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Personalisation(s) Of Services

Posted in communication, diagnosis, DID, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Fife, friends, insight, Internal Communication, laptop, mental illness, money, MPD, Multiple Personality Disorder, NHS, Nicola Sturgeon, parenting, Paris, single-parent, social worker, support, The Smallest House in The World, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Triggers, Twitter, tagged DID, dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Mental Health, mental illness, mentalism, Multiple Personality Disorder, NHS, Told you it wasn't like Stephen fucking Fry on July 22, 2012 | 7 Comments »

To quote from the Mind page on personalisation and to save me launching into a lengthy explanation of what it’s all about- The Government wants more people who use support services to have ‘choice and control’ in their lives. That is why they have introduced direct payments. I’ll leave the debate about Government, what it actually wants, what this means for mentalists in general to others.

I mentioned in a previous post that I had applied for an assessment of my needs from the local authority in order that I could apply for direct payments. This assessment is on Wednesday the 25^th of July. This is not about me having more ‘choice and control’ this is about me actually getting some sort of service. Currently I’m deemed ‘too complex’ for exisiting services, indeed the reason it’s taken so long for a social worker to arrange to do the assessment is because I am ‘so complex’. Whilst I’m relieved that this isn’t because the social worker was too scared to come back after being met with the simmering ball of frustration and hatred I was last time which, in my defence I only was because NHS Fife were still refusing to recognise, diagnose and treat my illness and the last thing I wanted or needed was someone to help with the shopping, I need to say something about my perceived ‘complexity’.

DID is complex, I am not complex, I’m actually very straightforward, all you have to do is listen to me. If you look at me as a disorder then I’ve no doubt what you see can be quite challenging but what anyone tends to be met with is an individual, sure sometimes things go awry and you can be met with several individuals but all you have to do is listen to what they say. My ‘complexity’ is used as a stick to beat me and a reason to treat me differently, it creates barriers. Instead of all those referral letters that begin “Zoë is a very complex….” How about “Zoë is a lovely…..” or “Zoë is a very funny….” or “Congratulations, now you too can experience, first-hand the sheer awesomeness that is Zoë….” Unless perhaps it’s a referral to social services in which case and in the interests of honesty and transparency the letter should probably begin “I’m sorry, Zoë will probably despise you by virtue of your chosen profession, it’s nothing personal as I’m sure you’re lovely but she’s had some very bad experiences with your kind….”

So I’ve been thinking a lot about what my needs are, what kind of things would be helpful, would make life easier. It’s very tricky as I struggle to ask for or accept help, I feel undeserving of help and a lot of the time would deny I needed any. Coping is what we do best, those who have DID or know about DID will know that the perceived level of coping is actually inversely proportional to the mental health of the individual and I know, personally that ‘coping’ is one of my biggest danger-signs and is usually a precursor to crisis. I’m keen to avoid coping so I know I need some things in place to help make things easier, especially as I am soon to return to caring for two children full-time again.

I’ve considered the obvious things, practical support- help with housework and shopping- and ruled them out. Having to deal with people is problematic; bringing a person into my life introduces a whole new set of challenges. In a moment of insight the other night, whilst sitting in my local Chinese takeaway I figured out one of the main reasons people are so triggering, I briefly felt like a genius until I realised that reason was ‘because they move’ I then felt like a persuasive case for euthanasia. At the moment I simply couldn’t stand having someone come into the house to ‘help’ with anything, I’d be constantly on my guard to protect myself and besides they’d have had a quick run-down on DID, and they’d be waiting for me to “do a Sybil”. I’ve never read or watched Sybil so my frame of reference is lacking in detail but I know enough about it to know that for the most part, it’s a very poor portrayal of DID.

I’ve tried to look at my average day to get an idea about what my needs are, I don’t have average days. The only constant running through my days is that they will be fragmented, random and involve some chaos. Today for example involved an early-morning excursion to Tesco for milk. The trip to Tesco was derailed slightly as the store I usually go to and have well-mapped had had a slight re-modelling. I only know this as there is a ‘distress tweet’ from around 6.30am saying this, I’m very sensitive to changes in my surroundings so it may be that Tesco is much the same as it was last time, they may just have adjusted an onion or something. So I came home from Tesco with all the essentials- milk, bread, cat food and three boxes of Fuzzy-Felts (dinosaurs, under the sea and pirates for anyone interested). So I suppose I could argue that having someone to do the shopping would be helpful- but then how would I get Fuzzy-Felts?

You see my needs are unique and whilst I’m sure one box would have sufficed I can argue that Fuzzy-Felts, particularly the dinosaur ones are an essential part of my care. Similarly I could argue that I should be given black Converse free on prescription. Confusion is a major feature of DID, black Converse are the ultimate, dynamic, age-appropriate footwear- they are shoes for everyone. In situations where it’s likely switching can be rapid and chaotic, making sure everyone is wearing shoes that make them feel safe is essential. I could also make a good case for being given stationery on prescription. Post-its are an essential part of my selves-management; notes to selves are a mainstay of internal communication. The “whiteboard of madness” which hangs on the bedroom wall is crucial in ensuring that the days hang together in some way, important things don’t get forgotten and needs, wants, fears and desires can be communicated. So I could add whiteboard markers to that prescription. Some internal communication is done through drawing so colouring pencils, felt-tips, crayons and paper are also much-needed items. Now that I’m no longer unnecessarily drugged into a nice easy to-manage zombie-like state and have freed up 70% of NHS Fife’s budget by becoming a free-range mentalist, I’m considering approaching the GP with my prescription requests. After all 99% of the time I would claim not to exist in a physical sense, have no body and therefore never experience physical illness so I’m hardly a huge burden as patients go. This may or may not be related to the fact that the GP is still on the long list of “THINGS THAT ARE WAY TOO TRIGGERING”.

I’ve thought about my ‘social needs’ I do have them but again I’m constrained by my current, somewhat fragile state. I adore people but I fear them too and so, my social needs are best met in a virtual way and this suits me. In fact I suspect I spend more time with friends than most as I can do it in a way that’s comfortable, controlled and safe for me. So I could ask for help to pay for my broadband service? I can justify this request if necessary but I can’t see the local authority understanding. Similarly I could make a good case for having my mobile phone contract costs met by the local authority. The phone is essential in helping me keep track, avoiding confusion. Whether this be a photograph of a person/situation/place that later helps remind me where I’ve been, what’s happened and who with or a tweet that discloses my mood or location or a text to a friend to let them know I’ve been attacked by the ‘silencing mentals’ and not to worry as I’ll eventually be back, the phone helps me communicate and more importantly, communicate in a way that leaves a written record so that it can be accessed again later. Since the Paris trip I’ve also undergone a comprehensive self-led training course in Google maps and navigation so having the phone with me is an extra guard against getting lost.

I’ve considered my recreational needs; I do have some as I have multiple hobbies. I enjoy the very occasional film though am still limited to watching films I’ve seen before and therefore have a fair idea of the potential triggers and can guard against them, those of you who know me elsewhere may remember the harrowing emotional rollercoaster that was my first and last viewing of Disney’s Up, I remain in two minds about balloons to this day they bring me right back to that film. I have a small team of film reviewers on twitter who have a good understanding of my needs but sadly, we’re still at the stage where the conclusion is usually “it was good but not for you yet” so I can’t go to the cinema and I don’t really need DVDs (DID and films/TV is another one of those book topics I mentioned in a previous post). I adore music, my tastes are ‘eclectic’ music is essential and again, DID and music is a potential book topic. I could argue that there is a need for my music supply costs to be met by the local authority but as I ‘purchase’ all my music from isoHunt I suspect I’d be fighting a losing battle.

So I’m a little stuck, I know I need something but I don’t know what that something is. On paper I’m an ideal candidate for self-directed care, I’m intelligent (another attribute used as a stick to beat me, MH services prefer their mentals to be stupid) I’m articulate, have a good understanding of my condition and am keen to make progress but in practise trying to define the support I need is just another cause of confusion for me and another thing that makes me feel different.

The other problem I have is that I am more than capable of doing everything myself. I have no doubt that eventually after a few weeks, maybe months this would cause complete de-stabilisation and a spiral into crisis but I can do it, I can do it all. I’m trying to convince myselves that just because we can do it, doesn’t mean we should or that we have to. It’s not easy. Self-sufficiency can be a very good thing but can also be incredibly self-defeating when it becomes more about control, lack of trust, fear and keeping everyone away than confidence, empowerment and choices.

So I’m still none the wiser as to what I should be asking this social worker for, I intend to give the matter my full attention over the next few day, in between playing with my new Fuzzy-Felts.

