Archive for the ‘health’ Category

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 art, DID, dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Mental Health, mental illness, Multiple Personality Disorder, NHS, psych hospital, stigma, Told you it wasn't like Stephen fucking Fry 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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I’m OK, You’re OK Two.

Posted in alcohol, Awesome Psychiatrist, bipolar, diagnosis, DSM, Fab Psychologist, Fantastic CPN, friends, health, labels, mental illness, money, NHS, psychiatrist, therapy, Wonderful GP, work, tagged bipolar, DSM, Mental Health, mental health, mental illness, mentalism, NHS on November 24, 2011 | 26 Comments »

You’ll remember that last time I blogged about my mental health I referred to the “constantly emerging jigsaw that is my mind and my life”? Well, good news! We solved the jigsaw, it turned out to be complete after all, most of the pieces were there in the box all along, the edges were completed, those tricky bits of sky inserted into the right places and the picture on the box emerged.

The picture on the box turned out to be so abhorrent, so distasteful that the Awesome Psychiatrist decided that not only could he not see it, he refused to believe the picture on the box existed at all. The Awesome Psychiatrist is not alone in his denial of the existence of the picture on the box, indeed he appears to be in good company. I’m still waiting for a title for my picture; I think we’ve ascertained it’s not “bipolar” but my picture for all its vibrancy, colour and impact remains unnamed. Incidentally there is a very similar picture to mine contained within the DSM-IV but that is clearly not enough for the MH profession. I have gone from “concerning, troubling, confusing and complex, someone who needs help” to “Woah! Fuck, retreat, retreat!” you’ve never really tasted stigma until you’ve been stigmatised by the psychiatric profession, I have gone from “heart-sink patient” to “toxic patient” and nobody it seems knows quite what to do with me. If it were not for the Fantastic, Ninja, refuses to be beaten by psychiatric arrogance CPN and the Fab Psychologist I would have no input from MH services at all and it’s not because finding my picture has in some way cured me.

Zoetrope

I feel like I am being punished for drawing the wrong picture; I didn’t draw it, if I had it would be of stars, rainbows and unicorns, my picture was drawn for me and there isn’t a rainbow in sight. My picture, for all its ugliness is a fair representation of my past, present and future- it doesn’t look good. If I could erase the picture and redraw it I would in a heartbeat, my crayons are poised, I have attempted to redraw my picture many times so that others would like it more but my picture, as with everything else I do is honest, it is true and I cannot help it if others do not like it.

A cursory glance over my exterior would suggest all is well (perhaps except today, it is Thursday, I have worn and slept in the same clothes since Tuesday), I’ve stopped saying “I’m fine” have substituted “I’m OK” it means the same thing- breathing, not dead, no active bleeding so most of the time I am “OK”.

My quality of life is non-existent so I’m currently thinking of a way to reassess that as well, I’m thinking of awarding QOL points to every cup of tea to see if that helps. I make it through most days in one piece mainly thanks to online friends, luck and a weekly wine coma (the administration of enough alcohol to ensure no movement, thoughts, dreams, ideas or voices for up to 7 hours) so far so good- still here, still OK.

The 30^th of November marks the 2 year anniversary of my coming to the attention of mental health services (this time around) on the 30^th on November 2009 I went to see the Wonderful GP and confessed I was rather unwell. This was mainly as I could no longer hide the rapid and severe weight loss I had experienced from friends and colleagues. In those 2 years I have played the game, answered the questions, tried the drugs, sampled the hospitality and all around me life has fallen apart. The woman who went to see the Wonderful GP that day had a job, a life, a future. I have nothing and it’s not my fault.

But I’m OK. HMRC Tax Credits finally got back to me yesterday, having done the sums I can now reveal that I will have £9.21 a month left over once fixed expenses are paid- fixed expenses does not include food, the Stupid Car, clothing, indeed anything else you can think of so it looks like I may lose my home too.

But I’m OK.

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Not All The Gory Details

Posted in bipolar, friends, health, high, hospital, lithium, mania, manic, medication, mental illness, NHS, psychiatrist, suicide, tea, tagged bipolar, lithium, Lorazepam, mania, manic, medication, Mental Health, mental health, mental illness, NHS, psych hospital, suicide on September 9, 2011 | 19 Comments »

So I took my first dose of lithium last night, it was a traumatic affair. Today I feel poisoned, vacant, drowsy and unwell. I agreed to take the lithium in order to get me out of hospital (this was hospital number 4) after a somewhat tumultuous week.

