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Archive for the ‘Anxiety’ Category

Mental Arithmetic

Posted in Anxiety, children, communication, Dissociation, insomnia, Internal Communication, parenting, single-parent, sleep, tagged , , , , , on August 12, 2012 | 32 Comments »

To sum up the weekend-

60mins + 30 mins = 90 minutes

- how much sleep I got on Saturday night, when I woke and checked the clock at 11.30pm I was sorely tempted to smash it into my face repeatedly until I was unconscious. I wept pitifully for a while, lay in bed until 3am listening to the thoughts of many and feeling a little hard done-by then I got up. Obviously lack of sleep is nothing new to me but I had dared to hope that the days of almost no sleep were behind me.

5 fish – 5 fish = 0 fish

- the number of fish the 7 year-old caught on Saturday when I decided to introduce him to blood-sports and take him fishing. In spite of failing to land anything the 7 year-old seemed to enjoy the experience, he even managed to overcome his ‘sensitivities’ and handle bait. Given his extreme squeamishness I think it’s probably for the best he wasn’t lucky this time.

100bpm + 80bpm = 180bpm

- my average heart-rate during the hour I spent on the harbour with the 7 year-old, a child who embodies “perpetual motion” and occasionally “dyspraxia”. I think I may need to get him a life-jacket for future fishing trips- just in case that theory about a finite number of heartbeats is correct. Two more fishing trips and I’ll be dead.

12 arms – 11 arms = 1 arms

- the number of arms the 7 year-old claimed to have had broken by the 15 year-old. The children decided on Saturday that they hated each other and a day of bickering, shrieking and moderate violence ensued. I’m sure this was not unconnected to the fact that the 15 year-old was forced to wake some 6 hours earlier than her preferred time in order to attend her appointment with the hairdresser. I left them to it, they weren’t armed (though I considered giving them weapons at one point to bring matters to a speedy resolution) and there’s a hospital five minutes up the road.

1 arm – 1 arm = 0 arms

- the number of arms the 7 year-old actually had broken. I didn’t even bother to check when he initially made the claim, he came to find me some five minutes later, appearing jubilant, I suspect he won that particular round.

1 + 1 = 2

- the number of serious problems with the stupid car that I am now unable to ignore, it often fails to start at all and now 9 times out of 10 the key won’t even turn in the ignition. We have a skills gap, none of us are mechanics. I will simply have to break out the magic Barclaycard of power and send the stupid car to a garage.

25mg ÷ 5mg = 5mg

- the amount of Diazepam I took on Sunday in an attempt to get something resembling sleep. Old habits die hard, it’s been a while and it’s indicative of a general “things are a bit difficult” feeling at the moment but it did the job and for 2 hours I was oblivious.

1 x 12 = 12

- the number of teaspoons we own and coincidentally the number of teaspoons that were waiting to be washed. Teaspoons are a kind of benchmark for washing up in this house- when they run out it’s time to address the state of the kitchen. Having no clean teaspoons was not as problematic as you might think- there was so much washing up and general debris on the worktops that there was no room to make a cup of tea anyway. The dishes are now washed and the worktops clear, I’m considering buying some more teaspoons.

1 x ∞ = ∞

- the number of problems at the moment. It’s often the way, some are small, some are big and some are massive. It’s caused a kind of ‘stalling’ and almost a complete lack of internal communication as individual parts mull over their own problems and how they want to tackle them or indeed ignore them completely.

3mins + 40secs= 3mins 40secs

- the average length of a track on the new album by Two Door Cinema Club- Beacon. It’s not due for release until next month, I’ve listened to it and it’s ok but I’m glad I didn’t buy it. I’ve yet to give it the magical second listen so my views may change, I’ll be sure to keep you updated.

300 fucks – 300 fucks = 0 fucks

- the number of fucks I give right now, right this minute. There’s no lack of very obvious signs that something is very seriously wrong but thanks to my amazing powers of dissociation it needn’t be a problem, which is handy as I have much to do and no time to be mental.

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According To Our Latest Findings- You’re Super

Posted in Anxiety, CBT, DID, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, emotions, Fantastic CPN, hypervigilance, insight, Internal Communication, MPD, Multiple Personality Disorder, Spiderman, The Fear, The Smallest House in The World, Triggers, Twitter, Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on July 26, 2012 | 20 Comments »

I don’t think  I’ve ever detailed my virulent hatred of CBT (cognitive behavioural therapy) on the blog, I talk about it a lot on twitter and as some of my poor victims will know, I used to practise it there.

In times of distress I was always available to offer therapy, mainly along the lines of-

WHY ARE YOU DEPRESSED? OTHER PEOPLE ARE FAR WORSE OFF; SOME HAVE DEAD PETS. JUST STOP IT!

And

YOU ARE EMPLOYING MAGICAL THINKING. JUST STOP IT!

And

YOU’RE NOT BEING PARANOID. PEOPLE DO HATE YOU- BECAUSE YOU’RE RUBBISH. JUST STOP IT!