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Going Out, Acceptance and Spiderman

Posted in autistic, bipolar, blogging, children, crying, depression, driving, Eating Disorder, emotions, Fab Psychologist, Fantastic CPN, Fife, friends, health, hospital, hugs, IKEA, illness, Labour, love, Lovely Dietitian, Lovely GP, medication, Mehtheism, Mehtheist, mental illness, money, mother, NHS, parenting, politics, psychiatrist, recovery, relationship, religion, School, shopping, single-parent, social worker, Stolen Friend, suicide, support, tea, therapy, Twitter, violin, tagged bulimia, eating disorder, Mehtheism, Mehtheist, Mental Health, mental health, mental illness, suicide on July 1, 2011 | 17 Comments »

As usual I have so much to say, so much to say I fear I will never be able to pull it together into one clever, coherent, mental illness stigma challenging, hilariously entertaining, educational, accessible blog post.

I don’t know where to start; I could fill the internet with an account of the last fifteen minutes of my life.

Yet again I am in a new phase of mentalism, it’s probably got a name, I think the Fantastic CPN mentioned “acceptance” earlier. I don’t know what it’s called but I know I don’t like it.

Where to start?

I last blogged properly on Sunday the 19^th of June but probably left more unsaid than I actually said and in the interests of sharing every detail of my life with the whole wide world I feel I must go right back to Wednesday the 15^th of June, feel free to stop reading now but I urge you to hang around, it’s going to be good. Anyone reading could be forgiven for thinking I have a photographic memory- I don’t, I have a Tweet stream and a rather comprehensive diary, verbosity fills in any gaps. So get a cup of tea and your biscuit of choice, grab an extra Hob-Nob for me and enjoy.

Wednesday 15^th June 2011

That day I set out to buy a new fridge- in fact I was determined I was going to source, buy and install a new fridge before the day was out, little warning signs of impending mental crisis were evident even then. I was completely uninterested in fridges- that’s not mental that’s normal, fridges, particularly integrated fridges are spectacularly boring objects- I am referring to my inability to stay in a fridge shop for more than 4 minutes, my desire in B&Q (where I purchased a rotary washing line) to climb on to one of the shelves and sit there forever, weeping and rocking, pausing only occasionally to scream.

I carried on.

I emailed the Fantastic CPN and hinted that I wasn’t very well- physically or mentally. As usual I didn’t say enough, the Fantastic CPN urged me to visit the Lovely GP and most unusually I heeded her advice and made an appointment for the following day. I was surrendering, another little warning sign that I seemingly chose to ignore completely.

Thursday 16^th June

I saw the Lovely GP, I’m not sure what I said to her but I have it noted in my diary that she weighed me, I had lost weight again and she was going to contact the Fantastic CPN and the (still haven’t though of a suitable adjective) Psychiatrist and get back to me. I realise now I never did hear back from the Lovely GP. The fantastic CPN visited and again, according to my diary she informed me I was “severely cognitively impaired” and I cried- a lot. An emergency appointment was arranged with the <insert suitable adjective here> psychiatrist for the following Monday (she was off sick) or as I have it in my diary “supposed to see drug-pusher on Mon- not going”. Also have noted in my diary “haven’t eaten a thing since Tuesday, couldn’t decide food/zopiclone, went for zopiclone, sad” and so Thursday drew to a close.

Friday 17^th June 2011

The day started innocently enough, I woke up full of energy, I chose to display this both in real life and on Twitter as a good positive, industrious energy. In truth I could feel myself being slowly mentally poisoned. I had that infuriating urge to run away (see “P” for Paris and “S” for suicide) I had many intrusive thoughts and I knew it was only a matter of time before I snapped completely.

Being the self-aware and self-compassionate kind of girl I am I completely ignored all the massive warning signs that I was teetering on the verge of yet another crisis and I carried on. My first mission was to obtain a spiky thing in which to insert my new rotary washing line. This may come across as a very trivial pursuit indeed but to me this had become the Holy Grail.

The new washing line had come with a spiky thing- I had installed the spiky thing but the ground I had chosen was too soft and the washing line began to list precariously. I requested that the social worker rectify the situation by moving the spiky thing and then the next day (Thursday 16^th June) I demanded that he move it and stood over him whilst he did it- the spiky thing broke. I asked the social worker to buy a new spiky thing as soon as possible to prevent a backlog of laundry or an over reliance on the very expensive to run tumble dryer. The social worker assured me he would see to it and would return from work on the Thursday evening with a new spiky thing. He didn’t.

I returned from Argos (having sat outside for some time waiting for it to open- I was ahead of the game- yet another ignored warning sign) with a brand new spiky thing. I had a go at installing it but for some reason, seemingly unknown to me and certainly not due in my mind to the very early stages of malnutrition, I didn’t have the strength to complete the job. Again I demanded that the social worker install the spiky thing and he did- as I stood over him.

THE BASTARD SPIKY THING HAD A SMALLER DIAMETER THAN THE NEW ROTARY WASHING LINE.

I calmly smoked and requested that the social worker “please get it sorted”. Again he assured me he would………

The social worker and I then set out to attend the 6 year olds school assembly. The six year old did us proud, wore a hat with a beetle on it better than any of the other pupils and read his part, clearly, fluently and confidently. I marvelled at how unaffected by my descent into mentalism my baby appeared and I spared a moment to be grateful for the stability and nurturing he had received in school. I obviously couldn’t take any credit.

I don’t remember much from the assembly but I know I was on a knife-edge the whole time. I chose to ignore another big warning sign of impending mentalist doom- I had hypersensitive hearing and olfactory senses- I Tweeted in typical humorous fashion about the smell of the school (Plasticine, wee and mashed potato) and my general discomfort at being around others. How I didn’t hear and alert others to the alarm bells I have no idea. I was able to sit through the assembly and engage with the necessary small talk that such occasions demand and other than being alerted to the fact I had drunk a bottle of diet coke in approximately 50 seconds by the social worker, I probably appeared completely normal the whole time. Appearances can be very deceptive.

I vividly remember one particular part of the assembly as for some reason it marked the total destruction of what was left of my ability to continue functioning normally.

Hymn books were distributed amongst the audience- I Tweeted about it again humorously and remained seemingly unmental. Inside my head I completely and utterly lost it. I don’t know if I am skilled enough to articulate how I was feeling and what was going on or indeed why but I’ll try.

I am an antitheist, I’d much rather be a meh-theist as I truly believe that mehtheism would be a sensible healthy position to take on organised (or disorganised) religion. I am a vehement antitheist; I could accurately be described as a devout antitheist, a fanatical antitheist indeed a religious antitheist. I have particularly strong views on religious education and activities in schools, I’ll resist the urge to go into them too much here- suffice to say, I don’t like its heavy focus on Christianity. I very purposefully didn’t send my children to a faith school but it appears the Scottish curriculum has some of its roots firmly intertwined with the teachings of the church. I don’t think the practising of religion; any religion has any place in our schools. I am in favour of educating children about religion but would rather schools avoid the insidious, furtive indoctrination.

When those hymn books were handed out I froze, my head was filled with noise and was empty all at the same time, the social worker tried to hand me the book but I recoiled in horror. The chosen hymn number was announced- by the 6 year old- in that moment I was convinced this was a deliberate act by school staff done purely to further aggravate me. I was not angry but I was considerably disturbed and paranoid. The audience rose for the hymn- I remained seated, from that point on I was completely immersed in total and utter mentalism. My brain had turned into a noxious soup of unhappy, incoherent thoughts.

I returned home, the social worker went to work; I embarked on a cleaning frenzy- another sure sign that something is amiss. I despise housework and my enthusiastic doing of housework should always, always be viewed as a symptom. So I cleaned and hoovered and dusted and of course, Tweeted updates. All the while my brain was getting noisier and noisier, by this time the noise was nothing coherent just a general mix of thunderous rumbling, crashing and whooshing- a bit like having Niagara Falls take up residence in my pre-frontal lobes. The only distinctive part of the noise was the repeated instruction and compulsion to “Go Out!”

Going out is an everyday kind of thing for most people as it is for me- I do the school runs and make the occasional trip to the shops/bank/post office when necessary. My urge to “Go Out!” on this occasion was however just my brains lazy code for-

Take massive stash of saved up medication from hiding place in bedroom

Get in car

Drive

Stop somewhere quiet

Take aforementioned medication until death occurs

So I made preparations- I put my stash in a bag and located my car keys.

My hazier than usual memory will now, unfortunately impede the telling of the next part of the story so I think I’ll resort to a handy list format, which might in turn help to make this epic piece a bit easier on the eye for those of you still reading.

-The Fantastic CPN visited, I think she had also called, by this point I was making no sense at all but I think I expressed my vehement desire to “GO OUT!” (my volume increased every time I made the demand) I was instructed to go nowhere until she had visited.

-The CPN came round and there was a protracted standoff in the bedroom where I spent variable amounts of time a) Demanding to exercise my right as an adult to GO OUT! And b) regressing horribly and weeping at the Fantastic CPN.

- The Fantastic CPN laid down an ultimatum- I could go out but she would phone the police. I was able to rationalise that if police involvement were necessary this would probably involve me being touched at some point so I was keen to avoid it. The Fantastic CPN contacted the Different GP and he was on his way. I continued to ask the Fantastic CPN if I could GO OUT. She made a futile attempt to hide my car keys but I snatched them back and put them in my pocket.

