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Archive for the ‘parenting’ Category

Mental Arithmetic

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

To sum up the weekend-

60mins + 30 mins = 90 minutes

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

5 fish – 5 fish = 0 fish

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

100bpm + 80bpm = 180bpm

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

12 arms – 11 arms = 1 arms

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

1 arm – 1 arm = 0 arms

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

1 + 1 = 2

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

25mg ÷ 5mg = 5mg

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

1 x 12 = 12

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

1 x ∞ = ∞

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

3mins + 40secs= 3mins 40secs

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

300 fucks – 300 fucks = 0 fucks

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

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Your Loss Is Someone Else’s Gain

Posted in Amnesia, blogging, communication, Dissociative Identity Disorder, parenting, Skills, tagged , , , on August 11, 2012 | 14 Comments »

“Lost time” is something multiples talk about a lot; it sounds ethereal, wistful, almost romantic. It’s none of those things.

Dissociative amnesia is to blame for lost time; this occurs due to switching between identity states- I’ve made a diagram to illustrate.

How this manifests in everyday terms is that I often find myself somewhere with absolutely no recollection of what’s happened. I can ‘lose’ anything from minutes to days; I lose a lot of time.

I used to panic when I’d lost time, would desperately start looking for clues as to where I’d been and what had happened. It didn’t help that those involved in my ‘care’ at the time failed to spot I was experiencing severe dissociative amnesia and would incredulously ask “how can you not remember?!” I’d spend far too long trying to remember- trying to actively recall a period of time generated a sensation in my head like the force felt when trying to push the north poles of two magnets together. I now know that I can’t recall these memories as they’re not mine. My memory is fragmented, shared.

Now that my understanding of DID is better, I no longer panic about lost time, I just accept it. Now that we have the <?> therapist (4 days, 2 hours, 22 minutes until her return as I write- still pining) we have managed to develop skills that compensate for the amnesia. Internal communication is much better than it was and where that fails notes, emails, whiteboard scrawlings, photos and indeed “guest posts” on the blog help fill in the gaps.

Now that my understanding of myselves is better, I no longer panic about what might have happened in my absence. I trust my skills and what the past few days have demonstrated is that I’m absolutely correct to do this.

The children have all they need in order to return to school, as happened last year I have no recollection of obtaining the clothes, shoes, stationery and bags- but it’s ok as I know that someone else does.

The 15yo had no phone, I had attempted to try and rectify this but found myself incredibly confused by exisiting contracts, new contracts and phones in general. I couldn’t work it all out at all. The 15yo has a new contract and a phone- my old one. I have a shiny new HTC One S. I have no recollection of sorting all of this out but it’s ok as I know someone else does.

The stereo in the stupid car had stopped playing any music from the iPod, I was reduced to burning CDs like a fucking Neanderthal. This has happened before, I knew it had been fixed before but I think it was fixed with a combination of crying and pressing random buttons. I didn’t know how to fix it- it’s fixed. I have no recollection of fixing it but it’s ok as I know someone else does.

When the 7 year-old came home, he brought with him very little in terms of information. I haven’t been very involved with his life for a long time so details about how he was doing at school and what was happening in terms of his new class and teacher when he returns on Tuesday were missing. The 7 year-old and I were both becoming increasingly anxious about Tuesday. I’ve arranged a meeting with his lovely head teacher on Monday to fill in any gaps. I have no recollection of doing this but it’s ok as I know someone else does.

I have many clues as to who all the someone else’s are, whoever bought the school supplies for the children also bought herself a new dress, I found it in the wardrobe. I know from internet search history who had been eyeing up the HTC One S (I fancied the One X myself) and I can tell from the wording of the email to the 7 year-olds head teacher who intends to meet with her on Monday.

Dissociative amnesia is far from ideal but it’s not something I choose to do. I’m confident that in time, as therapy progresses and communication improves that it will lessen in frequency and severity but for now, it just is and that’s ok.

I appreciate that when things are difficult, I have help.