I’m in semi-retirement from my CBT practise these days, though rest-assured, should I spot you indulging in a little black and white thinking, mind-reading or catasrophising then I will point it out and insist you desist.

It may surprise you to know that I’m not a trained CBT practitioner, but I am a quick learner and managed to pick-up quite a lot during my own very brief dalliance with the technique. I had three sessions of CBT before I was declared too mental; I don’t remember much, in fact all I remember is

“WHY WOULD YOU MAKE YOURSELF VOMIT? THAT’S JUST STUPID”

Which as you can imagine was enormously helpful for someone who at the time was attempting to ‘regulate their emotions’ by throwing-up every morsel of food she ate. I waited 9 months for some harridan in a maxi-dress (she may have been a psychologist) to berate me for being mental. I’ve never been so glad to be declared ‘un-helpable’ in my life, being discharged was a gift.

CBT was never going to help me; I’m quite capable of berating myself, I don’t deny I sometimes indulge in all the common cognitive distortions but I’m a multiple so I also know when I’m doing it, why and what to do about it. I can administer CBT to myself. It doesn’t make me any better or help at all in any way but I know I should keep doing it or everything will go completely wrong and end in disaster. Furthermore it will all be my fault; I know others will blame me for everything as they all think I’m rubbish anyway.

There is one psychotherapeutic technique with a cognitive basis I don’t despise completely- reframing. I love a good reframe. I often reframe my days in order to make myself feel better; I’m quite the Polyanna and on balance, probably wear my rose-tinted spectacles as often as I wear my shit-tinted ones. At this stage I probably would lose the will to live by 10am most days if I didn’t paint everything with rainbows-

Forget an entire day- it must’ve been rubbish anyway.

Got lost in Tesco- accidentally found the stationery aisle.

Haven’t been out of the house all week- didn’t run away to Paris/Newcastle.

Drank too much wine- didn’t mix with benzos.

It’s a useful technique but there is a danger that a reframe can become a wanky platitude. The two run very closely together, I’ve sketched a graph to illustrate.

I can also spot a reframe a mile away so often feel patronised and invalidated, sometimes this is justified. Back in the day of the frequent dissociative trips that ended in police involvement, MHAs, helicopters, trips to A&E and the bin etc the Fantastic CPN would always comment “but you came back and you’re ok”. I’m not sure what my response at the time was, these ‘trips’ left me confused, terrified and ashamed but the fact I was still alive was supposed to be enough to comfort me when it was quite clear I had completely lost control of my mind and my life. So reframing, whilst useful can also be a tricky balancing act.

The 7 year-old has returned home, earlier than I planned. I’m not entirely sure how this came about but I’m sure there’s a paper-trail somewhere. Today I finally have a man coming to fix the TV- you can’t have a 7 year-old child in the house with no working TV, well you can if you

a)     dislike children

and

b)     are happy to provide round-the-clock entertainment

I’ve mentioned before that this kind of situation, where I have to allow a stranger to enter the smallest house in the world is very challenging for me. I don’t imagine for a second that the TV man presents any real threat (other than to the bank balance) but I am crippled by hypervigilance.

I have extremely keen senses- all of them, they are my useless superpowers. I’m always on the lookout for signs of danger, be they real or imagined. I am permanently primed, ready to freeze, flee or have a complete meltdown at the first sign of peril. It’s not a good way to be, physically or emotionally- hypervigilance makes me mental, bonfire night in this house is probably similar in many ways to bonfire night in Battersea Dogs Home. I can’t just stop being hypervigilant and so, at times I hate myself for it.

I clearly needed some sort of reframe, so you can imagine my unbridled delight when I found this article that confirms that I am not only super-human but Spiderman. I have nothing to fear from the TV man, unless of course his name is Norman Osborn…….

click image to read article

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Same Difference

Posted in Anxiety, depression, DID, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Eating Disorder, emotions, insight, insomnia, Internal Communication, labels, manic, mental illness, MPD, Multiple Personality Disorder, therapy, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Triggers, Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on July 18, 2012 | 22 Comments »

I don’t fit, or at least if I do, I don’t know where. This feeling is nothing new to me; I’ve never fitted, always felt different. I suppose I should be grateful that at least now I know why?

I didn’t think I had a problem with being different, in fact I’m still not sure I do after all I can’t imagine I’d enjoy being normal. Just a quick reminder to anyone even thinking of saying or even just thinking “oh but what is normal anyway?” I don’t know, but I know what it isn’t. That question rates even higher up the irritation scale than any of the wanky platitudes, don’t do it.

When I went mental, I started to feel a bit like I wasn’t different anymore; I was the same as all the other mentals. But that’s just it, I am the same

as

all

the

other

mentals….

I have a lot in common with the depressed, the manic, the obsessive compulsives, the voice hearers, the eating disordered, the self-harmers, the suicidal, the psychotic, the delusional, the gender confused, the insomniacs, the narcissists, the anxious, the attachment disordered, the selective mutes, the substance abusers, the paranoid- I could go on…..