- The Different GP arrived and proceeded to bombard me with questions, I dazzled him with my cognitive abilities by remaining folded up in the foetal position on my bed repeating my mantra of “I’m fine” over and over again. I had naturally assumed that he would fall for this and disregard the fact I never looked at him once, spent an inordinate amount of time wailing like a wounded animal and refusing to do anything other than insist I just wanted to GO OUT!

- The Different GP then issued his own ultimatum- be taken to the local acute psych ward in an ambulance or be taken by the Fantastic CPN. The mere mention of the local acute psych ward sent me reeling and I refused to go- I switched the mantra from “I’m fine” to “I’m not going anywhere, no, no, NO”.

- Somewhere in all of this the social worker appeared, until this point, in spite of me telling him otherwise in very graphic detail earlier in the week, the social worker had assumed I was fine. I’m not sure what he was thinking when he launched into his passive-aggressive anti-suicide pitch as I stood determinedly in the bedroom, completely mental with only going OUT on my mind and half a pharmacy in my bag. I now had another reason to GO OUT- the social worker was mad at me.

- There then followed a period of waiting whilst forms were filled out and phonecalls were made, I prowled the house all the time plotting my escape- hence the reason the Fantastic CPN followed me everywhere.

- To my relative relief the Different GP announced there were no beds available on the local acute psych ward- I immediately assumed this would mean I would be given carte blanche to GO OUT unimpeded. A bed was found on a psych ward in another part of Fife. My “I’m not going no, no, NO” mantra returned.

- The fantastic CPN somehow persuaded me to get in her car and to agree not to jump out of her car at any point. I love the Fantastic CPN so would never do anything that I think would directly have a negative affect on her career- just in case they took her off me.

- So off we went to Kirkcaldy and to the scabbiest, mankiest, most unkempt psych ward I’ve ever seen- and that’s saying something. I didn’t want to leave the Fantastic CPN as I feared she was going to leave me there- at this point I still believed I could convince the duty psychiatrist I was fine and should be sent home and given a nice cup of tea. I was prised off the Fantastic CPN and taken to a room to wait. It did not escape my attention that the room was adjacent to the main exit from the ward- from my vantage point I could still see the Fantastic CPNs car so I knew she was still there so I sat and waited.

The next part is such a blur that I will probably have to make it up but in the interests of bloggers integrity I will try and list what I can remember-

- I was offered a cup of tea, I never refuse a cup of tea but when I saw that cup of tea in standard psych hospital issue, green, stained, plastic beaker I couldn’t even bring myself to touch it.

- Various members of staff came to see me at various points and they showed themselves to be far lovelier than any of the staff I’d encountered at the previous psych hospital. I didn’t care though; I had decided that the minute the Fantastic CPN left, should she leave without me- I was off.

- Unfortunately for my cunning plan I was then the victim of a kind of mental health professional pincer action- the Fantastic CPN returned to the room with the duty psychiatrist and another member of staff.

- In an unbelievable, very non-therapeutic fashion that will haunt me forever the duty psychiatrist for some reason came bounding in, ruffled my hair and then physically tried to get me to lift me head up to look at her, she grabbed my head. I lost it and screamed “Stop touching me!” and I think I repeated it under my breath several thousand times in an almost self-soothing fashion.

- The fantastic CPN had to leave- and I was not going with her. There followed a period of my clinging and shrieking “Please don’t leave me here Fantastic CPN (not her real name) I promise I’ll eat and I won’t kill myself, just don’t leave me here” she prised me off and left and I just switched off completely, fully immersed myself in lala land, it’s always much safer there.

-I was assessed by the duty psych who finally realised that I really fucking meant it when I said stop touching me as at one point she patted me on the arm and I said “I really fucking meant it when I told you to stop touching me”.

- I stated repeatedly that I wasn’t staying; I didn’t need to be there and finally after a long gruelling assessment got told the following “you need to agree to stay or they’re going to detain you”.

Now had I been in my right frame of mind or indeed any frame of mind, this clear abuse of the Mental Health Act would’ve been apparent to me and I would’ve challenged it. As it was I was led away, defeated, offered tea and a place to smoke and handed a bag of toiletries (I had left the house with nothing- assuming I would be returning home) and horror of horrors- an NHS nightdress.

I don’t do nightdresses, I do pyjamas, to me a nightdress symbolises helplessness and trauma as they invariably attack you at some point during the night and attempt to asphyxiate you.

I was helpless by this point, completely helpless so I cleaned my teeth, put the nightdress of doom on, got given medication and went to bed.

Saturday 18^th June 2011

I slept for two hours as is the norm these days (I still haven’t written that post on sleep, don’t think I’m going to it’d be incredibly boring) and when I awoke at 2am a member of staff came rushing to my bedside to inform me I was on constant observation as I was “At risk of self-harm and absconding”. Given that I had just woken up and actually at that point had no idea where I was or what had happened all I did was nod and accept the green sheet of paper outlining the details of the constant observation. Basically I was being watched- constantly.

Extract from the 1995 CRAG document Nursing Observation of Acutely Ill Psychiatric Patients in Hospital (revised 2003)

5.9 Constant Observation

The constant level of observation should be used for patients considered to pose a significant risk to self or others. An allocated member of staff should be constantly aware at all times of the precise whereabouts of the patient through visual observation or hearing. The method and purpose of maintaining observation must be clearly determined and stated at the time of review. Respect for privacy should be an important consideration, but a balance should be struck on the side of safety in all matters such as escorting to the toilet, bathroom, or public telephone, etc. In some circumstances the patient may be permitted to leave the ward or other clinical area in the company of an escorting nurse, other informed professional worker or appropriate relative. This decision must be part of the risk assessment process and the comments referred to in the previous section should be noted. Appropriate members of the multi-disciplinary team (generally a minimum of the nurse in charge and duty doctor) should review the need for constant observation at least every 24 hours.

Being under constant scrutiny was a major irritation for me, having someone watch me sleep, watch me smoke, watch me drink tea and watch me lie in a fetid cloud of my own misery was very strange. It seemed like psychiatric overkill but to be fair, I have form. It was unusual for an “informal” patient to be on constant obs though and even the staff were a bit bemused- a fact that, to my delight they shared with me. The psychiatric profession can be very bitchy when they want to be; obviously I encouraged it as it was all fuel to the fire I was building in my mind.

So I had a constant minder, every time I moved- they looked and followed. My minders also watched me Tweet and rushed in every time to ask who I was calling/texting, I couldn’t be bothered to explain Twitter.

Which brings me nicely to the bit in my blog where I gush about Twitter for a bit.

Yet again in my moment of need, Twitter came to the rescue and I received many messages from followers. As is my wont I even created a # tag for my stay (#inthebin) though I often forgot to use it- a good reflection of my mental state during that weekend. This next bit may be very touching and poignant or it may just be quite “sad” as the kids would say.

When I Tweeted my distress call that Friday night Twitter responded in a way I never expected and I received messages from followers who I never expected to care about my mental crises. Something strange happened to me over that weekend, I started to realise that people genuinely did care about me- even people I had never met. I am plagued by a general sense of unworthiness so I’m always surprised when people like me but I actually began to think that maybe for as repugnant as I found myself there was something there worth caring about. A little bit of self-compassion finally started to seep in to my emotionally vacuous, soulless body.

My weekend on the psych ward was hard, they are not good places. This psych ward was far better in every way than the one I spent so much time on last year but no amount of tea and friendly staff can ever erase the utter horribleness that is time spent on a psych ward.

Nothing especially interesting happened that weekend; I spent most of it lying in bed, hopeless, foodless and cold. I was the personification of misery. I attempted to get discharged on the Saturday (in order that I could go home and go out) but was persuaded to stay and have the constant observation lifted instead.

Being in a psychiatric ward always presents one with the dilemma at some point- tell the truth or get out. Nothing makes me want to escape more than being put on a psychiatric ward and told not to leave- leaving becomes my all-consuming focus. I become obsessed with getting away- to the point where walking past the exit gives me butterflies and an urge to flee. I spent much of my weekend deliberating over whether to tell the consultant how I was really feeling or tell him what he wanted to hear.

Sunday 19^th June 2011

I have no idea what happened on the Sunday, I have noted in my diary “still haven’t eaten (5 days) I need to learn how to lie and quick”

Monday 20^th June 2011

Nothing could say it better than my diary entry for that day so here it is-

“Waiting to see consultant, all showered and dressed sane. Fantastic CPN says she can’t look after me at home if I’m not eating. I don’t know what I want; I think I still want to die. Terrified if I tell the truth I will be detained and I know my reaction will be to run.”

Later….

“Saw consultant he said “there is nothing more we can do for you”.

Later again….

