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Archive for the ‘crying’ Category

Sleeping With The Enemy

Posted in crying, Denial, diagnosis, DID, Dissociative Identity Disorder, therapy, Triggers, tagged , , , on August 10, 2012 | 8 Comments »

Something’s wrong. This is not an unusual state of affairs; in fact something not being wrong would possibly be more unsettling. Initially I didn’t know what was wrong, I didn’t want to know what was wrong- I knew enough to know it wasn’t good.

Something wrong is manifesting in the usual ways- a creeping silence, isolation, the world and everything in it being triggering and super-high functioning. It’s not a return to coping; it’s a very different kind of high-functioning. The only thing that gets the job done better than my amazing powers of dissociation is dissociation with a side-order of denial.

Everybody with DID goes through periods of denial, we’re aided and abetted in our denial by the most of the health ‘professionals’ we have to deal with. Their own anxieties about having to accept what we say, what this might mean and what they should (but don’t) do mean that most of them are only too happy to feed denial. What these ‘professionals’ fail to realise is that for every question they ask about what is real for us, true for us- we ask ourselves a thousand more.

I remained in denial about having DID for a very long time, I clung to it as it felt safer. I hated the pink Post-it with the diagnosis written on it and would often turn it around- only to then find it turned back again. I would cry after every visit from the <?> therapist as she kept coming back. I was angry, depressed, confused and resentful

I’ve stopped being in denial about having DID, after all my multiplicity is as plain as the noses on our faces. By denying I have DID, I was denying I exist and though I know I am just a part of something bigger, that doesn’t make me any less of a person and I do exist. I have thoughts, feelings, ideas and opinions just like you do. All those who denied what was true for me, real for me were stripping the validity away from everything I experienced.

I no longer turn the Post-it around.

I haven’t given up denial completely, I cannot let go of “my history doesn’t fit”. The fact that I can’t actually tell you much about my history is neither here nor there for the purposes of my current argument. My denial serves a purpose, every aspect of DID does, my denial is as protective as my anger, my anxiety, my fear, my humour and my logic.

Denial is very powerful, very persuasive and allows a certain level of disconnect from what may be going on internally. Denial thereby becomes a form of ignorance but it still feels safer. I cannot deny that something’s wrong and that it’s not good.

I know it’s not good as we have the internal ‘meerkat effect’, I know it’s not good as I’m told by others that “something’s wrong; it’s not good”. I know it’s not good as all the signs are there- those precious few hours of sleep at night have become harder to get and are more unsettled. (I’m beginning to hate the word ‘unsettled’ it sounds so benign, so trite considering what I’m using it to describe. I think my continued use of it may be indicative of my denial; with denial comes minimisation). Sleep has once again become something unsafe, something to be feared. So it is to my surprise and confusion that the way the current state of affairs is being dealt with is by sleeping during the day.

Sleep during the day is, if anything, even more unsettling than sleep at night- there’s that word again ‘unsettling’ perhaps I’m being diplomatic too? Perhaps I just don’t want to complain? There’s a period of unjustified disbelief upon wakening from the daytime naps at just how dreadful the whole experience was but it happens every single day. The naps seem unavoidable, physical exhaustion is overwhelming at the moment- another good sign that something’s wrong but it’s more than tiredness that drives the need to nap. If we’re asleep- even just one of us -as if often the way, we tend to take it in turns, then nobody can say anything [externally, these naps are very busy on the head noise front] if we’re asleep then we’re hiding, from the outside and the inside- sleep is another form of escape, another way to run-away.

I know I can’t run-away in the way I’d like to, I know that anywhere I run, the people I share my mind/life/body with would come too. I want to run away from what’s wrong as it’s too horrible, painful and terrifying to face, my denial has been challenged in a way I don’t think I can argue with.

It hurts.

I know I’m taking advantage of the strength of my denial and the ability it has to quash what may be going on internally and I know I won’t get away with it forever. For now though, it works and until someone comes up with a better idea then I’ll continue.