I can identify with everyone; I’ve been there, am often there and will no doubt be there again at some point. I suppose if we’re looking at transferable skills at least I can rest easy, safe in the knowledge that I have a promising future career in writing leaflets about mental illness?

I left a comment on a blog last week; it took me some 4 days of writing and deleting to actually click ‘submit’. My comment wasn’t anything controversial or even particularly interesting or important but it was different. The topic of the blog piece was labels- what we mentals call ourselves and are called by services. I’m a firm believer in self-definition but of course, for me this means selves-definition. My comment reflected this

I cut the comment short, I define myself in numerous different ways but I was feeling incredibly self-conscious about what I’d said.

So I feel different from other people like me, other mentals

I don’t fully understand why I felt so self-conscious, I’m not ashamed of having DID, I’m happy to talk about it. You may have noticed.

I feel like I ought to say “my illness doesn’t define me” but it’s simply not true. When your illness makes you believe you are more than one “me” it does tend to dictate how you operate.

I’ve felt uncomfortable within the Madosphere for a while, I don’t read many blogs at the moment and I comment on very few. Whilst I have something in common with everyone and can offer advice, sympathy and understanding in all and any situation, I shy away from doing so. I don’t feel unwelcome, far from it but I do feel very different and quite alone. The ultimate paradox of sharing your head/body/life with [number I will never reveal] people is that it can be incredibly lonely.

I know there are several people out there with DID, I read some of their blogs; I don’t even feel like I fit there. Why? What makes me so special? What makes me think I’m different from all the other multiples out there?

On paper, nothing. Whilst all multiples are unique, there’s a sameness about us too, we share similar experiences and face similar struggles. There are a few tangible things I can point to that make me feel out of place within the online DID community.

Other DID bloggers use different terminology to me, I can’t discuss this further as it’s triggering, therefore other DID blogs can be triggering for me. So I’m like the meanie of the madosphere, I have no blogroll and generally don’t follow blogs. I have some in my reader as then I can carefully choose when to read them. I tend to avoid using terminology at all, I slip in the odd technical description but my story-telling approach to blogging often doesn’t call for it.

Other DID bloggers share names, I nearly fled Starbucks in terror last time I went and they asked for a name to put on my drink (why do they do that?!). I can’t work out if my reluctance to share names is symptomatic of the denial that we had any for so long or indicative of my overall secretiveness. I’m happy, for the most part to hide behind the collective noun, it feels safer that way.

Other DID bloggers share system information, I am like the MI5 of the multiple world when it comes to sharing information. I think it would make me feel incredibly vulnerable and unsafe to detail parts of my system.

Other DID bloggers talk about therapy; I allude to it but can never imagine retelling a session. I’m not ashamed about what happens in session, I often don’t know and am in no doubt that it’s always overtly mental but I think that therapy is for me, whoever I may be on the day and the <?> therapist.

Other DID bloggers talk about trauma. I have no trauma. I know that’s the typical multiple response but I genuinely have no memory of trauma. Sure my childhood was less than perfect and I can remember a lot of the less than perfect bits- which suggests they don’t count as trauma, but more unhelpful additions to a psyche that was already teetering. I can’t imagine if I ever uncover any trauma *clings to denial* I’d want to share it outwith therapy though.

So I feel different from other people like me, other people with DID

I’ve done the sums and if I’ve correctly identified ANPs (apparently normal parts) and EPs (emotional parts) I am 63% normal or apparently normal anyway. So the majority of the time, I’m technically, apparently normal. Twenty minutes in a room with me however and it becomes glaringly obvious that in spite of the mathematical evidence, I’m not normal. In fact, you don’t even need to be in the same room as me, anyone who’s ever received an email from me will know that bits of apparent normality do not compound into something totally normal, indeed it has the rather opposite effect. Those of you who’ve been lucky enough to receive hand-written correspondence from me (always unsigned but you can tell it’s from me as you recognise the handwritings) will appreciate that whilst there’s no doubt I can be normal and often am, all the normal together or even just a few of the normals together at the same time makes something completely abnormal.

So I feel different from other people like me, normal people

I think I feel different because I feel different and have always felt different. It’s causing me some angst it’s fair to say, especially as I think I’d be equally angst ridden to find out I was just the same as everyone else.

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InequaliTy

Posted in activist, Anxiety, bipolar, depression, diagnosis, DID, Dissociation, driving, hospital, illness, insight, Internal Communication, mania, mental illness, MPD, Multiple Personality Disorder, NHS, parenting, politics, Triggers, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on June 27, 2012 | 25 Comments »

Today is bipolar awareness day, happy bipolar awareness day, may your day be filled with stability or shoe-purchasing, hilarious mania. I observed the day last year, when I was still officially the least convincing bipolar people in the world. I observed it with my usual mix of sadness, outrage, activism and piss-taking in 140 characters or fewer.