“Home now, can’t decide if the social worker is scared or selfish. Ended up going to B&Q for a washing line spike myself. Ate a bowl of cornflakes, feel like death. Promised the Fantastic CPN I would see her tomorrow. Fab Psychologist wants to come round tomorrow but the house is a pigsty and so am I. In bed at 9 need to sleep, want to die. So very hopeless and depressed”.

I have no idea what I said to the <insert very negative adjective here> consultant, so I don’t know what he based his rather defeatist attitude on but all I cared about was that I was out of the hospital and home- even though it is apparent that being at home did little to ease my state of mind.

Tuesday 21^st June 2011

The Fab Psychologist did a housecall, I had therapy in my pyjamas. I have no idea what we talked about but I’m sure it was profound, healing and meaningful.

I saw the Lovely GP that afternoon and I note in my diary- “Lovely GP was lovely, gave me 28 Lorazepam” so it’s quite clear where my focus was that day.

The fantastic CPN also visited that day as promised, in my diary I note-

“ Fantastic CPN came round and gave me a whole heap of shit on bulimia- I AM NOT BULIMIC I AM A FAT ANOREXIC” she’s coming back on Friday”

I laugh at this now, somewhat wryly. As I stated in my confessional post on my eating disorder I do not fit the diagnostic criteria for anorexia or bulimia- the diagnostic criteria are very, for want of a better word, slim.

There is something intrinsically insulting to a “restricter” to be labelled bulimic and anyone reading this up to their armpits in an eating disorder will be nodding, the rest of you will be bemused so I will attempt to explain.

To me, as an eating disordered person, restricting food intake (AKA starving oneself) represents control, utter control over ones body and mind. Eating food in any quantity represents a lack of control- binging on food represents an extraordinary loss of control.

I have had periods in the past where I have binged- this time last year I invested a great deal of my time in ingesting large quantities of food and then vomiting. Now I largely avoid food and tend to vomit when I have eaten anything. In my eating disordered mind this is control and I am winning. When I am being rational (it has been known) I can see how absolutely fucked up this is but it doesn’t stop me. The Fantastic CPNs insistence that I was bulimic was insulting- I was better than that, I could deprive myself of nourishment for days, I never binged, I was in control, I was strong……….

I never claimed that any of this had to make sense.

That evening I drank wine and tweeted- a lot. I’ve just read what I tweeted and I’m blushing so I wont go into it.

Wednesday 22 June 2011

On Wednesday I took delivery of and installed my new fridge – in what I suspect is a Twitter first, I live-Tweeted the installation (#fridge). I enjoyed it immensely and astounded myself with my ability to turn my hand to anything.

I spent the evening with my Stolen Friend, I call him that as he is actually an old school friend of the social workers but he is mine now. For the first time ever I was honest with the Stolen Friend about how I was doing and our evening involved crying, hugging, talking and ultimately laughing uproariously at Stewart Lee (officially the 41^st best stand up ever). I left the Stolen Friend with instructions to obtain tickets for Stewart Lee’s next live performance in Scotland- and he has- 12^th of August in Edinburgh.

I had been mulling some things over for a while and mulled them over further on the drive home from the Stolen Friends house. That day I decided I was going to tell the social worker our relationship was over. I was also going to resign from my job.

In my diary I wrote “Self-compassion or mental and impulsive? I think it may just be the former, Look after yourself Zoë”

I often refer to myself in the third person in my diary, I do it on Twitter too, when I do it on Twitter I somehow know it’s time to step away for a bit, it’s sign of mentalism for me and one I usually manage to pay heed to.

Thursday 23^rd June 2011

On Thursday I saw the Lovely Dietitian, that self-compassion was still there and after all the gruelling talk of food, weight and meal-plans I asked her for a hug and got one.

I’m not sure what I did for the rest of Thursday, I thought a lot about my decisions and I emailed the Lovely Boss to inform her of my decision regarding work.

The decision to resign from my job was actually very easy. I am not ready to go back and won’t be for some time. Career wise now is the time to go back as it’s the start of a new Parliamentary session; having missed so much of last session through illness I have no desire to return part-way through a session again. Having the job there, waiting for me to go back in to it did nothing but allow me to heap pressure in myself to “get back to normal” and encouraged me to declare false recoveries to my care team and myself. That self-compassion I talked about made me realise that I still had a very long way to go before I was ready for full on real life again- and that was OK. I needed to remove the pressure- so I did- and what’s more, it worked.

Obviously at some point soon I will have to deal with the grim, practical realities of being mental and unemployed but I will deal with them when I am ready. By resigning from my job I have indirectly “resigned” from a lot of future opportunities but I have rationalised that when I am really ready there will be other jobs and other opportunities.

That evening I informed the social worker of my other big decision- I didn’t want to be with him anymore and I wanted him to leave. In fact that’s all I said- repeatedly and monotonously.

News of my decision did not please him and there followed a rather uncomfortable standoff in the kitchen- him questioning my ability to care for the children (“everyone knows the mentally ill don’t make very good parents”) and me stating repeatedly and somewhat robotically “I don’t want to be with you anymore and I want you to leave”. He ate a peach, said he “wasn’t going anywhere”; 40 minutes later he was gone. There followed an uncomfortable exchange of text messages before the social workers adult side re-emerged around midnight. He was hurt and more than anyone else on the planet I know that hurt and how hideously painful it is- I was torn between comforting him and shouting “HA TAKE THAT YOU BASTARD! HOW DO YOU FEEL NOW?” I threw him a shred of comfort for old time’s sake and went to bed.

In truth (sorry social worker) I realised I should never have taken him back, I was vulnerable, I was aware that others were concerned about my ability to care for the children and had a huge desire for me to have a “responsible adult” at home. The mental health profession wanted me to have a carer, I needed a carer and he, motivated by love and huge amounts of guilt was there. I have some residual anger that I feel I was forced back into a relationship with someone who had hurt me so badly, I’m not very good with anger so I suspect it will either dissipate over time or fester into something huge and uncontrollable at some point in the future.

I will always love the social worker and we did have many happy times together but I can never forgive him for what he did in October 2009 and where it led me. I don’t blame the social worker for my mentalism but he certainly played a huge part in accelerating the “mental health car crash waiting to happen” that I was. On reflection our relationship was never as good as either of us would have ourselves or others believe, there was an intrinsic toxicity about it and I had to end it before I started actively hating him.

Friday 24^th June 2011

I woke on Friday feeling a strange mixture of liberated and hugely hugely guilty for the pain I was about to inflict upon my children by telling them the social worker and I were no longer going to be a couple. I felt like the worst mother in the world but I still knew I had made the right decision.

The Fantastic CPN visited and I suppose we largely talked about my big decisions.

That evening the social worker and I assembled the children in the living room to tell them what was going on. The 14 year old already knew as I had told her the previous evening after the social worker left. The 6 year old reacted calmly but sadly, stated he was “worried” and I held him for a while as we both cried. The 16 year old reacted in a quite typically autistic way and stated that he was “annoyed” the social worker and I assured him that this was no-ones fault and not done with the intention to wind anybody up. We talked about how things would work from then on. The 6 year old was cheered up immensely by the thought of having two homes again “wow, 2 TV’s, 2 bedrooms, will you get a house with stairs Daddy, I love stairs”. Then we all went to a local restaurant for dinner.

Dinner was lovely, the atmosphere was peaceful and conciliatory, the social worker and I questioned how each other were doing, he assured me he would always be there if needed and I told him to take good care of himself. We laughed a lot that evening and proved that the social worker and I make much better friends and much better parents when we’re not trying to be a couple.

Saturday 25^th June 2011

Again, nothing explains the day better than my diary-

“Ate too much, drank too much, purged too much. Awful self-destructive. Took Zopiclone and 2 Lorazepam, feel guilty, need escape. Bad. Not good.”

So here I was again, stuck in a sneaky hate spiral- directed against myself and not surprisingly, alcohol was involved.

Sunday 26^th June 2011

I set out early on Sunday morning to get the newspapers, I don’t know why I bothered, it took me all of my mental energy to look at the pictures. The Sunday papers used to be one of the highlights of my week but the whole experience now does nothing more than shine a light on my poor level of functioning and general disinterest in everything. I’ve had a few political moments this week- largely thoughts around feeling irritated by a political party that takes £8 a month from my bank account and I feel no longer represents me in any way. I feel another big decision coming on regarding this but I’ve decided to wait for a bit to see how I feel.

The social worker took the six year old out for the day and the 14 year old and I set off on a road trip. I was determined to buy something that day, couldn’t decide between an espresso machine or a small pet of some kind. We ended up at Ikea where various things we didn’t really need were purchased.

