the fact that actual talent doesn’t match creative desire but it is if nothing else my own unique style. I’m not convinced it’s suitable for children at all although the six year old seemed to like it.

I love your feedback and I know I’m shit at replying to comments and great at replying to tweets but if you’re moved to say anything about this post at all- please please leave a comment, tweets are so fleeting but I can keep blog comments forever- but do keep tweeting, especially if you plan to use the word “awesome”.

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The Wrong T-Shirt

Posted in 6 year old, Anxiety, bipolar, blogging, budget, children, crying, driving, DVLA, emotions, Magic Invisibility Sunglasses, medication, mental illness, money, Pernicious butterflies, shopping, St Andrews, stress, tea, Wonderful GP, Wrong t-shirt, tagged , , , , , on July 7, 2011 | 5 Comments »

This is not some sort of homage to Wallace and Gromit, I despise Wallace and Gromit, for reasons I won’t go into. This is the (no doubt protracted, verbose) tale of how one woman can alter the rotational axis of her mental world and blame it on an item of clothing.

Today I am wearing the wrong t-shirt. The t-shirt I am wearing is black, 100% cotton, comes from H&M and has a v-neck. It’s a perfectly nice t–shirt, goes well with the rest of my outfit (black linen trousers, red Converse high-tops) but it is just all wrong.

This is the second time in 5 days I have worn the wrong t-shirt, it’s not the same t-shirt but they both are now burdened with the homogeny of being the wrong t-shirt; I suspect that every t-shirt in my possession could easily be assimilated into this group under the right (or wrong?) circumstances.

The first day I wore the wrong t-shirt I was convinced I had worn the right t-shirt the previous day and the right t-shirt (black, 100% cotton, H&M, round neck) was therefore in the wash. The impact on my mental state of wearing the wrong t-shirt was disproportionate to say the least.

As soon as I had put the wrong t-shirt on I was gripped by fear and anxiety, my stomach was in knots, my head was spinning, my hands were shaking- I entered a phase of utter panic and I even think rather uncharacteristic tears were involved at some point. I adjusted the t-shirt (black, 100% cotton, M&S, v-neck) smoothed the t-shirt, pulled the t-shirt down, moved it back up but it didn’t help. I was having a meltdown and it was obviously because I was wearing the wrong t-shirt.

There was a vague awareness somewhere within me that my reaction to the wrong t-shirt was in fact a massive deflection. There were several things going on that day that were a source of some anxiety for me. It was infinitely simpler though to dismiss my issues and therefore the risk of feeling any emotion and blame it all on the t-shirt. I continued to obsess over the t-shirt- was it too tight? Was it too loose? Was it too black? Was it too cottony? I didn’t know, I just knew it was wrong.

The answer was simple- get a copy of the right t-shirt and put it on.

The keen eyed amongst you will probably have noticed that both the right and wrong t-shirts share a number of features- both black, both 100% cotton, both from H&M, both t-shirts- the only disparity being round neck vs v-neck. I don’t think I have any preference regarding necks on t-shirts; the wrongness of this t-shirt was far more intrinsic and overwhelming than just the shape of the neck.

So I jumped in the stupid car and went straight to H&M- having good shops nearby is one of the many benefits of living in a town that is essentially a giant university campus, I rushed in and hurriedly purchased 2 exact copies of the right t-shirt. I got home, took the wrong t-shirt off and put the right t-shirt on.

From that moment on, my day went swimmingly and I was happy, in fact I was cured…….

Not surprisingly replacing the wrong t-shirt with the right t-shirt did absolutely nothing to quell my anxiety and my body continued to over-react to every stimulus. Light was too bright, noise was too loud, the cry of “Mama” from the 6 year old that sounds so sweet at 8am was akin to shoving a breadknife in my ear- repeatedly.

I decided, having changed the t-shirt that I had done all I could and I would simply have to get on with my day as best as I could. I managed to identify the real sources of the anxiety eventually but it did little to alleviate the symptoms. I spent the rest of the day feeling horrible but made it through aided by too many cigarettes and my trusty “magic invisibility” sunglasses. I was even more relieved than usual to put my pyjamas on that night.

So today, when I finally got bathed and dressed after lunch (all the food groups represented in reasonable quantities) my palms began to sweat and my heart began to race I got completely engulfed by the sheer awfulness of it all and I felt terrible. The t-shirt (black, 100% cotton, H&M, v-neck) was wrong- again.