There are lots of awareness days, some kinds of mental even have a week (OCD) and some a whole month in which to be aware (Depression).

There is no DID awareness day

I’m not surprised- after all how on earth could we ever decide when to hold it? As a fellow multiple pointed out this morning we probably couldn’t even decide whether to hold it in the present or the past. Then we’d have to factor in those who remain in denial that they have DID, those who are too ashamed to admit it, those who would rather buy crayons, those who would ponder if it would be the perfect day for suicide and those who never know what day it is anyway. The chances of us agreeing on which colour the DID awareness ribbon should be are slim to none. I’ve taken to wearing these on my jackets, I assume the world thinks I’m gay, I know I’m a multiple.

We could just ‘celebrate’ all the awareness days/weeks/months for all our various comorbidities, for most multiples, every day could be an awareness day. Just think of all the cards and presents!

Joking aside, this is indicative of something far deeper, something I’ve been tentative to address, mainly as I’ve been to busy licking my (metaphorical) wounds and mourning the loss of my career.

Dissociative Identity Disorder, DID is many things but primarily it is a mental illness. I can’t decide if DID doesn’t fit the traditional ‘illness model’ or if the traditional illness model doesn’t fit DID, it doesn’t matter- the results are the same.

I am quite clearly as mad as a box of frogs; in short I believe I have several other people living inside my head/body, these other people all behave, think, act, dress and talk differently. Whilst there’s never a dull moment with DID my functioning is severely impaired, my quality of life impaired, my future affected, the lives of my children are affected, my income is affected- there is nothing DID, nothing the mental illness I suffer from doesn’t touch.

I can’t tell you the last time I saw a psychiatrist, this is not due to my usual problems with memory, this is because ‘my’ psychiatrist doesn’t want to see me. Don’t get me wrong, I can think of several people I’d much rather spend those precious 8 minutes every couple of months with (in fact, anybody) but why do I not see a psychiatrist? Am I cured? Am I no longer mental?

No and clearly- no.

I don’t see a psychiatrist because my psychiatrist doesn’t know what to do with me. There is no drug treatment for DID so I can’t be drugged into a nice, easy to manage state. Seeing the psychiatrist is such a triggering event that we invariably send our sanest part to consultations, she’s lovely but formidable and never shies away from pointing out flaws in professionalism; in fact I suspect the psychiatrist may still be recovering from the last consultation.

I have no care plan; never have; I’m not even sure what one is. Is this because I have no care needs?

No.

I have no care plan because current provision cannot meet my needs; I fit the criteria for a CPA but don’t have one. For too long I have accepted the blame for this having been told by many mental health professionals I’m “different” or “complex” and my favourite “challenging”. I don’t doubt for a second I am all those things and more- they are all symptoms of my illness.

This discrimination is nothing new to me. Sometime last year, during the perpetual crisis season I was visited by the Fantastic CPN, she was so concerned about the (frankly atrocious) state of my mental health the GP was asked to visit- the GP was equally concerned and they tried to persuade me to attend a mental health assessment- I refused. Mental health assessments are not something one can refuse as the answer to refusal is that you are clearly so mental you need get one anyway.

The psychiatrist did not bother to assess me as there was “nowhere suitable to put me” this was at the time my correct diagnosis was accepted but not allowed to be spoken of as I hadn’t had the official stamp on my notes. Don’t get me wrong, I’m relieved I escaped yet more time in the horrendous pit of shitness that is the local acute ward but that day, a Friday I was considered to be a danger to myself, a danger to my children and I was left, alone, all weekend. The children were removed from my care and placed with their father; I’ve yet to get one of them back.

I struggle to label myself as a “trauma survivor” that’s kind of symptomatic of DID, particularly at this early stage in treatment. I’ve done the ‘backwards calculations’ though and as painful and difficult it is for me, I know I didn’t end up where I am today because I was a slightly miserable kid. In fact I like to think I was a veritable ray of sunshine who left a trail of happiness and rainbows in her wake.

I am a trauma survivor.

I suffer from all the same problems as other trauma survivors do- multiplied. From the little things to the big things- multiplied. I have PTSD- multiplied.

I haven’t survived the trauma of combat, just my life. There are a number of national PTSD organisations and charities in existence to help those traumatised by war and I salute their efforts. Had I survived war then I would be able to approach one of those organisations for support, guidance and maybe even some financial assistance. The first and best advice I got when I began treatment for DID was to get rid of anything in the house that was triggering, to make the home environment safe. How I wish I’d been told this before I became too ill to accept the new 5 year contract I was offered in May 2011. The back garden of the smallest house in the world terrifies me, I can’t go out there- all it needs is a 6 foot fence around the perimeter to make it ‘safe’, I can’t afford a fence, I miss the garden.

I recently replaced some cushion covers as the existing ones were triggering, I am now able to spend 6 minutes in my own living room before I scuttle back to the safety of the bedroom, 6 minutes is crap but it’s an improvement on my previous record of 4.