We appear to be living in a kind of relaxed squalor, the house is a shit-tip but it’s a laid-back, happy shit-tip. I know when it gets to the point that every meal has to be eaten with fingers off kitchen-roll and a basic level of hygiene can’t be maintained that it’ll get sorted. The 15 year-old is going to the hairdresser this morning to have her hair dyed pink. I don’t recall granting consent for this in fact I’m not sure she asked but it’s ok, it’s her hair. Once I get used to her looking different and am able to recognise her again I’m sure I’ll enjoy having a pink-haired daughter around the house.

So it’s not right, but it’s ok. I may not know but someone else does and what I know is that we all have the same interests at heart and everything will be taken care of. I sometimes resent sharing my mind, life and body with [number I will never reveal] people but it’s ok.

Dissociative amnesia can cause problems but it can also create solutions. I trust myselves and I obviously like me as apparently I bought myself this rather fab t-shirt.

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Friends: The One Where Nothing Happened

Posted in blogging, children, communication, DID, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, friends, Internal Communication, mother, MPD, Multiple Personality Disorder, parenting, single-parent, Skills, stress, therapist, therapy, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on July 29, 2012 | 16 Comments »

Nothing happened yesterday so I’m still fine.

I’m still coping, it still looks good.

It’s as though, when the 7 year-old returned home, I faced a choice-

Parent

Or

Have DID

Obviously this wasn’t a choice I could make and as with all things for those of us with DID, the choice gets made for us. I can see what’s gone ‘wrong’ for want of a better word, what happened wasn’t a wilful mistake, it was a reaction. The way things are now is working; yesterday even included some fun activities, such as-

  • Very brief visit to a fruit farm
  • Watching Mama put petrol in the car
  • Playing Lego Star-Wars on the Wii
  • Grief counselling (he didn’t save his game)
  • Sibling rivalry- complete with screaming
  • Watching videos of Brown Recluse spiders on YouTube
  • Freaking out about sweetcorn

I can deal with all of this- and more, I can remain calm and appear normal the entire time, nothing gets the job done quite like dissociation. It works well for the children but It’s not sustainable.

I’m exhausted and that constant, low-grade pain that appears to have been gifted as some sort of bonus with DID that I’d usually be able to ignore completely has shifted up a notch. I’m horrified at how rapidly shitty “coping mechanisms” (why we call them that when they are invariably methods employed when we’re not coping is a mystery to me) used in the past have tried to creep back in and saddened by how difficult I’ve found this weekend so far.

I’ve been buoyed by the messages friends have continued to send, here and elsewhere, our resident comment moderator has been allowed to sneak out in the wee small hours to reply- that connection is vital and I’m grateful to those of you who recognised that even when we’re not allowed to talk, we’re allowed to read. You’re all very special and very missed, the internal pining-o-meter is off the scale

The silence is making me desperately unhappy and the external silence is no longer reflective of the state of things internally. I’ve never been so glad that you can’t tell by looking and again, I’m grateful for dissociation as this has allowed me to parent seemingly unhindered by the inner turmoil. I have a million thoughts but very few words, I miss my words.

If nothing else, this weekend has dragged me out of the creeping denial that was setting in again and that’s positive though painful.

I won’t deny that things are incredibly difficult at the moment but as ever my natural curiosity and love of learning has provided a distraction. I don’t always like what I’m learning but I do manage to pique my own interest often enough to make it all a bit less shitty for a little while. My low emotional tolerance and high distractibility have been assets this weekend.

I have an appointment with the <?> therapist tomorrow and I’m awfully glad I do. I’m confident that between us we can come up with some things that will help make the current situation not better, not even ok but just less de-stabilising. At the moment I’ll settle for regaining the courage and confidence in my skills to face coming home again after the session.

I have some new practical issues to face tomorrow. In order to get to therapy on time I have to leave the house at 7.30am, half an hour before the 7 year-olds holiday club thing opens. I’ve asked the 15 year-old to get up some 7 hours before her preferred rising time and mind her brother whilst I’m out. She’s agreed to do this but has yet to be persuaded to go to the extra effort of washing dressing and delivering the 7 year-old to his holiday club thing. So I am a little concerned that the current need to crash out on the bed for anything up to three hours in a switchy, drowsy, head-noisy haze after a therapy session will have to be ignored in favour of a return to coping.