Something can’t be wrong if nothing’s wrong.

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Weird Science

Posted in crying, DID, Dissociative Identity Disorder, insight, Internal Communication, MPD, Multiple Personality Disorder, Triggers, tagged , , , , , on August 8, 2012 | 25 Comments »

I can’t see properly- sometimes. I used to wear glasses to correct astigmatism; sometime in 2010 I stopped wearing glasses and also became the “first person the optician had ever met in his career who has spontaneously cured their own astigmatism.” I spend an inordinate amount of time squinting, reading through one eye or just not being able to see very far or very well.

I’m allergic to lilies- sometimes. I often ‘forget’ and buy them anyway, I then find myself wondering why my face is swollen and I’m wheezing a couple of days after bringing them into the house. I’m also allergic to kiwi-fruit, bananas, latex, rats, lanolin and pineapple- sometimes. I err on the side of caution and assume that I have the potential to be allergic to anything so always keep a supply of anti-histamines in the house. Using products from Lush in the bath is like playing anaphylaxis roulette.

I have terrible eczema- sometimes. My eczema has defied explanation at various stages over the years, it appeared to be linked to hormones for a while- but then it wasn’t. It appeared to be due to allergies for a while but then it wasn’t. Some of the vast array of treatments I have been prescribed worked- sometimes.

I found out in August 2011 that I have curly hair- very curly hair- sometimes. I mentioned this to someone involved in my ‘care’ at the time; she asked if I simply hadn’t noticed I had curly hair- for 36 years- as I straightened it. I’m not sure when GHD’s were invented and I know my recall of anytime previous to right now, right this minute can sometimes be sketchy but I’m pretty sure the explanation is not that straightforward.

I can explain all of these physiological anomalies in a very straightforward way- I have enough system knowledge to tell you which parts have bad eyesight, which parts are allergic to lilies, which parts have eczema, which parts have curly hair- but I’m not going to.

What I can’t explain is why and that frustrates me. I am a logical person, I like cold, hard, quantifiable facts- this makes me curious, analytical and sceptical. The physiological anomalies of dissociative identity disorder really challenge me. I’ve looked for information, I’ve found a lot of fellow DIDers sharing similar experiences but I’ve found very little science to back it all up. I like science.

I’m tormented by my natural, logical nature as I know on one hand I can explain the weird things in terms of ‘who has what’ but I also know, that even though it doesn’t feel like it and even though I would argue it wasn’t the case 90% of the time- there is only one of me and I only have one body.

The weird things are also difficult to talk about and I’m very reluctant to offer anything regarded as ‘fanciful’ that will add fuel to the ‘does DID exist’ fire. I would never have believed any of these things either- until they happened to me. Those of you who have been reading for a number of years and indeed those of you who read who have known me in real life will know I have no reason to lie.

I am forced to simply accept the physical changes between identity states in dissociative identity disorder just ‘are’. I have trawled the internet for information and found very little, partly as I’m constrained by Google scholar and have no journal subscriptions so am reduced to reading abstracts which perhaps pick up on one key word in my search. I have other theories as to why there’s very little research into this fascinating aspect of DID. I can’t imagine that many of us would make very willing test subjects, we’re all different but our general aversions to being asked questions and the medical profession probably makes us poor participants in research. There are no drugs to treat DID, in the absence of big-pharma being interested there are very few revenue streams for funding research. What research there is tends to be on the physiological changes associated with trauma or differences in memory between identity states. I read a lot, I’m an information junkie, for the longest time this was done in a tireless pursuit to somehow ‘prove’ to myself I didn’t have DID- I never found what I was looking for.

Writing this is difficult, not least as I can’t see very well. The obvious answer is to go to the optician and have my eyes tested but for the time being that is impossible. Eye-tests involve close proximity to another person, being in darkness, extended periods of eye-contact and being touched- it’s far too triggering. Besides how would I ever find an optician willing to accept that I might need glasses- sometimes and that indeed I might need three different prescriptions- sometimes.