Then there’s  the stupid car, I had hoped “being too terrified to go over your own front door” would be enough to qualify for the higher rate of the mobility component of DLA so I could make use of the Motability scheme but alas as I have two legs this is not the case. The fact those legs often don’t move (freezing is a very common trauma response) or those legs are often very painful (somatic memory) is insignificant to the DWP. I need the stupid car to retain that tiny bit of independence I have, the stupid car, for all its failings is safe.

I am working hard in therapy and have made huge progress, I am a very active participant(s) in my own ‘recovery’ (a word I despise in this context but I can’t think of a suitable replacement) and with the right package of care I could be doing even better. I’m not a fool, I know my journey is going to be long and at times very difficult but it’s a journey I’m willing to travel. I know what my needs are, I am aware they don’t fit with the traditional needs of someone with a mental illness but they are needs that I have as a direct result of my illness/disability, I intend to apply for Direct Payments to meet my needs. I have no doubt I face an enormous challenge but I am determined. I have been NHS Fife’s ‘dirty little secret’ for too long, I’m not a bad person, I have a mental illness. I asked for a social worker to assess my needs on the 12th of June, I suspect they’re still drawing straws in the office, if it’s any consolation I have no desire to deal with any of them either- but needs must.

There are two survivor-lead organisations for those with DID, First Person Plural and PODS but they are small, under-funded and generally unnoticed. I hope one day to have the strength and stability to help move DID out of the shadows. Not because I think we’re special but because we trauma survivors deserve the same services and same recognition as everybody else with a chronic mental illness.

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Premeditated Murder- Part One

Posted in Anxiety, Awesome Psychiatrist, birthday, blogging, depression, diagnosis, duloxetine, Eating Disorder, emotions, illness, labels, lithium, mania, manic, medication, mental illness, psychiatrist, stability, suicide, tea, The Fear, Twitter, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 4, 2011 | 31 Comments »

As I mentioned in my previous post I am considering taking lithium again. This was not my idea, in fact it comes way down on my list of ideas somewhere after “stick pins in my eyes”, “swim in a crocodile infested pond”, “go to a Miranda Hart gig” “listen to Demi Lovato”, “eat offal”, “take up card making as a hobby”….you get the picture.

Lithium is the idea of my Awesome Psychiatrist, a gentleman I was very lucky to be referred to and even luckier that he found me “interesting” enough for him to continue reviewing my diagnosis (diagnoses?) and treatment. It is not surprising that in light of recent events he thinks it might be time to try and introduce some sort of chemical stability into my chaotic life.

I trust the Awesome Psychiatrists completely, I did instantly, I have no idea why, I usually make mental health professionals work very hard indeed to earn my trust. The Awesome Psychiatrist is very skilled and very experienced he is a “designated national specialist” according to one website, I’m not actually sure what this means but he’s a nice guy, very funny, gives me tea during appointments and laughs at my jokes, all good qualities as far as I’m concerned.

In spite of this I am still in a quandary over taking lithium again, for reasons I will explain, some perfectly rational, some possibly less rational but no less pertinent for me.

I have taken many psychotropic medications in the past, so many I’m not sure if I can remember them all but I will try- bearing in mind I only came to the attention of the psychiatric profession (this time around) in January 2010 this is quite a list-

Fluoxetine

Venlafaxine

Olanzapine

Quetiapine

Aripiprazole

Carbamazepine

Lithium

Agomelatine

Sodium Valproate

Duloxetine

Various benzodiazepines

Various hypnotics

I took propranolol in an attempt to counter the tremor lithium gave me- it made me almost blind

I was also once prescribed Risperidone for about 20 minutes but never took it

These drugs were in various dosages, in various combinations at various times, I stopped taking anything on the 19th of January 2011. I started taking Agomelatine on the 16th of  March and stopped taking it some 8 weeks ago for reasons that will probably soon become clear. I could write a blog post on each one and the reasons I hated it but this post is about lithium.

So I’ll start with the rational reasons I don’t want to take lithium again.

Lithium has many nasty physical side-effects; in my experience it causes agonising leg cramps, nausea, dizziness, constant fatigue, headaches, disabling whole body tremor, constant thirst, an insatiable hunger and accompanying rapid, uncontrollable weight gain. I don’t cope well with physical ailments, I tend to ignore most physical symptoms, preferring to ignore the fact I actually have a body at all. Feeling ill all the time forces me to acknowledge I have a body that is more than just somewhere to apply pyjamas. It makes me very uncomfortable. When I look back at diaries or blog posts I am reminded of just how dreadful I felt whilst taking medication. I accept I was over medicated, poorly medicated and poorly monitored but I have no confidence this won’t happen again. I would be mad to volunteer to make myself physically ill again.