Those of you who follow me on twitter, are members of the local constabulary, ambulance crew, health profession, journalists, social workers, air ambulance crew or one of those poor unfortunate people I have picked on to be friends or family will know just how frankly mental and unwell I have been recently.

I have scared myself, I am carrying the buckets of shame that often come after an episode and I have caused more worry and disruption to more people than I care to quantify. I am very sorry.

I don’t have the words or the desire to blog properly; I am barely managing to drink tea today. I have a lot to fix and I don’t even know where to start, the extent of my activity today has been lying under a blanket feeling ill.

I met a new blog fan this week, it’s always nice to meet a fan and thank you for your kind words but I still can’t believe you let me convince you to let me leave that hospital on Tuesday night, out of my face on a modest overdose of benzos, covered in my own blood, wearing a hospital gown, in a taxi. Given that I had no recollection of getting to the hospital and it was in a fucking helicopter you’d think someone would’ve noticed something was amiss. I clearly come across rather well when faced with the possibility of detention under the mental health act. It’s a gift.

And they say I’m mental.

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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 DSM, DSM VI, eating disorder, Mental Health, mental health, mental illness, mentalism, suicide 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

(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.

(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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A Verbal Purge

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

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

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

I am no longer numb.

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

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

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

Today I have identified ANGER

Oxford Dictionary

anger

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

noun
a strong feeling of annoyance, displeasure, or hostility

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

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

I DON’T WANT TO BE MENTAL ANYMORE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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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Always/Never 20 Things I’ve Learned This Week

Posted in bipolar, blogging, children, communication, depression, Eating Disorder, emotions, Fantastic CPN, friends, health, hospital, illness, mental illness, NHS, parenting, psychiatrist, relationship, shopping, single-parent, stress, suicide, tea, therapy, Twitter, tagged Mental Health, mental illness on June 24, 2011 | 9 Comments »

Given everything that’s happened to me since I last blogged I really feel I should insert a profound, poignant, detailed post here but I’m not going to as I’m not up to fluent prose at the minute. Instead I thought I’d share a little bit about what I’ve learned in the last week in handy list format- with numbers for easy reference.

1- Never go without food entirely for six days

2- Never go to Argos

3- Always avoid situations where hymns will be sung

4- Never let your first interaction with a different GP be largely wordless aside from incoherent shrieking and an insistence that you are “fine”

5- Never get in a CPNs car

3- Never tell a psychiatrist that you intend to kill yourself

4- Always inform health professionals in advance that you do not like to be touched- loudly and assertively

5- Always take an overnight bag if you are taken to a psychiatric hospital to be “assessed”

6- Always challenge the use of the Mental Health act if you perceive it to have been abused

7- Always assume you won’t see a doctor and be discharged until early evening at least

8- Never underestimate how much people care about you

9- Never assume you can leave it to someone else to get the spiky thing to put the washing line in

10- Never underestimate your ability to install small domestic appliances and make it entertaining

11- Always measure, mark and then drill, don’t just drill

12- Always pay attention to that little white stick and those little red lines on your cars petrol gauge

13- Never tell people you are fine when you are not

14- Never assume nothing is unforgivable, some things are so terrible they are

15- Always trust your instincts

16- Never go four days without washing your hair

17- Never forget that stubbornness and arrogance can be used for your own benefit too

18- Never underestimate the power of tea

19- Always make time for toast

20- Always remember that “the best thing about Mama’s bed is that it’s got Mama in it”

So another quiet week then………..

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The frustration and a confession

Posted in depression, diagnosis, Eating Disorder, Fantastic CPN, health, hospital, mental illness, NHS, psychiatrist, suicide, support, therapy, tagged bulimia, eating disorder, fantastic CPN, Mental Health, mental health, mental illness, mental illness., NHS, NICE, psych hospital, wonderful dietitian on June 19, 2011 | 10 Comments »

I doubt this blog post will be up to my usual high standards, given it is being written on my phone, sat on my bed on the psych ward and its not yet 6am.

I slept well last night, a full 7 hours without moving thanks to becoming “agitated” last night and that being dealt with the only way the psych profession can- I was drugged into submission. Whatever gets you through the night and all that eh?