I’m fascinated by myself and by DID, in many ways I’ve fulfilled one of my dreams by finding something that can hold my interest and satisfy my pursuit of knowledge. Right now I’d settle for knowing why DID is so physically exhausting as it’s only just past 8am and I’m so tired I could cry.

I do cry- sometimes.

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A Girl Worth Fighting For?

Posted in communication, crying, diagnosis, DID, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Fab Psychologist, Fantastic CPN, friends, hypervigilance, insight, NHS, social worker, support, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Triggers, Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on August 4, 2012 | 3 Comments »

It’s been a dreadful week [again] thanks to my amazing ‘insight’ which I’ve actually decided isn’t insight at all, simply knowledge and knowledge I only have as the other people I share my mind/life/body with choose to share it with me, I know why.

Having thought about and discussed the events of the week I’m left in a quandary [again] as to what to do with my new found knowledge.

Thinking back to the social work assessment I mentioned briefly in my previous post- I know what went wrong.

One of the peculiar upsides of DID is the ability to recall events from a third- person perspective, it scares the shit out of you when you first realise that not everyone ‘remembers’ things this way but you soon learn to file it under ‘handy skills’ with the rest of the ‘mental but useful’ stuff- like always having someone available to paint the nails on your dominant hand. So I’ve replayed the tiny portion of ‘film’ I have from Wednesday and watched it multiple times.

The assessment began ok, the right set of skills were present but around 8 minutes in, when the questioning turned from “name, address, date of birth” to “so tell me about [redacted]” it all went horribly wrong. At that point I left the room- I think it was under the thinly veiled excuse of “going to ground myself” but this was a classic trauma response- fleeing, running-away. I wasn’t going to ground myself at all (for the most part this is something I’m still incapable of doing except in very controlled circumstances); I had switched and from that point on had totally lost control of the situation and my mind. The assessment should’ve ended there instead of continuing to compound the trauma and chaos. I’m torn between thinking it was my responsibility to call the assessment to a halt at that point and feeling horribly let-down that the Fantastic CPN failed to notice what had happened at a time where I was unable to see it.

I’m very selfves-sufficient, whether this is borne out of strength or a complete inability to trust or rely on anyone else is debatable. My pathology suggests the latter. Self-sufficiency morphs all too easily into taking responsibility for everything, which in turn just becomes guilt and cries of

“It’s all my own fault”

To be fair though, I have very little evidence that it’s safe to trust or rely on anyone else. Again, my pathology suggests this mindset is firmly rooted in my distant past but two years or so of being let-down and betrayed by the mental health profession is fresh in my mind- unlike the distant past.

It’s all become a bit cyclical.

So I know what happened, what I don’t know is what to do next. I am driven, compelled to educate anyone and everyone about DID. I do this obviously here on one of the best blogs on the internet when I discuss the details, I also do it here and elsewhere subversively just by being who I am and saying what I say. This I can cope with, in fact I enjoy it or I wouldn’t do it. If, by telling my story more people learn about DID then that’s a bonus. What I don’t enjoy is the continued fight to get those who should understand to understand.

I’m told the social worker responsible for the shambles that was Wednesday felt “really bad”- she phoned the Fantastic CPN to tell her this, adding helpfully “I felt like I’d abused her”, the Fantastic CPN in turn then told me this. On one hand I’m glad the social worker was able to recognise she’d made several grave errors but I could’ve done without having to accept the guilt of someone else, particularly someone who had caused a lot of damage. I’m also still waiting for her to contact me to apologise…….

I’ve pondered over whether there is any point sharing what I know with those who need to know it. Is there any point in me telling those who made mistakes what those mistakes were or do I just cut my losses, stick to those who do understand and keep myself safe?

Obviously if I share what I know I have the ability to prevent something similar happening to me again. Though as the social worker made it quite clear I was the wrong kind of ill for the support they had available then gave me some bullshit about how I wasn’t eligible for direct payments as I had no physical care needs, I doubt I’ll be seeing her again. If I share what I know then perhaps the next person like me won’t have to suffer in the same way? How will anything ever change if nobody tries to change it?