Drug-induced weight-gain is tortuous, for anybody, for someone who likes to be in control of food as much as I do it’s even worse. I have managed to crawl to quite a sound footing in terms of eating disorder recovery, most days I eat three proper meals a day, snacks in between and have managed to make it through a whole month without any self-induced vomiting. No mean feat for someone who appeared hell-bent on starving herself to death a short time ago. I remember the incredible lithium hunger so well, I would be drop-down-dead starving almost all day, it never went away. I can’t help but think introducing a drug that messes with my metabolism would be self-sabotage at this stage.

Lithium is a mood-stabiliser, yes it helps prevent extremes of mood but it also has a tendency to cancel out all the ones in between as well. I functioned on lithium but I was without thoughts, ideas, feelings or reactions. I was empty; I am in danger of straying into the less rational reasons for not taking lithium so I will direct you to this post written by a much loved friend on the subject, she explains it better than I ever could.

So those are my experience-based, rational, understandable reasons for being reluctant to take lithium again. If I have the words and the courage I will try and explain the other reasons. I would appreciate anyone reading to let me know that they nodded and said “uh-huh” throughout this next bit as opposed to laughing aloud or further questioning my sanity, I have awareness that my beliefs are a little skew-whiff but this does not stop me believing them.

I often joke about being “poisoned by the medical profession” in fact during my first consultation with the Awesome Psychiatrist I made him promise not to poison me, I make it sound funny- I am deadly serious. I believe the medical profession want to poison me and make me something/somebody I am not. This belief  has some basis in fact, after my diagnosis there was a tendency to attach pathological labels to all my past behaviour. All the things I did, all the things I achieved were painted with bipolar, taken away from me, turned in to symptoms as opposed to qualities.  I believe that the psychiatric profession do not like me being who I am (or perhaps rather who I can be when not hooped-up on mentalism?) I am tempted to self-censor here as I know that what I’m about to say merely supports my diagnosis but I will go ahead. The psychiatric profession want me to be the same as everyone else, they want me to conform, be normal, be boring. I haven’t quite made up my mind if “they” (ie- everyone else other than me in the whole world) feel envious, threatened or just don’t like me, either way I know they want to drug the Zoë out of me.

The way I feel about this is paradoxical to my general feelings of self-loathing and I can’t really explain that other than perhaps by referring to that shameful symptom of bipolar- grandiosity. It is my understanding that grandiosity is a symptom of a manic state though and high or low I feel exactly the same way about lithium and exactly the same way about what “they” want to do to me. Even when I am crushingly low I would rather be dead than take lithium.

Simply thinking about taking lithium again makes me panic, it gives me the fear I shake and sweat, my heart races and I start scurrying around inside my own head. I have got as far as allowing the Awesome Psychiatrist to start the process, I am still in control, at this stage I have no intention of taking it.

I believe that in voluntarily taking those tablets I would essentially be killing a part of me. This sounds like a standard case of “missing the highs” and maybe it is, it feels much scarier and final than that though.

Lithium mutes the Zoë in me, it leaves behind a fat, trembling body inhabited by functioning parts, things get done but we don’t “do stuff” (“stuff” being a handy catch-all word to describe the stuff  Zoë does). Having re-read that (very long) sentence I am aware I am possibly making little sense, except perhaps to myself. It’s 3am I should probably stop and have a milky drink.

I don’t know what to do about this situation, I clearly cannot continue the way I am, I am just not safe- in either mood state and I accept that I am unwell (though I am willing to argue as to just how unwell I am). However I know that if I take lithium, the author of this blog will die and I suspect she’ll take the twitter account holder with her, I will still exist in some form but I won’t be living.

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DSM VI Mentalism Criteria

Posted in alcohol, anhedonia, Anxiety, blogging, crying, depression, DSM, DSM VI, Eating Disorder, emotions, health, insight, insomnia, medication, mental illness, recovery, sleep, suicide, tea, Twitter, work, tagged , , , , , , , on July 29, 2011 | 14 Comments »

Told you I’d chucked the blogging rule book! Here is today’s product of my mind, the inspiration for this comes mainly from the person who suggested after my last “extreme” episode that next time I “just didn’t do it” and I realised I was clearly investing far too much time and energy in this whole being mental business. The other bit of inspiration comes from those conversations with you all and the repeated question within our community- mental or normal? I thought I’d clear things up a bit.

Please do not use this extract of DSM VI as a stand-alone tool for self-diagnosis, for best results you should also consult the RMRS©.