So as ever, I don’t have my troubles to seek and the pace of life just feels relentless at the moment, there’s never a dull moment with DID.

I’d love some dull moments.

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Weakened

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We can’t.

I’m fine.

Fine until something happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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Personalisation(s) Of Services

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Multiple Mama’s

Posted in children, co-sleeping, communication, DID, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, emotions, hugs, insight, Internal Communication, mother, MPD, Multiple Personality Disorder, NHS, parenting, single-parent, Skills, stress, tea, therapy, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Triggers, tagged , , , , , , on July 20, 2012 | 16 Comments »

Today I have been a Mama for 18 years. That’s technically not true; I only became “Mama” around 6 and a half years ago when my youngest son decided that’s what he was going to call me, the older children followed his lead. Previous to that, I’m not sure what my title was but my job was the same.

I have three children- an 18 year old son, 15 year old daughter and a 7 year old son. The children are generally happy save for their own individual neuroses; they are intelligent and good-humoured, curious, energetic, polite, creative, sociable in their own unique way and very loving.

My parenting style is eclectic though at times, probably best described as “haphazard” I kind of make it up as I go along. Cereal (branded or generic) is a legitimate dinner at least once a week, baby wipes are an excellent substitute for a bath every other night, ketchup is a vegetable. 3 hours a day on the internet is “learning”, swearing is ok if it is grammatically correct and used appropriately. Discussion at the dinner table is actively encouraged even if it is about world hunger or decomposition- which as anyone with a 7 year-old son will know; it often is. Bedtimes can be fluid if I’m not craving peace; curfews are negotiable if the text messaged request is funny enough. Later-on drugs can be experimented with as long as they’re not chemical or addictive, getting drunk is ok as long as you stay safe and don’t get “fall down, piss yourself drunk”. A screwdriver is a legitimate toy, breaking things is “science”, woodlice are pets. Food colouring is for icing, mashed potatoes and baths. Beds are for sharing, books are important but can be annotated if desired, magnifying glasses are essential as are torches. School is crucial and should be approached with enthusiasm and the courage to question, further or higher education is optional. Individuality is cherished, love is unconditional.

In return for my eclectic parenting style I have 3 rather wonderful children, all popular with peers, all healthy, all able to come to me when necessary as far as I know- as far as any mother can know I suspect, after all you don’t know what they don’t tell you. I know I’m not an ogre- the 18 year old is able to discuss his sexuality with me, the 15 year old trusts me with her secrets and friends, the 7 year old still thinks I am a walking encyclopaedia even though I have led him to believe that the answer to many questions is “magic” (accompanied by appropriate hand-gestures and “woo” noises).

I’d be lying if I said my mental health hadn’t affected my children, particularly over the last year or so. They have had to go through things and witness things no child should ever have to be subjected to. The one thing I know I will never forgive the mental health system for is the effect their mistakes and negligence had on my children. I obviously feel guilty about my own contribution to what the children suffered but I know I couldn’t help it. I also know I repeatedly asked those who should have helped me to help- it’s not my fault they didn’t.

Even outwith times of crisis and given that the illness I have, dissociative identity disorder (DID) doesn’t just suddenly appear in adulthood but has been present in some way throughout my life, my mental health has affected my children and my relationships with them from the start.

Today, July 20th 2012, I can only remember one of the ‘starts’, I currently have no access to memories of my children prior to 2005, it’s as though I wasn’t there.

I wasn’t there.

I have a metaphorical book of facts; I can tell you birthweights, the ages at which developmental milestones were met and have the odd anecdote but beyond that- nothing. I have many photographs of the children, sometimes they can help access a memory of a time, place or event but it is to my eternal sadness that there are very few, if any photographs of me and the children. I’m terrified of having my photograph taken, in the few photos that do catch me, I look terrified. I have no proof that I was ever there and in the absence of feeling like I was there, this is difficult. The children don’t have DID, they do have memories and they often share them. Their accounts of me are usually positive so I take comfort from that. I also know that whilst I may not be able to access my memories of the children- they are there and I’m hopeful that, in time, they will become my memories too.