So what’s this post about and did she mention “a confession?” I’ve read this blog start to finish and can clearly see that Zoe has shared everything but bowel habits since her journey into the world of mental health began. There can’t be anything she hasn’t told us can there?

Well there is. I never wanted to tell the world about it, initially I didn’t want to tell anybody about it. I’m doing this so that all of my lovely friends who live in Twitterland and who did such a good job of showing me love, care and concern last night can understand why I find myself so distressed in my current situation.

As you know I am back on the psych ward, have been since expressing an overwhelming desire to take my own life on Friday. I think an explanation of the why’s for that one deserves its own post so i’ll leave it at that.

My biggest, most severe and pervading mental illness is in fact an eating disorder. I have been eating disordered for as long as I can remember. Symptoms and severity have varied over the years but it was something I “needed” to give me a sense of control (in place of feeling in control of my thoughts and emotions) as is the case with these kinda dodgy “coping mechanisms” they ultimately turn on their heads and grab all the control back. One day you find yourself very very stuck.

I am very very stuck.

I do not meet the diagnostic criteria for either anorexia (too fat) or bulimia (don’t eat enough) so on paper, in spite of having so many other psychiatric diagnoses I do not have an diagnosis of an eating disorder. How I wish this were true.

So far my fictitious eating disorder has caused significant and rapid weight loss, severe cognitive impairment and a host of physical niggles that could be nothing today but cardiac arrest tomorrow. Certain knowledgeable members of my team are very concerned, as they should be.

The problem is that my BMI is simply not low enough to access specialist help. Though we pseudo anorexics do love a challenge and I’m working on it. That was flippant, I’m not trying to starve myself into treatment I just have been consumed by an eating disorder, its winning.

Since I began treatment for my MH problems I have always listed the eating disorder as my main problem. Again since the start of this admission I have openly shared all the gory details with two psychiatrists and several nurses. I had my holistic assessment done for my care plan last night and was open and honest as usual- I stated that my number one problem was my eating disorder. I even provided details (I haven’t eaten a thing since Tuesday, I feel ill and freezing) it is clear to anyone who sees me in real life (well that’s what Twitter phobes like to call it) that something is very very wrong.

NICE guidelines are very specific on what ones BMI needs to be in order to qualify for specialist ED treatment and local care pathways follow the (not so)NICE guidelines. As things stand I am 3 “BMI points” away from qualifying as a real live(!) anorexic. It appears that the health profession are unalarmed by how rapidly I am approaching this benchmark. I won’t even attempt to elaborate on the effects of this illness in my life and family, let alone my body. Early intervention may well be the key in the successful treatment of EDs but in truth nobody is that bothered.

In the community I am blessed with the best team of MH professionals a skinny, mental girl could wish for. The problem is that these lovely people need the back up of specialist ED services in order to allow them to help me. But again, I do not fit criteria.

Anybody who knows anything about eating disorders will know they are nothing at all to do with weight or BMI. Sadly this common sense approach does not apply when accessing specialist help. If I had the energy this would be my main campaigning area. As things stand I barely have the strength and energy to brush my hair.

But Zoe, you’re in a psychiatric hospital, they treat mental illness and eating disorders are a mental illness! Rejoice, you are saved!

Alas no, as I was told last night, same as I was told during my admissions to a similar (though inferior) institution last year “we can’t really help you with that as we’re not a specialist eating disorder unit”.

So I’ve done my bit, been open and honest about behaviours and symptoms, I have even said “I am totally out of control and need help” but the only ones listening (my fabulous team on the outside) are having diagnostic criteria, ED care-pathways and NICE guidelines shoved in their faces at every turn. For almost two years the fantastic CPN has been fighting to get the right help. I do have a very lovely dietitian but she is not a specialist dietitian and though she had shown to be knowledgeable, professional, caring and compassionate, she is well out of her comfort zone in trying to treat me. I have being seeing a fab therapist for months but the truth is i’m always just a bit too malnourished to take much away from sessions. In order to do the work I need to do in therapy I need to learn how to feed myself properly

So there you have it in a nutshell.- I have an eating disorder, its bad and the effects on my fragile mental health are huge.

- my body is eating itself

- I am stuck and I know it. It’s not quite as simple as “just eat something” I wish it were.