DSM-VI Mentalism Criteria

Mentalism (termed Mentalism by the Zoë Psychiatric Association) is defined as a maladaptive pattern of living leading to clinically significant impairment or distress, as manifested by three (or more) of the following, occurring any time in the same lifetime:

1. Tolerance, as defined by either of the following:

(a) A need for markedly increased amounts of paranoia, obsessive behaviours, fear, insomnia, inappropriate laughter, social anxiety, generalised anxiety, deliberate self-harm, drinking white wine and lemonade from the same glass, emotional lability, restricting food intake, sterilising food before consumption, foregoing basic self-care, avoiding contact with real people, amnesia, becoming melty when faced with basic tasks, lack of control over household administration, self-induced vomiting, mysophobia, purchasing of large amounts of stationery, having “head music”, hearing voices, wearing protective eye-wear when conditions do not necessitate it,  responding to aforementioned voices,  fear of abandonment, fear of attachment, anhedonia, continuous wearing of pyjamas, bingeing, over-dependence on caffeine, use of “Wineclone”© or “Winesthetic”©, only having contact with others whose name begins with @, fear of telephones, fear of the postman, crying, suicidal ideation, hypnophobia, ironing sheets, filling rooms with balloons, blogging, losing all track of time and frequent contact with health professionals to achieve mentalism or the desired effect

or

(b) Markedly diminished effect with continued use of the same amount of the behaviours.

2. Withdrawal, as manifested by any of the following:

(a) Sorting paperwork, getting affairs in order, washing and dressing daily, only visiting GP with a physical ailment, ability to have “one glass of wine with dinner”, meeting friends for lunch, having visitors, using a telephone, going out, only hearing music when you’re listening to music, only hearing voices when actual people speak to you, sleeping all night, having or thinking about getting a job.

or

(b) The same (or closely related) behaviours are repeated to relieve or avoid withdrawal symptoms.

3. The behaviours are often demonstrated in larger amounts or over a longer period than intended.

4. There is a persistent desire or unsuccessful efforts to cut down or control the behaviours.

5. A great deal of time is spent in activities necessary to ingrain the behaviours, use the behaviours, or recover from their effects.

6. Important social, occupational, or recreational activities are given up or reduced because of behaviours.

7. The mentalism is continued despite knowledge of having a persistent physical or psychological problem that is likely to have been caused or exacerbated by the mentalism (for example, current repeated hand-washing despite recognition of sore, dry skin or continued isolation in spite of loneliness).  DSM-VI criteria for mentalism include several specifiers, one of which outlines whether mentalism is with physiologic dependence (evidence of tolerance or withdrawal) or without physiologic dependence (no evidence of tolerance or withdrawal). In addition, remission categories are classified into four subtypes: (1) full, (2) early partial, (3) sustained, and (4) sustained partial; on the basis of whether any of the criteria for mentalism have been met and over what time frame. The remission category can also be used for patients receiving drug therapy (such as every mood-stabiliser, anti-psychotic and anti-depressant on the market with the odd dose of benzodiazepines thrown in) or for those living in a controlled, mentalist free environment.

Wineclone© copyright owned and controlled by @mnicsleepteachr

Winesthetic© copyright owned and controlled by @Zoe_Smith

 


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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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Lunatics Lexicon

Posted in Anxiety, art, bipolar, book, crying, depression, diagnosis, emotions, friends, high, hospital, illness, insight, labels, love, Magic Invisibility Sunglasses, mania, manic, medication, mental illness, mother, parenting, Pernicious butterflies, psychiatrist, suicide, tea, Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 19, 2011 | 87 Comments »

There is so much preamble I could put here, but I’m not going to. I’m so relieved that I got this project out of my head and onto paper before “that” feeling was gone, it’s taken almost 23 hours of almost solid work. So lots of colouring in, very little sleep, very sore hands, some scanning, lots of little niggling imperfections but here is is, my latest project. Please leave comments- I will reply- probably up until around Thursday or Friday when I will no doubt slide into my pit of black sludge again………

All images and in fact everything on this blog subject to copyright, don’t steal my shit.

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A Verbal Purge

Posted in Anxiety, autism, autistic, bipolar, children, crying, depression, Eating Disorder, emotions, health, illness, insight, Magic Invisibility Sunglasses, medication, mental illness, mother, parenting, stress, suicide, work, tagged , on July 10, 2011 | 32 Comments »

You know that acceptance thing that I talked about here somewhere ? Well forget it, I’m over it.

I’m guessing at the actual physiology involved but I can only assume that now that my body has had a reasonable level of nourishment for around a week it is no longer allowing my brain to remain in that blissed-out semi-starved state where everything is peachy.

I am no longer numb.

I can cope with being numb, not feeling anything comes easily to me, feeling the way I do at the moment does not.

I’m told writing is clearly a coping strategy for me and I hope it is as all my other coping strategies, which would be so much easier to employ right now, are extremely unhealthy. I have also considered just “going mental and smashing shit up” but as I would invariably have to replace said shit at some point and that would cost money I don’t have, I’m trying to avoid it.

Emotions aren’t my strong point; I have the emotional intelligence of a 3 year old. I struggle to identify what it is I’m actually feeling (ugh, I even cringe at the word) and then if I do identify it I have absolutely no idea what to do with it.