I had made a commitment to the Lovely Dietitan earlier in the week to eat a snack at around 2pm every day. Yes that was me in the restaurant in the Edinburgh branch of Ikea- panicking at the lack of food that came with nutrition information. I eventually settled on a children’s yoghurt as it was the only thing available with a nutrition information label. So at least I knew what was in it- even if I didn’t like what was in it. Being a children’s yoghurt it was made with whole milk- that yoghurt was my nemesis. For those of you lucky enough not to have an eating disorder, all of this will be difficult to understand, as I said to the Stolen Friend last night “I wouldn’t understand it myself if I wasn’t in it”. I knew it was the right and proper thing to do, to eat that yoghurt so I did, but that one pot of yoghurt (Strawberry and banana, organic, no added sugar) left me feeling so guilty, so ashamed and so much of a failure my mood dropped and I wanted to do nothing more than go home and climb into bed. That’s my reaction to one small snack, imagine having to go through that much deliberation, that much anxiety and have to risk feeling all those painful emotions every time you eat. That’s life with an eating disorder; it’s a very cruel mental illness indeed. If I was an alcoholic or a drug addict I could quit, I’m good at quitting things. You cannot quit food (well you can, as I have proved but it’s a very bad idea) you have to find a way to both consume food and stay sane; it’s a constant battle and a very long one.

I bought an espresso machine and stole the necessary crockery from a branch of Costa Coffee. Well I say stole, I reckoned that as I’d paid close to £7 for two drinks and a granola bar that cup and saucer were rightfully mine. Though technically I think it’s still stealing. I feel I should add here “I’m not proud of it” or something but I’m not going to, I wouldn’t say I was proud as such I just had a problem and found a way to solve it in my own unique mental way. It’s not something I intend to make a habit of.

That evening I realised that the one thing the social worker reliably did that I would now have to do, the ironing, still needed done. I think this next bit is going to even confuse me so you’re forgiven if you read it and it makes no sense.

I cannot iron.

I had forgotten that I spent 5 years as an RAF wife and I can in fact iron- quickly and really well (creases in sleeves and trouser legs optional). The ironing turned out to be a piece of piss; my body just seemed to remember how to do it. My mind still thinks it is one of the most incredibly boring tasks ever invented and I will still have to try and find ways to avoid it in the future though.

So Sunday all told was quite good, I enjoyed my time with the 14 year old, she is very good company. I spent far too much money on things I didn’t need and I will have to stop doing that very soon.

Monday 27^th June 2011

Sleep was becoming a major issue for me; it’s too dull to go into much detail. Basically I’m not getting very much in spite of minor prescription drug misuse. I’ve cut back on caffeine (that espresso machine was a waste of money) in an attempt to help but nothing has really changed. The advice from the <?> psychiatrist is to take 2 Zopiclone at night- thereby demonstrating the psychiatrists total lack of understanding of a- the problem and b- the way Zopiclone works. But as I said I can’t be bothered to go into it, maybe I will write that post on sleep?

Monday started well, I walked the 6 year old to school and popped into town for bits and pieces and some tea. I had decided that in my desperate pursuit of sleep it was worth sacrificing my beloved tea so I was going to have no more caffeine after10am. Well that’s what I said.

If you read the previous post you will see that the 6 year old was sent home from school that day for the most spurious of reasons. As he wasn’t actually unwell and was his usual boisterous, fun loving, demanding, messy, noisy self- I managed to go 4 hours without tea.

I’m not sure what happened the rest of the day but I know I was feeling severely depressed. I hide it well though (even from myself) and was able to get on with all the things I needed to do. That evening I did an interview for SRN on mental health and social networking.

Tuesday 28^th June 2011

Tuesday was a long hard day- I know that because that’s what it says in my diary, unfortunately it’s rather thin on detail as to why! Maybe that was just a bit of self-indulgent journalling? Tuesday was also the day I started writing this piece, as things stand it’s now Friday 1^st July 2011 and I still have no idea if I’ll finish it, let alone publish it.

The Fantastic CPN visited, I cried at her, we talked about acceptance, I think I get it and I think I am doing it. It hurts- a lot. I was going to resist the upcoming verbal self-pity but it just appears to be flowing from my fingertips so I’ll go ahead.

I don’t want to be mentally ill, I want to be normal. I want to react to things normally, view myself normally, eat normally and lose that latent desire to cease to exist. I have accepted that I am ill and I have also accepted that I am going to take some time to recover- I think that time is currently pencilled in as 18 months, I’m trying not to be black and white about and actually set a date- that’s how accepting I am!

I accept that I have to do things differently and I accept that I will not generally find life easy. With acceptance has come a little more self-compassion but I even find that excruciatingly painful, it is difficult to allow yourself to feel compassion for someone you hate.

I feel as though, mired though I am in self-pity and crippling low mood, that I have moved on in some way, it’s just very difficult to define.

Tuesday evening was sunny and warm so the 14 year old, 6 year old and I went for a walk. We walked to town, the children had ice-cream, I denied myself ice-cream and cried a little inside. I enjoyed the walk, my children are very good company.

Wednesday 29^th June 2011

I woke after 4 hours sleep, I took the 6 year old to school (in the car, in my pyjamas) came home took 2 Zopiclone and 2 Lorazepam and slept for a mammoth 2 hours. I was shattered but the after effects of the Lorazepam helped me see out the day in a mellow haze of warm benzodiazepine fuzziness.

I spent the evening at the 14 year olds end of term concert, as usual the standard was high and it was quite enjoyable if a little long. I adore the sound of violins, in fact stringed instruments in general so was particularly impressed by the Senior Strings Group. I reserve my right to abhor the sound of the clarsach though and sure enough that night I think I found the worst sound ever- “Don’t Stop Believin’” plinked, plunked and dragged from the strings of a clarsach it’s like having little fiery swords of death rammed into your ears. Horrible.

The 14 year old sang with her singing group at the end, they did a great job, she looked like she enjoyed it and she made me very proud, she also looked resplendent in her blazer, shirt, tie, skirt and Converse with rainbow ribbons for laces. She is her mother’s daughter, in all the good ways.

Thursday 30^th June 2011

I took delivery of a surprise trampoline for the six year old and spent most of the morning assembling it. Stopping occasionally to Tweet, smoke, drink tea and shelter from the rain.

I saw the Lovely Dietitian in the afternoon and we discussed my progress. There’s not a lot of progress to be honest but there is some. I have a long way to go and I find it incredibly daunting and scary.

I finally had to admit defeat with the stupid car and booked it into a local garage to get the gears fixed. I can’t afford the car in all honesty but I don’t think I could go without it. I don’t even want to think about it so I’ll stop writing about it too.

The Stolen Friend visited in the afternoon, we drank tea and chatted.

The social worker came to visit, he annoyed me but I’m not entirely sure I’ve figured out why yet. So he annoyed me further by texting to ask if I was annoyed at him and if so why was I annoyed at him?

By 6pm the sneaky hate spiral was back and I fell at the first fence and went out and bought a bottle of wine. I can avoid alcohol easily- when I want to but once I’ve taken that first sip I have committed to a journey on the self-destruction train, it’s a through service, there are no stops- until you get to the end.

So last night involved self-abuse with alcohol and toast (only the eating disordered can self-abuse with toast) but no vomiting! I know most people make it through most days without making themselves vomit so this may not seem like a big deal- but it was and it’s something I am trying very hard to be proud of.

Friday 1^st July 2011

I can’t believe I might actually have almost finished writing this post. Today is Friday 1^st July 2011; I have 2 hours and 8 minutes left before the six and a half week long summer holiday begins.

I have no idea how I’m going to cope over the summer holidays; I confess that parenting isn’t one of my more finely honed skills. I suspect we will have lots of lazy days and that trampoline will get a lot of use (if I ever finish assembling it). I think the summer holidays may provide me with many opportunities and challenges regarding eating so it could be a very healing time. I am looking forward to relaxing a bit and enjoying fluid bedtimes and hopefully some late starts. I have no plans as yet for any activities as such but we have wonderful beaches on our doorstep and provided the stupid car doesn’t die completely and I don’t get a sudden pang of responsibility when I take the Barclaycard out, I presume we’ll have some good days out.

I don’t know what I feel today. I am deeply ashamed of my trip on the self-destruction train last night and have again decided to give up alcohol for a while (I think that’s the third time this week). My mood is low and I feel aimless and a bit jumpy so it’ll have to be one of those moment-to-moment kind of days.

The house is an utter mess so I must be quite relaxed and all I have done today is pop the 6 year old on the school bus and write this post.

I still have that wonderful feeling of freedom but in a bit of a Spiderman moment I realise that with freedom comes great responsibility and I may have to take a quick reality check on just how much freedom I actually have and what this really allows me to do.

So there you go 16.5 days in my life in just under 8000 words. I really should write that book, at least then I might get some money for sharing so much with so many!

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A Second Opinion, Day 4 and a Week

Posted in bipolar, blogging, children, diagnosis, driving, Fife, health, labels, Lovely GP, mental illness, mother, parenting, psychiatrist, St Andrews, therapy, Twitter, work, tagged Mental Health, mental illness on June 6, 2011 | 4 Comments »

It’s been just over a week since I blogged so I feel the need to blog again. I have nothing of interest to blog about so I will just try to mesmerise you with words in the hope that I leave you feeling you’ve just read the best blog post ever. (feel free to leave comments to that effect)

My week, as ever has been largely uneventful.