I don’t think I can change it. I don’t think I can make people who can’t or don’t want to understand, understand. If the social worker cared enough to try and get it right, she would’ve done some work beforehand, perhaps even contacted me, maybe emailed me the assessment form so I could’ve looked over it, and seen it was far too triggering and not bothered with the assessment? If after all this time the Fantastic CPN still thinks it’s ok to say “I know it was dreadful but you did ask for it” then either I’m explaining things badly or I’m wasting my time.

I suspect this is how people with DID end up with no support. When support becomes something that poses a potential risk, it’s safer for us to go without.

I’m tired of the fight; I’m tired of not fitting, not being what those who should be helping me need me to be. I can’t imagine if I had the kind of illness that presented in a more traditional way, if, for example I wept throughout the assessment on Wednesday that those two professionals would’ve carried on. The fact that I switched chaotically and constantly was probably missed by both of them- except that I do recall saying at one point around 20 minutes in “I don’t know; I’ve only just got here”. I’m aware a lot of my switches can be subtle but when I had verbally drawn attention to it, perhaps it was time for someone to step in and protect me when it was clear I was incapable of protecting myself?

I’m tired of the fight; I’m tired of having to fight by myself for myself. My complaint about NHS Fife is still with the SPBO, it came to light a couple of weeks ago that they didn’t have any of my notes from the Fantastic CPN- I had to contact them to tell them this. It came to light this week that they didn’t have my notes from the Fab Psychologist- I had to contact them to tell them this. I had to send copies of emails between myselves and the Fab psychologist to them as they didn’t have them either. I’m losing the fight, the process is too triggering and I know that the important bits, like the conversation between those in my ‘care’ team where they decided not to help me obtain the correct diagnosis as they believed it would be stigmatising for me, won’t be written in any of those notes anyway.

I’m tired of the fight; I’m tired of having to explain DID to people who I need to help me.

After the assessment on Wednesday I turned to friends for comfort, I relayed 3 of the questions I could remember and immediately friends replied “they should have known how triggering that would be for you” so again- friends get it. None of my friends are qualified experts in trauma and dissociation but they get it. I’m told by them, they get it because I explain it so well. I think it’s more to do with the fact they are willing to listen, accept, learn and care.

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Weakened

Posted in blogging, children, crying, DID, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Internal Communication, mother, parenting, single-parent, stress, tea, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Triggers, Twitter, tagged , , , , , , on July 28, 2012 | 10 Comments »

I don’t know if I’ve always hated weekends but I know I’ve always hated them since acute mentalism arrived. There are many reasons to hate weekends, that fluidity of time, lack of structure and routine leaves me even more bewildered than I usually am. Weekends bring with them an expectation that things will be different in some way, better in some way- everybody looks forward to the weekend.

You don’t get time off from being mental, we work 7 days a week and are just as likely to be mental on Saturday as we are any other day of the week.

Now that the 7 year-old is home the weekend looms before me  his expectations that it will be somehow different, somehow better have to be respected, he’s not mental. Though slightly better than I was, I’m still the world’s worst sleeper and the 7 year-old is 7 years old so long-lies and lazy days are ruled out. The days begin early and are long.

I’m still stuck in coping mode, it’s going well and things that need done are getting done. One of the dangers of being stuck in coping mode is that you start to feel like maybe you did make it all up; maybe you’re not mental anymore, maybe you were never mental in the first place. After a few days of coping one begins to feel somewhat invincible- in relative terms. So as I look at the weekend and all that time to fill, all that time to spend with the 7 year-old I start to think of all the answers to the question

“Mama, what are we going to do this weekend?”

I think of the things we used to do- trips to museums, swimming, days at the beach, trips the cinema, long walks and picnics in the forest, gardening, shopping and I think for a moment “we could do any of those” and then I remember.

We can’t.