I indulged my body for a while and paced the bedroom in an attempt to silence my mind- then in a moment of self analytical genius I grabbed a pen (blue Bic Cristal medium- always) and notebook (Oxford A5 Plus- always) and wrote down the real reasons I was wearing the wrong t-shirt. Here, in handy list format in order to keep the reader engaged, is what I came up with-

I am very concerned about my financial situation- before I went mental the first thing I did every day was check the bank. The household budget was worked out to the penny and I knew every single incoming and outgoing transaction in great detail. I have somewhat taken my eye off the ball financially and now find myself in a very precarious position indeed. The DVLA took my driving license off me when I went mental but the bank let me keep my debit card, it may have been safer in the long term if this had been the other way around. At the moment I find myself almost completely incapable of even thinking about how to deal with this. This morning I rang HMRC to inform them of a change to my circumstances regarding Tax credits. The prelude to this phonecall was around 3 hours of all consuming anxiety at having to find and collate the relevant information and actually make the phonecall. The phonecall lasted approximately 3 minutes 43 seconds but it nearly killed me. Tomorrow I will consider whether to speak to the bank, BT and Scottish Power.

I needed to buy bread and milk- my local branch of Morrisons has been rearranged, it’s like someone has ripped my Morrisons mental map out of my head and replaced it with a giant terrifying void. I went to Morrisons earlier in the week and ended up completely bewildered, frightened and upset- I managed to find the milk as I think it was roughly in the same place but I can’t face going back especially as I suspect the reorganisation is ongoing and there is a risk it may have changed further. Today I drove 10 miles to go to Tesco for bread and milk. I can hear you all suggesting online grocery shopping but this is out of the question as it would involve someone else selecting and examining my produce- the risks are too high. I have done online grocery shopping in the past but the horror and trauma of “substitutions” may never leave me. Online grocery shopping and its delivery necessitates someone knocking on my door at some point within a two-hour time slot, the uncertainty and lack of control over this is too much for me. Again I find myself at a loss as to how to overcome this- mixed with shame at just how badly I am handling simple things at the moment.

My phone rang- a ringing phone strikes fear in my heart, I never answer the landline and I am very selective as to whom I give my mobile number. “Unknown number” has now rung my mobile 3 times today- if it’s you, text me and tell me you’re going to call, ask me if I will answer (my response will invariably be “no”) leave a voicemail identifying yourself and your reason for calling or email me but please stop calling. My body is flooded with adrenaline and I fear I may be on the verge of a heart attack. That heart attack will be your fault, my death and the end of one of the best blogs on the internet will be on your hands. There will be an enquiry and you will be grilled as to why you chose to kill me with your incessant desire to try and persuade me to engage in a telephone conversation. Twitter will hate you and will invent a # tag so that Tweets calling for you to be slain in revenge can be easily searched for.

The 6 year old was watching Stuart Little for the second time in 15 hours- I don’t know where to start with this one, a brief synopsis of the film, through my eyes may help you to understand.

Dr House and Barbara Maitland from Beetlejuice (a far superior film) want a child so they go to an orphanage and adopt a mouse (as you do). The mouse has an adults voice and can drive- they parent it anyway. The anthropomorphisation is inconsistent- the mice wear clothes but the cats do not yet both animals speak. The whole film is culturally unreferencable (my own terminology) the iron is from the 50’s but the bike (a proper bike, given as a present to the mouse-child) is from the 70’s, the wardrobe spans at least two decades. Something happens to the mouse, the most nauseating movie family ever invented all come running to the rescue and they all live happily ever after- or something. Twice- in 15 hours. The added irritation of this scenario comes from the 6 year olds continued inability to hear properly in spite of the insertion of grommets last month; everything he watches on TV has to be at “make Mama mental” volume. We live in the smallest house in the world, we have one TV- I can hear it in every room.