Last Wednesday I was given my “second opinion”- from the same psychiatrist that’s been treating me for 19 months- surely some mistake? It was a standardised assessment, took two hours and was heavily clouded by her own pre-judgements, so eventually, when I realised what was going on I did what all good mentalists do and told her what she wanted to hear- “I’m fine, I’m going back to work”. The <insert adjective here, all suggestions welcome> psychiatrist finished up the assessment by saying (half) jokingly “I think I’ve cured you Zoë” and that was that.

I discovered on that day, that I had waited some months for, that I do not have ADHD, alcoholism (more on that later) or a drug habit. As for the rest of it, well I’ll find out at my next appointment with the psychiatrist- in August. So no hurry then.

I’m still not entirely sure what it was I was hoping to get out of this second opinion business. Someone to support my denial that I am bipolar (no am/have debate please), some insight into what the hell actually happened this time last year, some assurance that it will never happen again? I’m still not sure. What I do know is that I didn’t get anything out of it and as is common with a lot of interactions with mental health professionals I came away confused and dissatisfied. Ultimately I went down the “meh” route, or so I thought.

On reflection I actually spent the evening and two days following the assessment beating myself up in a variety of ways that only us mentalists can. I’ll spare you the gory details but suffice to say it wasn’t pleasant.

My two days of metaphorical self-flagellation were largely alcohol fuelled at times. Those of you who follow me on Twitter will know that I have an intense love of red wine. This intense love is usually confined to weekends and other “non-school nights” and tends to go no further than sharing a bottle of whatever’s on offer that wouldn’t be good on chips with the social worker.

On Wednesday night the social worker left for a 3 day work spree darn sarf…..

And so it began. Now I am an all or nothing type of person, this applies right across the spectrum, think of anything that one does and you can be guaranteed that I will either not do it at all or take it to an extreme. Over those two nights I took alcohol consumption to new levels, so much so that when I woke up on Friday morning- I was still pissed. Given that I had an appointment with the lovely GP at 9.30am on the Friday morning, to convince her to sign the “fit for work” certificate, this was not my smartest move. Fortunately as I am plagued by the most horrendous insomnia, my days tend to begin at 5am at the latest so I was sober in time to see the lovely GP.

Lovely GP was as lovely as ever, agreed I was “fit for work” and will issue the certificate in due course. So I’m really officially not mental anymore- I even have a (pending) certificate to prove it! I feel there’s a lot more blogging to be done here about sleep and not being mental anymore but this is going to be long enough so I’ll save those topics for later.

Where was I? Oh yes….

So being the all or nothing kind of girl I am, I have quit drinking, day 4 alcohol free so far. How has it been? Meh, fine. I’m quite underwhelmed by the whole experience and reminded just how fab I am at stopping things when I choose to. It’s like “yes, stopped drinking- next!” I’m not saying I haven’t been tempted- I was tempted today after an appointment with another health professional and I will be tempted tomorrow to seek solace in alcoholic indifference after my therapy session but I can say with some confidence that I won’t. I have good reason to fall/jump from the wagon on Wednesday but again I don’t think I will.

I’ve been here before, I was a non-drinker for a large part of my adult life, as the child of an alcoholic I have an innate fear of genetic statistics and thought the best way to protect myself was just to steer well clear of alcohol. I’ve proved to myself with my 4 days abstinence and no hallucinations or trembling that I have escaped this particular inheritance but I am aware that my relationship with alcohol was becoming unhealthy.

Many people have asked me how long I think this period of smug abstinence will last and I honestly don’t know. I don’t think I’ll drink alcohol again until I feel it is safe to do so. I won’t drink alcohol again until I know I can keep to sensible limits and not use it as a tool in disordered self-destruction.

Giving up alcohol quickly becomes an exercise in “If you can keep your head when all around you are losing theirs……” (If Rudyard Kipling) as the papers say- we are a nation of drinkers. A moderate dependence on alcohol is acceptable in modern society. I am surrounded, in reality and virtually by people who “use alcohol” I’m not talking about all of you who enjoy a glass of wine with dinner on the occasional evening, I’m talking about those of you, who, like me sought solace in the warm fuzzy arms of half a bottle of good-enough Merlot. People like me that couldn’t wait to get the kids to bed so they could open the wine- never thinking for a moment if any of the kids should awaken, fall out of bed and break a leg that they would be unable to drive them to A&E. People like me who “liked a drink” but not just any drink and not before 8pm. I’m arrogant enough to be largely unaffected by what those around me are doing- which is handy as I believe the social worker is in the other room quaffing gin as we speak. I don’t think for a minute I’ll never drink or get drunk again but it won’t be for a while and it won’t be until I can trust myself again.

Christ that all got a bit heavy! Follow me on Twitter for the lighter side of abstinence!

This week will also go down in history as-

The week I nearly bought an iPad

The week the stupid car stopped going into 2^nd gear when requested

The week we had summer in St Andrews for 2 whole days

The week I had to wear a dress two days in a row because I can’t/won’t iron and the social worker was away

The week I reminded myself why an addiction to sugar free Polos was a really bad idea (again)

The week I wanted to buy a budgie

The week I fell out with the teenagers over laundry

The week the 6 year old got told about E-coli at school and proved he was his mothers son by becoming completely obsessed with washing food

The week I switched to Google Chrome and managed not to have a total meltdown over its overt newness and differentness

The week I found this website and read all 53 reviews of Jammie Dodgers

The week I decided I wanted to marry chickpeas

The week my Dad came home from Afghanistan for the first time in ages

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Rambling musings of an apparently recovering mentalist…

Posted in activist, bipolar, blogging, CBT, Fantastic CPN, Fife, friends, health, illness, Labour, Lovely GP, mental illness, NHS, parenting, politics, psychiatrist, recovery, stability, support, therapy, tagged Mental Health, mental illness on May 29, 2011 | 3 Comments »

I realised this week, whilst relaying my week to a friend, via email, that I have been “out of bed, dressed and functioning every day”. So again, I must be “getting better”. Now I’ve been here before at least once, thinking “this is it, I’m getting better” only for everything to then go tits-up and start cascading into another “crisis”. It’s a funny word crisis, it’s one of those words that takes on a whole new power and meaning when your lexicon has its origins in the world of mental health (that is the shittest theme park ever by the way). Again, going back to my love of discussing semantics, crisis is an everyday kind of word- broken washing machine? Crisis. Going overdrawn? Crisis. Late for work? Crisis. In mental health terms though crisis generally means threatening to kill one of your care team (sorry about that fantastic CPN), an unscheduled trip to your psychiatrist, more drugs and the threat of hospital. Well it does for me anyway, individual experiences may vary……. I’m hopeful that this time will be different and I actually think it might be (I probably said that last time too).

So what leads me to believe that this “getting better” may be different? Well…………………………………….. I AM GOING BACK TO WORK! At least that’s the plan, my old job is there if I want it (and I really, really do) and my plan is to go back. What I hadn’t realised is that once you’re certified mental and are “in the system” every Tom, Dick, Harry and GP gets to meddle in your previously autonomous decisions. I announced my intention to return to work to various members of my “team” last week and they all chipped in with their concerns and conditions. There is a general fear that I will rush things, take on too much and in my lovely GPs words “have another breakdown”. Gee thanks!

So what have I done to guard against my (almost overwhelming) desire to go back to work, get back on 15 committees and erm generally just take on too much? Well I’m not going back to work at all for around 6 weeks, even then I plan a phased return, to date I haven’t joined any committees (though I have taken on a little extra work for the one committee I remained a member of throughout my period of acute mentalism) and I’m generally just trying to be sensible.

Being sensible is actually a million miles away from where I was a fortnight ago- my original intention was just to go straight back to work and use it as a handy tool to ditch the world of mental health (very scary rides, no height restrictions, guaranteed to make you throw-up) my cunning plan was to become “too busy with being normal” to bother with therapy, CPNs, GP’s, psychiatrists et al. To be honest I’m still not convinced I can or want to combine mentalism with normality (ooh good example of black and white thinking there for all you CBT fans) so I’m kind of a work in progress. I’m not 100% convinced that I’m the best person to oversee this work but I’m all I’ve got- or am I?

So herein follows a rather boring diatribe about MH care for those of you of a political or parenting disposition, you have been warned. I will do my best to make this part as accessible as possible for those who haven’t paid the (extortionate) entry fee for the world of mental health.

I am fortunate, I have a very comprehensive care team, every aspect of my mental and physical health has a professional to bolster it and I genuinely like them all, they’re all good people- until they try to get me to do something I don’t want to do or disagree with me. I don’t mind being challenged so much- it’s kind of an essential part of getting better but I do so hate to be forced into a corner or told I am wrong! I never expected for a second that my decision to go back to work would be anything other than that- my decision but I realise now that my GP holds all the cards- she has to sign a “fit for work” certificate and now, “thanks” to new legislation it’s not just as simple as a signature on a form, she gets to suggest how long I should work for, what I do and also gets to drag me back in and reassess her initial decision. My last hope was that all I had to do was get her to sign me fit for work and then never see her again. It would be just like the old days and save for waking up finding a limb hanging off I would never need to see the lovely GP at all.