- in order to qualify for specialist treatment I could lop off a limb and lose a few kgs that way or I can simply carry on as I am which based on recent information suggests I will meet the diagnostic criteria for anorexic nervosa in approximately 6-8 weeks. I wore size 16 clothing in January (thank you anti-psychotics) I am too ashamed to admit what size my trousers are now. Of course over those 6-8 weeks I will become more and more likely to become seriously physically and mentally impaired. It does seem to me though that this is exactly what will need to happen before anybody steps up to offer appropriate care.

There is so much more I could and probably will say about this now that I have “come out” but for now I must put every bit of diet coke and tea fuelled energy I have into sorting this out or it is going to kill me.

When I was reassessed by the psychiatrist yesterday in an attempt to get the constant observation lifted. I told her everything and also pointed out there was no point in my being here as I couldn’t get the help I needed. She fluffed about for a bit and suggested I spoke to the consultant on Monday and “maybe he’ll be able to do something”. I simply replied “I wouldn’t put money on it”.

I just felt that you all deserved an explanation and I can see that you all really care which is very touching.

If anyone who reads this fancies a bit of specialist MH activism, feel free to get in touch.

And anyone reading this that has the spare tens of thousands of pounds to put me through private treatment, please do get in touch!

Zoe Xxx

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36 Top Tips for my younger selves…..

Posted in bipolar, birthday, blogging, children, dentist, depression, driving, emotions, friends, health, love, mental illness, money, mother, parenting, politics, relationship, therapy, tagged Mental Health, mental illness on June 8, 2011 | 21 Comments »

Inspired by the lovely Keri Stainton who made this wonderful blog post on her 40^th birthday I thought I’d do the same. Actually when I read it I thought “wow that’s good, I must do that when I am 40” which is typical of my “why do today what you can put off till tomorrow” attitude to life so I went all CBT on my own ass and said “no, do it now!” So, with some trademark Zoë adjustments from the original and apologies to Keri for stealing her lovely idea and turning it into a monster- here it is.

Oh fuck, I’m 36

So today I am 36, I was born on the 8^th of June 1975 in the Peterkin Maternity Unit in Dingwall Ross-Shire. I don’t share my birthday with anyone really famous and nothing of note happened on that day (unless you were one of the 35 people killed in the Munich rail crash) but I’m told the lilac trees in the village were in bloom and it was a warm, sunny day.

Everything there was to know about me

I feel old and I don’t feel old enough at times, but I feel almost old enough to proffer the following advice to my younger selves.

1-Start saving for therapy- now

2- One day you will be a grown-up and you will wear clothes that were bought just for you, that no-one else has worn first. You’ll have to wait but it will be worth it.

Me and my Mum

3- That dream you keep having- the one where you can drive, one day it will be real and you will love it as much as you did in the dream. Sadly the other dream you keep having about running down the hill outside your house and being able to fly- that dream will never come true. But you can keep dreaming.

4- You will stop feeling broody one day; you’ll just wake up and want no more babies, no more kittens or hamsters. That third child will suck the oestrogen right out of you.

5- That thing you do to control your emotions- stop doing it now or at least talk to someone about it, you don’t want to still be doing it when you’re 36.

6- That man you think you love, you don’t really but you probably love him enough for now and the short time you spend together will give you two of your three most prized possessions.

7- It doesn’t matter what your mother thinks or says- about anything, ever.

8- Stop writing stuff in the bloody diary then she won’t be able to read it, it’s quite straightforward really.

9- He has a girlfriend, he’s not interested, stop wasting your time and energy. (PS- he will grow up and marry one of your best friends, you’ll be delighted)

Me having a bath in the kitchen sink

10- If you must go out in a drunken stupor and steal hanging baskets, thereby scuppering Inverness’s chances in the 1992 Scotland in Bloom contest make sure there’s not a trail of flowers right back to your flat for the police to follow the next day.

11- You love olives, really love them, you just need to try them.

12-Try and get over your phobia of having your picture taken or you’ll end up looking like you ceased to exist after the age of 8 and you won’t have any photos of you with your children.

13- Also try and combat your fear of the dentist- before you stop qualifying for free treatment, you’ll save yourself thousands of pounds.

Me on the rocks....

14- Stock up on Rowntrees Nuttys, Texan Bars and Peanut Partners- they won’t be around forever and you’ll miss them.

15- You will remember few things as fondly as the day you made Plasticine giraffes in O-Grade biology with Kay and Mr Laidlaw.