I’m fine.

Fine until something happens.

I don’t always know what that something is or is going to be. I risk-assess every potential activity and rule them all out. I’m not being risk-averse, I’m not wrapping myself in cotton-wool, I’m accepting my limits. I’m laden with guilt that my limits become the children’s limits too but for now, I accept that it’s better for them not to be taken swimming rather than be taken swimming by someone who probably wouldn’t make it through a trip to the swimming pool without several public meltdowns.

Obviously entertaining children can be done at home too; the 7 year-old is content to play the Wii for extended periods of time. I’m not as happy to leave him being babysat by technology as he’d like me to be. I feel obliged to do something with him, to entertain him, educate him and engage him.

I’m rarely short of ideas for activities and never short of the required materials, we live in a house packed to the ceiling with art supplies, books, games and toys. I’m not bad at playing, in fact I suspect as 37 year-old women go I’m rather good at it. I’m very bad at allowing myself to play, playing doesn’t feel safe. My inclination is to direct or observe the 7 year-old at play, I can’t join in. The upside of multiplicity is that I can do this and do it well, the 7 year-old is none the wiser and enjoys my company and comments as he plays. Only I can hear the crying inside.

It’s 7.45am, Saturday morning, I have two days to fill and right now, I have no idea how to do it. I suspect I’ll switch to auto-pilot, continue coping and appearing well, entertain, educate and engage the 7 year-old and this weekend will be as weekends have been for some time- a complete gap in my memory.

Coping brings with it silence, there are no tweets, texts, emails or Facebook updates to track my days the blog is the only form of outside communication we have it is also the only form of internal communication we have. Silence weighs heavy, it feels safer but it’s an ominous safety- I am tip-toeing around inside my own head trying not to cause upset. I know there will come a point where I run out of cope, I’ve been awake most of the night wracking my brain, trying to think of ways to combine parenting with the mentals and so far have come up with nothing other than to continue relying on my amazing powers of dissociation and hope nothing happens.

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Helping The Help

Posted in #MadParisJolly2011, art, Awesome Psychiatrist, bipolar, blogging, communication, crying, depression, diagnosis, DID, Dissociation, DSM, emotions, Fab Psychologist, health, hospital, insight, Internal Communication, labels, Lovely GP, manic, medication, mental illness, MPD, Multiple Personality Disorder, NHS, psychiatrist, stickers, suicide, The Fear, therapy, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on May 25, 2012 | 23 Comments »

Two years ago today I wrote this blog post

Ever wish you hadn’t asked?

Some time last year that post was edited and the link within changed- the link was originally to the Wikipedia entry on DID (which incidentally I think is rubbish). I know why it was changed and for the purposes of this post it doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that for two years I’ve known I had DID, the nature of DID means that I didn’t always know I had it and often didn’t think I had it- but I do and I’ve known for a very long time.

This post is dedicated to all the psychiatrists, psychologists, nurses & doctors (and there have been many) that have met me and treated me in those two years; I know many of them read the blog (though strangely they never leave comments). Even if you’ve never had the privilege of being involved in my ‘care’ if your profession brings you into contact with human beings, you may learn something too so please read on.

I can’t believe you all missed it, it was hardly subtle and I did, very kindly point it out on a number of occassions. You all need to learn about dissociation and dissociative disorders, you all need to find the courage, humility and confidence to do what’s right for those in your care. If you don’t know what you’re doing- admit it and find someone else who does. Listen to your patients, accept what is true for them, however distasteful, frightening and anxiety provoking it is for you. Put your egos to one side; ignore the flawed politics of the system you represent, stop damaging people who have been damaged enough, admit you got it wrong. If your manager/colleagues/profession are unsupportive- call them out on it, stand-up for yourselves, stand-up for your patients.

It’s too late for me, the damage caused by your mistakes is huge- but there will be others and you owe it to them, to your profession and to yourselves to ensure you don’t do to them what you did to me.