I’m coming back to this post a day later as I encountered a bit of bloggers block whilst writing it and now, to be honest I’m not exactly sure where I was/am going with it. I’ll just keep rambling, do keep reading it’s bound to get good at some point.

I’ve had another good day, in fact it’s been a good weekend, lots of parenting, lots of politics and very little mentalism- so of course I feel that urge to “get back to normal” even more patently now. Again, thanks to recent experience I find myself wondering if it was bloggers block or that “poor concentration” the lovely GP was questioning me about last week. I think the self-doubt that poor mental health leaves one with is probably one of the hardest obstacles for me to overcome. I’m so used to every little nuance being medicalised and mentalised that I question every mood, every decision, every desire. I’m doing exactly the kinds of things I used to do but I see them through new eyes and I’d really rather not.

So all in all, things are good- I have plans (and not the “buy a giraffe, name it Toby, get a tattoo, write a book- no 2 books, take over the world” kind of plans I’ve had in the past) I have interests and best of all I got a lovely warm welcome from all my Fife Labour colleagues when I returned to meetings this week. I feel like I am back.

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The Scottish election- a mentalists view

Posted in activist, bipolar, blogging, election, emotions, Fife, health, illness, Labour, mental illness, Nicola Sturgeon, politics, PPC, Scottish Parliament, stability, stress, students, Twitter, work, tagged Mental Health, mental illness on May 8, 2011 | 3 Comments »

Following the disastrous results for Scottish Labour after Thursdays elections, a number of Labour bloggers have been giving their thoughts on what went wrong and what we should do next. Being not only mental but also political, I couldn’t let the events of the 5th of May pass by without comment albeit a uniquely mental, parental type of comment.

Fellow Scottish Labourite and blogger J T Smyth raises a point that resonates particularly with me “ Personally I know I did not do enough that I could have done to help the party”. Other than donating some of my (massive) collection of corex boards to my CLP, erecting a “Vote Labour” garden stake and sending a brief but heartfelt text to a friend standing in the election- I did nothing during the campaign.

Why? I don’t feel any less affiliation with the core values of the Scottish Labour Party than I did, I still think that the Scottish Labour Party are best placed to govern Scotland but I spent the campaign in a kind of election-less bubble, avoiding Scottish newspapers, skipping over tweets about the campaign, ignoring blog posts and generally just making myself unavailable. I did this for several reasons but it’s taken me a while to figure out what those reasons were.

Lack of confidence is probably the main reason I hid from this campaign, sure I blog and I tweet- without the cover of anonymity but it’s one thing being “seen” on screen, it’s a totally different facing people- people who know what happened, people who witnessed my “fall from grace” as mental ill health tightened it’s grip. At times I wish I hadn’t been so “brave” (as people are wont to call it) about my mental illness, it would be so much easier to return to my previous activities if nobody knew just how mental I’d been. I haven’t seen many party colleagues since I got ill and now that my daily interactions are mainly with health professionals and children, I don’t think I’d have that much to say to them. Even I can see that I’m no longer that rather loud, outspoken, energetic, informed activist I once was- and it feels raw, I have no desire to accentuate my failings by exposing myself to situations that amplify those feelings of being different.

Lack of stability is another reason I avoided the campaign- stress is my poison- good stress or bad stress, it doesn’t matter. I know myself well enough to know that the exhausting excitement of the campaign trail would’ve sent me reeling. Whilst this may have turned out to be “interesting” on the doorstep, I couldn’t risk the potential humiliation- for me or others. Don’t misunderstand, I’m actually really stable at the moment, manage day-to-day without the massive mood swings of the past, but only because I lead a quiet life and the most stress I encounter is a long queue at Morrisons or a six year-old demanding to use the garden sprinkler every time the temperature struggles over 10 degrees.

My other emotional Achilles heel- shame has kept my profile low for this election. During the last election campaign (May 2010 for those that have blocked it out) I went from PPC (prospective parliamentary candidate for the non-politicos) to psychiatric inpatient- the details are all on this blog somewhere. I don’t think I am ashamed that I spent time in hospital when I look at it in isolation but when I look at in relation to the circles I mixed in before I became ill- then I am ashamed. I have campaigned with and worked with party members and other politicians from all backgrounds, but I don’t remember any of them “confessing” to ever having suffered from a mental illness. Some backgrounds are favoured in politics- working class, parents, community activism, union involvement, university education but I can’t see any political party clamouring to attract those of us who have experienced mental-healthcare provision first hand. Do I think this should be different? Well of course I do. I still feel as though I have the same things to offer as I did before mental ill health got the better of me but now I have a whole new area of “expertise” to help shape policy. The question is will I ever have the confidence again to offer my views?

The good news is that I kind of got my mojo back in time for the election. In the morning, whilst driving my car to the garage again (see Twitter for the MOT saga) I wept silent tears as I tried hard not to think about the election, my past and my future in politics, I was struggling for breath at the mere thought of walking into the polling station as a simple voter as opposed to collecting turnout figures or greeting people at the door, I was mourning the previous camaraderie of election time. Fortunately I got a grip.

On Thursday, I voted (both votes Labour, yes to AV) and I smiled at the activists on the door and suppressed an overwhelming sense of grief that I did not recognise the Labour activists manning the polling station (I later rationalised that they were probably drafted in from the university so I probably wouldn’t have liked them anyway- see here). I went home, did the domestic stuff, parented for a bit and sat myself down in front of Tweetdeck. I was still there 23 hours and several lost politicians later and I enjoyed every minute. I didn’t enjoy the absolute drubbing we got from the SNP but I had forgotten how much I like an election. Via Twitter I was able to vicariously attend counts, sample ballot papers, speak to candidates and generally just have a good taste of what was going on outside my own four walls and more importantly outside of my head.

So here comes the political bit! The results of Thursdays election were shocking but perhaps not surprising. From my perch on the periphery I could see that the Scottish Labour Party were offering nothing to the electorate, our campaign was negative and mainly centered around the ever present threat of being a victim of knife crime, as James Mackenzie put it (in an article I now can’t find and therefore can’t link to) “you are going to get stabbed”, hardly the stuff of promise. We eventually decided to adopt the SNPs promise to put a freeze on council tax but beyond that we offered very little. The Labour Party has a proud history of standing up for and representing the Scottish people but we have failed this time. As I previously mentioned I had a garden stake……

Yes- That's the stupid car that spectacularly failed its MOT

…..and I lived in constant fear that someone going by would ask me why they should obey the stake and vote Labour. The only answer I had was “because we need all the help we can get”.

I have agonised over whether to contribute my thoughts to the “where did we go wrong” debate as after all I did nothing to help but I really feel that I must say something.

I was disheartened on election night as we lost more and more MSPs to hear the party spokesmen (and women) say repeatedly “the Lib-Dem vote has collapsed” as far as I saw it, this was nothing to do with our poor showing. Even I could see (and I am mental) that as a result of the coalition in Westminster the Lib-Dems were in for a beating, instead of using this as an excuse we should have mounted a campaign to scoop up those votes- and we could have done. I know that our share of the vote actually increased in several constituencies but not as much as the SNP share increased. In North East Fife alone the swing to the SNP (from the Lib-Dems) was 15%- we still came 4th.

So where did we go wrong? Well this post from the Yousuf has some good points but I would like to add that we failed to credit the Scottish electorate with the intelligence to separate Westminster from Holyrood. This (in spite of what Ed Milliband said today) ignorance on our part left us fighting a faux fight against the Tories in London.

Our election paraphernalia failed to recognise the existence and achievements of existing MSPs instead favouring those who may or may not have a future profile within the party.

Some of our candidates (not all) were drawn from the traditional background of career politician, there were very few “real” people for the voters to choose.

I honestly don’t know where we as a party go from here and again my lack of confidence is leading to a certain amount of self-censoring. I hope that the promised “root and branch review” provides a period of time for honest reflection, I hope that grass-roots members (even those who are latent) are given an opportunity to air their views. I think Iain Gray has done the right thing in resigning as leader of the Labour Party in the Scottish Parliament- but even his title speaks volumes. The Scottish Labour Party need to forge an identity, separate from the London based labour party. I am disturbed by Ed Millibands proclamation that he will be involved with our review- given that the national Labour Party remained largely silent as the results poured in on Thursday night/Friday morning.

We face a very tough time but it is also an opportunity, I simply hope that the opportunity will be taken.

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>Political Patient

Posted in depression, election, Fife, Glee, health, Labour, NHS, PPC, tagged Mental Health on April 5, 2010 | Leave a Comment »

>So without being actually able to categorically say it, here we are, on the eve of the day that was supposed to signal a good time for me, a great time. It is widely expected that tomorrow, Gordon Brown will call a general election.