There’s no doubt that my mental health has had many negative impacts throughout the children’s lives but I’d argue the positives from having multiple Mama’s outweigh the negatives.

I am able to share my children’s interests- everything from the 18 year-old’s love of trains and foreign languages, to the 15 year-old’s love of reddit and shoes, to the 7 year-old’s love of Lego and Spiderman.

I am a very accepting person, anything goes. I have a moral compass that spins freely. Nothing my children do is unacceptable, certain situations may need a careful approach; some extra thought but nothing phases me. I’m slightly challenged by the 18 year-old’s support for Scottish nationalism (with a capital N) but there really is no-one better for him to discuss it with and I’m optimistic I can convince him otherwise but equally happy if I can’t. I frequently annoy the 15 year-old with my general ‘enthusiasm’ for things but she knows that it can be used to her advantage- be this in shoe or pancake form. The 7 year-old can vomit on demand at the dinner table should I stray from his desired diet of processed beaks and feet wrapped in batter, served with bastardised potato shaped into smiley faces, animals or letters but he knows I love those smiley faces, animals and letters as much as he does. I don’t stress over the little things, meeting the 5-a-day requirement in this house often includes the consumption of  “imagination salad”.

Thanks to my amazing powers of dissociation I am excellent in a crisis, should you back-flip into the corner of a table and sever a blood vessel there is no-one better to accompany you to A&E. I am a calm, reassuring presence even when faced with spurting blood and general distress.

I am fiercely protective of the children and attentive to their physical, emotional and environmental needs. This means I am happy to demand a same-day GP appointment in the face of cross-examination and insistence that such a thing is impossible from the receptionist. I am quick to challenge a school “behaviour policy” that uses shame to try and elicit compliance and should the children desire a mural on their bedroom wall or fairy lights in the kitchen than that’s ok too.

I am a good Mama.

So why today am I sitting here, worrying?

I’m worrying because tonight I have promised to take the now 18 year-old out for his first legal pint- out, to a pub. I don’t need to tell you just how challenging this is, I briefly began to consider all the known triggers and stopped when I got to double figures. I daren’t even think about the ones I don’t know about. I’m confident that I will appear well, it may be the quickest pint ever but I’m sure it’s something my son will remember forever and I’m honoured he chose me to share this moment with him. I’m pretty certain that the situation will be so stressful I’ll have no memory of it at all and I don’t doubt that it will cause some internal distress, but I’m going to do it- that’s what Mama’s do.

I’m worrying because on the 3rd of August my youngest son will return to my care full-time, having spent the last 9 months or so living with his father. I have stayed in contact with him throughout this period and it was always my intention to have him home when I felt well enough. The choice to wait until I was well enough wasn’t mine to make so he’s coming home a little earlier than I would’ve liked, I am in no doubt that this is the right thing to do. I accept it will be challenging and I accept that my progress, which to-date has been consistent and rapid will probably slow as I try to combine therapeutic work with caring full-time for two children again.

I’m worrying because although I know I’m a good Mama, I’ve lost a lot of confidence in my skills, I share the role with several others.  They all have something to bring and all have contributed in some way to the amazing creatures the children have become. I don’t expect it to be easy but I know, in time, I will get that confidence back. In spite of everything I have three securely attached, integrated little people to love and call my own.

Well I say little people- the 18 year-old is 6ft 2 with size 17 feet, I can only hypothesise that his father was a giant or a clown- perhaps a giant clown? I have no idea and I suspect, given my track record with men that some things are best left dissociated.

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InequaliTy

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

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

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

There is no DID awareness day

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

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

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

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

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

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

No and clearly- no.

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

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

No.

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

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

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

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

I am a trauma survivor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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To-Do List

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m still mental.

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

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

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

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

Get washed and dressed

 

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

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Where I Play And Do?

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

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

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

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

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

“do you like this keyboard?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Positive Integers

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

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

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

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

60-

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

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

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

2- 

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

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

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

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

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

7- 

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

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

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

9- 

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

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

3- 

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

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

17- 

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

200- 

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

1- 

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

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

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

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