Today I have identified  ANGER

 

Oxford Dictionary

anger

Pronunciation:/ˈaŋgə/ (does anybody find dictionary pronunciation guides useful?)

noun
a strong feeling of annoyance, displeasure, or hostility

I have checked to make sure it wasn’t just a rather extreme case of my default “emotion”- fine or perhaps fine mixed with a touch of indigestion or maybe fine and “a bit tired” or maybe fine but “a bit anxious”. I was meticulous in my checking as I don’t really do anger. It is with some surprise that I have concluded that it is indeed- nasty, painful, acidic, black, pungent, sticky, loud, dirty, dripping, searing, putrid, ugly, festering, foreboding, furious anger. “A strong feeling of annoyance, displeasure or hostility” doesn’t even come close.

The obvious question would have to be why am I so angry? Well I could point to a number of things but these things would count as no more than mere irritations- the cobbles on the road to Angrytown. I’ve had the same run-of-the-mill niggles as everyone else today, tardy children, difficult to remove screws, a bumped elbow, rubbish weather, other drivers and so on. The real reason I’m angry is that-

I DON’T WANT TO BE MENTAL ANYMORE

 

I’m done, I’m over it, it’s too bloody difficult.

I know I’m not special and I know I’m not different or unique. I know we’re all mental in our own way. I know there are many, many people far more mental and far worse off than me. I know that some poor buggers have had to take “weeks off work with depression” and I know that everyone gets anxious sometimes but unless you have experienced what I have experienced over the past few days then you can fuck off- you have no idea what its like to be mental.

This all reminds me of the time the 16 year old was diagnosed with autism- aged 3. So many people gave me the “we’re all somewhere on the spectrum” speech and as I was only young and very unsure- I took it, nodded glibly and moved on. It took me some years to pluck up the courage to reply to someone (who had told me they could only eat yoghurt with one special spoon- that’s how autistic they were) “OK, come back to me when you can’t speak, can’t communicate with body language, rub shit on the walls, pick holes in your own skin and wander onto railway tracks, then tell me where you are on the spectrum”. I still get that speech to this day and though my reply now would have different components I would be equally vehement. Unless you have been there or are there then you have no idea.

I think I may be finally writing the post that can never be published.

I am in so much pain and so chewed up inside I am struggling to actually write, I wanted to present an eloquent account of my last few days in an attempt to justify my anger and my rampant desire to be normal. Anyone who is now planning on saying or is even thinking “yes but what is “normal”, who is “normal” anyway? (complete with air quotes)” can also fuck off.

We all know what normal is, normal is being able to go out of your house alone, normal is being able to go into a shop- even though it’s been rearranged, normal is eating pasta and bread at the same meal and not frantically Googling to see if that’s what normal people do, normal is not being so “good” at self-induced vomiting that you don’t even have to touch yourself to throw up, normal is not delaying every bite of food even when you’re delirious with hunger, normal is not debating after every mouthful whether to throw-up again or not, normal is not waking up every morning lamenting the fact you didn’t die in your sleep, normal is being able to answer a ringing telephone or better still make a call, normal is being able to remember what you’ve done, who you’ve spoken to and where you’ve been- without having to refer to written hints, normal is wanting to get out of bed in the morning and get on with your day instead of spending all day wanting to climb back in, normal is not abusing prescription medication so you can sleep and escape for a while, normal is not waking up four hours after you go to bed, normal is not having to work hard to resist the desire to take a razor blade to your own skin- because you know you’re in the kind of mood where you could happily sever a limb, normal is wearing sunglasses because it’s sunny or they look good- not to stop people seeing your eyes just in case they can see inside your head, normal is being able to sit in a room with your own children in the evening without wanting to climb out of your own skin, normal is not watching TV because there’s nothing on- not because every sound from it sounds like fireworks in your head and you’re already overloaded with all the other noises the world makes, normal is keeping your house tidy because you like a tidy house- not because you can’t bear to see anything out of place, out of your control, normal is having a glass or two of wine- over an evening- not in an hour in an attempt to anaesthetise yourself from your own misery, normal is meeting new people online who you genuinely like and not being too terrified to meet them in real life, normal is going to work, normal is not being too afraid to eat a biscuit in case you end up eating the whole packet, normal is reading a newspaper, normal is being with people and enjoying it, normal is not waking up every day and not dreading the inevitable abnormality you know your day will bring.

I could go on but this has rapidly become verbal self-harm and a whinge about not being who I used to claim to be.

Several people reading this will identify with one or more of the things I have raised- but imagine having them all and more every second of every day and you get a tiny bit of insight into my “life”.

So there it is- the truth. This post does nothing to challenge stigma, nothing to educate people about mental health issues and paints a very bad picture of me indeed. I have chosen 4 special people to read this post to help me decide whether to publish it or not, if you’re not one of the 4 and you’re reading it then I hope it has helped you in some way, if so then please leave a comment to that effect.

So how have I dealt with my anger? Well I’ve written this post, I’m not sure it’s helped as I don’t feel any less mental or angry now than I did when I started it. I feel there is so much more I could say but I can’t put it into words.

On a positive note, I suppose I’ve only started feeling this way because I’ve stopped starving myself and that has to be a good thing right? Maybe I will get there one day, I hope so.

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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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