Those of you who know me well and probably those of you who don’t even know me very well will know that I am an all or nothing kind of girl, I don’t do anything by halves. I suspect I am the first Labour PPC in North East Fife (12500 Lid-Dem majority) that stood up at a selection hustings and said-

“many people say that North East Fife is an unwinnable seat for Labour- I disagree, we just haven’t won it yet and I believe I can help us do it.”

Now I wasn’t big headed or foolish enough to believe that my 4 years spent on various committees, boards and groups, writing press releases on beach cleaning, lamppost design, dog fouling and school buildings, painting planters on roundabouts, cleaning litter from schools, serving tea and sandwiches to pensioners, familiarising myself with the Local Plan and learning more about planning regulations than is healthy was going to be enough to convince the voters of North east Fife to do the right thing on May 6th (or whenever). But I was passionate about my role and absolutely determined to do the right thing by the people I sought to represent. I love elections and I was particularly looking forward to this one.

I don’t want to turn this blogpost into a party political broadcast, I want to use it to tell an uncomfortable truth- but at the same time I’d hate to miss the chance to say this.

I really believe that the people of North East Fife have put up far too long with a reputation that perpetuates the image of the constituency as a giant holiday village or a rural suburb of Edinburgh. The truth is we are beset by the same housing, employment and social problems as Central and West Fife.

Scotland’s oldest university on your doorstep makes no difference if you leave school at 16 with no qualifications. Blue flag beaches in the neighbouring town are great if you have the time, money and transport to enjoy them.

We are in the grip of a housing crisis all over North east Fife and communities are struggling daily with problems caused by anti-social behaviour, poverty and drug and alcohol misuse.

North east Fife is “not deprived” enough to attract much in the way of funding to establish projects and initiatives to help communities, groups, families and individuals combat these problems in fact it has been an effort to get recognition that these issues even exist.

I live in North East Fife and I make no secret of my adoration for my adopted home but I know it’s not the utopia it’s painted as, I know it’s the same as everywhere else. I really believe the people of North East Fife deserve someone to stand up for them in Parliament, to make things better- for the many, not the few.

And there endeth the lesson! Now on to the real reason for my post and the reason there haven’t been any others.

Those of you who read my blog will know that at the end of October last year, the Non-Political parent decided to end our seemingly lovely coalition, I’m not going to rehash it, you can read all about it below.

This event proved to be the catalyst for one of the most devastating things I have ever faced and something that will change who I am and what I do, how I see the world and how the world sees me. That’s if I ever willingly leave my house again!

Now true to form, I will start in pedantic mode as the definition I am about to use for what I have been through is actually meaningless and isn’t in fact a clinical term, but I think it will serve to explain to those of you that haven’t had the extensive education I have had in the last few months about such things.

I had a nervous breakdown (at least once!)

As devastating a ‘diagnosis’ as that may seem I don’t think it comes close to describing the pain, fear, sadness and uncertainty that I have experienced lately.

I don’t want to go into the various diagnoses that have been punted my way recently, I want to use this as an opportunity to ‘come out’ I suppose. What my labels may or may not be isn’t important, but what this experience has taught me about myself, others and mental health is.

What has it taught me about myself? Well I had neglected my mental and emotional health, as many of us do. My coping strategies for dealing with stress were not mentally healthy and I’m assured it was only a matter of time before I ended up where I am now- reluctantly, I concur!

Something I’m much less comfortable about is that my own experience has shone a light on my prejudices- prejudices I believed I didn’t have, being a good lefty and all that.

I was ashamed in a way I wouldn’t have been if I had been incapacitated by a physical illness or accident, I hid and lied as I was unable to say “I am depressed” partly because me being anything seems to scare people- I’ve spent 30-odd years being “Zoe” but also because I had derided depression and was one of the “yeah, get over it” or if it’s really bad “yeah, take drugs and get over it” brigade.

Don’t get me wrong I don’t generally lack compassion I just never realised how debilitating depression could be. I have had brief dalliances with depression in the past but my determination to “get a grip and get over it” whatever dodgy coping strategies I employed seemed like a good enough answer. It wasn’t.

I’m not ashamed now to say that I have mental health problems *noise of future career in politics being flushed down the toilet* but I am ashamed of my previously held beliefs. I’m not quite at the point yet where I can say I’m glad my misconceptions have been challenged in this way but I will be.

My recent illness has taught me a lot about other people and their reaction to mental health too. Those I have ‘come out’ to assure me that if anyone can beat this I can. Whilst I’m delighted by their optimism, this statement often belies a need from others for me to go back to being who I was before. The truth is I will never be who I was before- who I was before was very efficient but not particularly happy, balanced or healthy.

Living in what is essentially a giant village and having a bit of a public profile is difficult as well. The receptionist at the local (brand new Labour built) hospital could barely hide her surprise when I turned up for my psychiatrist appointment- she hasn’t looked me in the eye when I’ve booked in for the subsequent ones and I dread running into someone that wants to talk about planning, green belt or housing when the only contact I have with the outside world is watching Glee on a Monday.

Obviously my timing sucks so I’ve had to share some details of my health problems with local party members. Again, for the most part members have been sympathetic but I am ‘the candidate’ and I promised to do a job and there is a huge expectation that one day soon the drugs will kick in and I’ll be facing Ming and Miles at a farming hustings in no time. as much as I’d like this to be the case- it’s unlikely. I am getting better but it takes more than medication- it takes time and help.

It’s too late now for me not to be ‘the candidate’ but I will not be the candidate I promised to be. What I would like is for others to see just what an achievement it will be if I can make it to the count with a smile on my face, an air of calm and a freshly ironed rosette- that’s my goal. If it helps- imagine I did have a bad accident at the beginning of November!

I am currently absent from work and generally out of the loop. One of the hardest things is admitting I can’t do it, I need to recover. I haven’t read a newspaper for months let alone followed local, national and UK politics in the way only we political anoraks do! I miss it and I’m still vain enough to hope it misses me.

Again, many of you have proved to be great friends, at a time when I have been less than communicative- I haven’t Tweeted in over two months and my Facebook status has been static too. I don’t answer my phone (nothing new there!) and again email is my friend. I’d like to say thanks to those of you who have kept in touch.

I missed Scottish Conference and I am devastated that I am missing out on the election. If I’m honest I’m dreading the ‘starting gun’ being fired tomorrow or whenever. I am bombarded daily with emails from the party, assured that the following days and weeks will bring more emails, texts messages and even conference calls- at a time when I have to put ‘get up, get dressed’ on my to-do list (and today I have yet to do it- it’s 3pm). I have come a long way on my recovery journey but I still have a long way to go.

Just in case you were all worried that I’d turned my back on politics completely, I will now seek to reassure you.

When I am better, NHS Fife and the Scottish Government will be sorry! I am astonished and disgusted by mental health care provision (or rather lack of it) it’s a system that just can’t cope and nobody seems in a hurry to do much about it. Accessing services seems to depend a lot on health professionals ‘doing each other favours’ and squeezing patients in where they can. The waiting list to see a psychologist in Fife is 9 months!

Specialist treatment for some conditions is based on outdated qualification criteria- imagine a heroin addict being told they don’t take enough heroin to qualify for rehab and you have a good idea of what it’s been like to be told that however sick you are you’re not sick enough to get the treatment you need. Inpatient treatment provision is poor and generally believed, within the profession to be detrimental at best for most patients due to quality and type of care available.

Mental health problems tend to be very pervasive- in my case the children have had to go and live with the Non-Political parent (aka The Catalyst/That Bastard) away from their home, schools and friends as I am unable to care for them. I am not at work and the longer my illness continues the worse the effects become- not just on me but on others too.

NHS Fife are in no hurry to provide me with the services I need to get well and, comrades, to my shame, I wished I had private medical insurance in order to access the treatment I need- now.

I am lucky that I have a very good GP and have been blessed with a fantastic CPN (community psychiatric nurse) and without them I wouldn’t have got as far as I have but they are as frustrated by the fight for services as I am. It is difficult not to feel hopeless in the face of it all.

I am analogising as I don’t want to publish my medical details but lets just say I currently have a broken leg- I was referred to someone to have it plastered on the 30th of November- I have an appointment for the 17th of May. There is no consideration for the effects of this delay on my family or job. This all comes at a time when I am least able to be my own advocate- if this was happening to anyone else I would be campaigning on their behalf.

So there you go, I am ill, not as ill as I was but a long way off being well. It’s taken ages for me to come to terms with my illness, its effects and implications but I’m getting there and going public is all part of that process.

So this election will largely pass me by and I am heartbroken.

I would like to wish all my fellow PPC’s, MP’s and activists lots of luck and energy for the campaign and I would like to apologise to everyone for the awful timing of my illness but I will be back at some point. Hopefully better for the experience.

Finally, any mental health organisations looking for a very hard-working, sympathetic lobbyist can contact me via the blog- though you may want to wait a little while!

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