16- You know Lynda Day in Press Gang? You know you want to be a bit like her? Well one day she’ll become a postmistress in a costume drama and you won’t want to be like her any more.

17- Music just keeps getting better and better and you will hear lots of new stuff you like but nothing will ever come close to how fab the violins sound in Whatever by Oasis.

18- The legendary “Dance Till Dawn” in the Resolis Hall will include some of your best and worst moments- notice how the best bits came before the hefty dose of mixed alcoholic beverages? Learn from this; don’t repeat it over and over again.

19- Getting beaten up daily for being too clever will make you a better parent and author of one of the best blogs on the internet.

20- That guy in the double denim who looks like he’s auditioning for a Billy Ray Cyrus tribute- one day you’ll be living with him; you’ll love him and you’ll even have a baby with him. For the most part you’ll be happy but watch him because he’s going to fuck you over big time. You’ll sort it out eventually and you will whip him into shape but you’ll wish you’d done it sooner- and you’re doing exactly the right thing in modifying his wardrobe, he’ll thank you for it one day.

21- Don’t start smoking. Don’t start smoking again after you’d stopped.

22- Yes you are in labour and yes there’s flooding and roadworks so the journey to hospital will take much longer than you expect but your stay will be brief.

23- You don’t want to be a doctor or a forensic scientist but you maybe need to think a bit more about what you do want to be, otherwise you’ll still have no idea when you’re a grown-up.

24- You’ll be really glad that you didn’t call her Pootle Babe- as will she.

Me and my Dad

25- Don’t buy that house, the minute the ink is dry on the mortgage, bits will start dropping off and you’ll have no money to stick them back on. If you want a pension, get a fucking pension.

26- You see how even now you think you’re a little bit different and a little bit mental? Well one day you will be totally mental and very different. You will literally and metaphorically go to some of the most terrifying places you’ve ever been but it’ll be OK, you’ll meet some fantastic people and discover wonderful things.

27- Scream, bite, kick, anything but try to stop your mother from cutting your hair.

28- When your little brother has chemotherapy, don’t shave your head in an act of solidarity- unusually he’s not going to lose so much as an eyelash and you will look very ugly for a long time and people will laugh.

29- Talk more to your Granny- the formidable one; she really has had a fascinating life and if you don’t talk to her you’ll only find out about it at her funeral.

Me aged seven

30- You know that Amstrad PCW8512 that you think is so amazing? You won’t believe what comes after it; it’ll blow your mind.

31- No you’re not young, naïve and idealistic- Thatcher is that bad, as are all the others who come after her.

32- When you see the post van approaching your cat on the road outside your house- look away or at least shut your eyes or something.

33- When the girl who sits opposite you in Home Economics wants to explain fisting, find something else to do in another part of the classroom and quick.

34- Nothing will ever make you laugh as hard as that day in the youth club hall with the fire extinguishers.

35- Having absolutely no money and small children to look after is horrendous but you will learn from it and you will appreciate what you do have later.

36- By the time you are 36, things will be very different and life won’t be particularly rosy but a lot of things will be better or getting better. Hang in there, you’re a fighter.

All my love

Zoë

Xxx

PS- Happy Birthday

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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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The frustration and a confession

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Oh fuck, I’m 36

A Second Opinion, Day 4 and a Week

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A Cute Metaphor

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A multiple never forgets

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I DON’T WANT TO BE MENTAL ANYMORE

Wednesday 15th June 2011

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

Saturday 18th June 2011

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

Sunday 19th June 2011

Monday 20th June 2011

Tuesday 21st June 2011

Wednesday 22 June 2011

Thursday 23rd June 2011

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Tuesday 28th June 2011

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Friday 1st July 2011

Oh fuck, I’m 36

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A Cute Metaphor

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C Is For Celebrity

Multiples- Mentals In Disguise

Questions? Here Are Some Answers

My First Award

TWIM Blog Awards 2011

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Wednesday 15^th June 2011

Thursday 16^th June

Friday 17^th June 2011

Saturday 18^th June 2011

Sunday 19^th June 2011

Monday 20^th June 2011

Tuesday 21^st June 2011

Thursday 23^rd June 2011

Friday 24^th June 2011

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Monday 27^th June 2011

Tuesday 28^th June 2011

Wednesday 29^th June 2011

Thursday 30^th June 2011

Friday 1^st July 2011