Don’t make anyone else have to fight the way I had to fight to get the correct diagnosis, care and treatment- for that fight was very damaging. Don’t assume that you know more than your patients, for all your qualifications it is the person sitting opposite you who is the expert on their own mind. Listen, believe and accept, if you can’t or won’t, have the decency to find someone who can and will. I hope every one of you has learned something from me and I hope some of you will go on to learn more in order that you can do your job and do it well.

You hold peoples lives in your hands, you have great power- but always remember what Spiderman said……. or Voltaire if that’s your bag, he said it too but Spiderman says it better.

A multiple never forgets

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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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To Whom It May Concern

Posted in bipolar, communication, crying, Eating Disorder, emotions, high, insight, mania, manic, mental illness, suicide, The Fear, tagged , , , , , , , , , on September 14, 2011 | 39 Comments »

As I write it’s Wednesday 14th of September 2011, just after 8.30pm. My day has been unspectacular, especially by my own standards of late. I woke before 4,30am, on the sofa in the same clothes I had worn and slept in since Monday.

That paragraph sounds much like the beginning of one of those posts on depression I am so loathe to write, it’s not.

My mood remains “elevated” but it’s not the colouring-in, book writing elevation that we all like so much. This elevation can be fun, it gets me through the long days, the kids love “manic breakfasts” (bacon and pancakes- sometimes real sometimes imaginary), laundry gets washed and occasionally dried on the same day, I am (I like to think) funny, fun and engaging for my twitter audience. My energy levels are high and more than ever I miss my stupid car (it’s still in Newcastle) as there are so many places I want to go- usually to buy stuff- usually stationery. Mostly I just want to run away.

However this kind of elevation also brings with it a mix of anger, fear, rage, irritability, distractibility and anxiety that turns most days into a waking nightmare. I can’t concentrate on anything; basic conversation is beyond me and anything anyone says winds me up to a point I can’t hear them over the noise in my head. Writing this is a huge struggle and I’m not even sure what to say.

I am consumed with anger and rage at the slightest stimulus, be this political or personal. I get so overwhelmed by these feelings I end up going mental in some of its most basic forms- laughter, crying, a mixture of the two, fixating on rhyming words, taking risky walks in the dark alone, rocking back and forth, pacing or becoming completely immobile. All the while my thoughts are fast, jumbled and largely useless. I am easily confused and inclined to forget things, going out presents the ever-present danger of getting lost

We’ve been having the fine/ill debate regarding my mental health on twitter for some time now; for the most part I insist I am fine with fleeting moments where I confess I feel less than well. Many others have told me I’m not very well and haven’t been for sometime. I have had some advice to the contrary, the kind of advice that suggests I’m being somewhat self-indulgent and need to simply “stop” doing what I am doing. I can’t even comment on that advice right now except to say, maybe those who say that are right?

Every health professional I’ve encountered recently has gone to great lengths to tell me that they are “concerned” about me and that I am “very concerning”. This concern makes me feel guilty and I am going to extraordinary lengths to no longer be a “concern”. My attempts are superficial however and mainly involve lying about my mental health and telling people what they want to hear. I feel vindicated in doing this as I very quickly discovered “concern” never mutated into anything useful for me.

I don’t want to be a concern, I want to be fine.

I don’t think I am fine but I’m not entirely sure what to do with this revelation. I think  the part of me that surfaced over the last few weeks and tried to destroy me is on her way back (I still argue that starving my body kept her quiet) and I’m not entirely sure what to do (early signs are the drugs inventory and purchase of new razor blades). I am currently safe though it’s through conscious choice at the moment. I still don’t really know what happened over the last few weeks but I know I very quickly got to a point where I had very little say in my own safety. How do you keep yourself safe from part of yourself, a part of which you have little awareness until you see the cuts on your body or have to talk your way out of yet another MHA?

I don’t know where I’m going with this, I’ve just read it, it’s not one of my better pieces, (actually it’s shit) but it’s going up on the blog as I think it may be a cry for help whilst I am still able to do so.

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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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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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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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