I have lost my ability to journal- I have kept comprehensive diaries throughout my mentalism, in the last few days I appear to have lost my ability to keep my diary- yesterdays entry is 3 lines written in the morning and the rest of the page is filled with biro scribbles. Without my diary I have no idea what’s happened during the day. I can cobble together a history with tweets, texts and drafted blog posts but the diary would’ve filled in any gaps- it’s gone. I live in a permanently bewildered state and my most frequent question during any conversation has become “what day is it?” I had a visit from The Guilt Riddled Friend- she used to be the Lovely Friend but as her holiday both this year and last has coincided with an entirely coincidental trip back to the bin for me she has taken it upon herself to accept rather a disproportionate amount of blame for my mental decline. Anyway, The Guilt Riddled Friend visited yesterday and I spent most of the time revealing the hideous state of my memory, I even had to be prompted into remembering the lunch we shared at the weekend. Yet again I am unsure what to do about this, I think I can forgive myself for not knowing what day of the week it is as it is the summer holidays (38 days left) and time tends to drift. I am inclined to think that my poor brain is just so overloaded with anxiety and paranoia (coming to that) that it simply can’t also cope with remembering what I’ve done, I think post-its may be the answer.

It is raining in St Andrews- again. I have good old-fashioned cabin fever as we haven’t been for a walk en famille for days. The 6 year old believes he is made of sugar and would therefore melt if he were to go out in the rain and it is so dark I could not employ the magic invisibility sunglasses without fear of bumping into things, or worse- other people. I could go for a drive but have avoided it for several reasons-

1.The stupid car is very small, conversation with the hard of hearing 6 year old is much like having him sit on my shoulder and shout questions about appendicitis, third world economics, dolphins and theology at me.

2.People with as much epinephrine, norepinephrine, and cortisol as I currently have coursing through their veins should not be in sole control of over a tonne of metal, glass, plastic and spiky bits.

3.I don’t know where to drive to, I have a desire to drive to somewhere the sun is shining but I suspect this would involve a very long drive indeed.

I suspect people may be reading my blog- if anything is going to highlight just how irrational and mental I am at the moment it will be this. My blog has suddenly become very popular and has had consistently high views for days now. This is why I blog is it not? I certainly have no problem writing and publishing posts and I provide the link willingly, but I am caught up in a bizarre, compulsive mobius loop of posting, stat checking and paranoia. I can’t make any sense of this at all so I’ve chosen to ignore it and publish this post, if nothing else it will provide a bit of insight into just how crazy us crazies can be. I love people commenting on my blog, I soak up the praise like a big affirmation seeking sponge with very low self-esteem. I love the thought that someone somewhere is sitting laughing at my jokes and I like to think that I’m doing my bit to challenge mental health stigma by proving that even the most normal of people can go completely bonkers under the right circumstances……(you may laugh now)

There is no amount of medication that could even begin to address this kind of situation, psychiatry has no answer. I have no answer either, last week I was delighted at the number of readers, this week it is completely freaking me out. You’ll note it’s not freaking me out to the extent that I’ve stopped blogging, I am nothing if not paradoxical.

I feel anxious­- again I am in danger of just sounding ridiculous but as anyone who suffers from anxiety knows it is fantastic at feeding itself- both physically and emotionally. My shoulders hurt because I am anxious- sore shoulders makes me anxious, so my shoulders hurt, which makes me anxious, which makes my shoulders hurt…..you get the picture. My body is wracked with pain and my mind feels as though it is filled with poison, a poison that in turn, seeps into my bloodstream, courses round my body and ends up back in my mind where the whole sorry cycle begins again. So I end up feeling anxious about feeling anxious.

I have tried many strategies to address the way I am feeling at the moment- mainly involving drinking tea and smoking cigarettes. I have had hot baths (boring) and pyjama time is rapidly getting so early in the evening that there is little point in getting dressed at all. So far I have resisted the temptation to use medication to alleviate my symptoms for two reasons-

1.Lorazepam makes me sleepy- I have two children to look after, 6 year olds do not generally allow their Mama’s to nap.

2.The Wonderful GP is away on holiday for 3 weeks. I realised I referred to her as The Lovely GP in my epic post, she hasn’t been demoted; it was just a continuity error on my part. I am rationing my lorazepam for bedtime use- refilling my prescription would involve facing The Different GP and I don’t think I’m quite ready to do that, besides I can’t imagine, given his interaction with me to date that he’d be too keen on handing over a prescription for benzodiazepines.

So here I am yet again in the throes of mentalism, my stomach is full of giant pernicious butterflies but I can only assume that this too will pass. I am coping, but only just, whatever you do don’t phone me to check if I’m alright.

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