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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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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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This Post On Sleep

Posted in communication, DID, Dissociation, insight, Internal Communication, laptop, MPD, sleep, suicide, tea, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Triggers, Twitter, tagged , , , , , , , , , on June 25, 2012 | 10 Comments »

I never did write that post on sleep, I alluded to it often enough, my frequent references to sleep and teasers about “that post” are scattered throughout the blog. I’m not even sure what that post was now so I’m writing this one instead.

I can’t sleep, well I can, but not in a way that’s either useful or healthy. My inability to sleep makes me feel somehow deficient, lacking in basic life-skills, sleep-wise I am developmentally stunted, my ability being akin to that of a 3 month old infant- but without the daytime naps or beguiling smile to make up for it.

I am a horrible infant.

I know why I can’t sleep but contrary to my usual “knowledge is power” stance this knowledge does little or nothing to help.

Imagine if you will, that every night you have to get a group of people, all with their own thoughts, needs, complaints, concerns, fears and desires to get into bed, stay there and sleep all night.

Are you imagining it?

Your imagination is my reality

My sleep problems aren’t wildly different to those of your average chronic insomniac- the problem is I have all the problems of all the average chronic insomniacs- in one body.

Everybody, from time-to-time will spent a few wakeful hours in bed of an evening ruminating- a word I have real difficulty using thanks to the NHS standard CBT- based therapeutic approach.

“are you ruminating?”

“er…well..yes…I do worry…”

“WELL STOP IT!”

I feel guilty for ruminating but it’s not something I would choose to do and in my defence, much like a cow, I can’t digest things without some rumination. My rumination takes many forms, I think about all the kinds of things that other people think about- all at the same time. I think about what I’ve done that day, how it could’ve been done differently, what went right, what went wrong- all at the same time. A seemingly mundane trip to Tesco can result in hours of head noise where every possible perspective is discussed. It doesn’t help that evening head noise is inclined to be more of the “voices” type that the “other people’s thoughts” type, I hate hearing voices- it’s mental.

Everybody spends a little time at night thinking about the following day, what they need to do, want to do and hope will happen and not happen. I do this too but I think about the following day in every way possible- all at the same time. I can simultaneously plan a trip to Hobbycraft to purchase wool/stickers/glitter/paper/glue (but not colouring pencils, for reasons unknown the colouring pencils in Hobbycraft elicit a brief but heartfelt bout of sobbing) and my own death. I can think about what paperwork needs done whilst deciding whether or not to make soup. I can plan an awesomely fun trip to Ikea whilst fearing going as far as the end of the garden path. I worry about having to go out and dread a day of having to stay in. The only constant is that most days begin so early and after such little sleep that doing anything or going anywhere is often out of the question anyway thanks to permanent exhaustion.

Everybody has dreams and nightmares. I am unsure as to how I ever get as far as REM sleep given that my nights are a series of brief naps of around an hour but I’m not going to try and justify the physiology, I’m too tired. I have dreams and nightmares- often both- at the same time. I dream the dreams of many- concurrently. Dreams therefore just become another form of head noise, they are not a helpful way to process the day but are unsettling, confusing and something I’m keen to avoid. The only way to avoid dreaming is to avoid sleeping and sometimes this seems like the best plan.

Everybody has fears at night, even adults feel a little more vulnerable at night, I know I’m not the only 37 year old who does the “running, jumping thing” to get back into bed after a nocturnal bathroom trip. I can rationalise those fears- sometimes. I crave sleep; I am terrified of being asleep. I need to be awake, watchful but I fear being woken-up. I can see how ridiculous this is but I can’t help it and I console myself with the knowledge that my hypervigilance, combined with my ability to be awake for 22 hours a day means I have a very promising future in the surveillance industry.

I’m currently working on sleep and it’s very hard work, time-consuming, daunting, strangely lonely work. I’ve alluded to the “protracted bedtime routine” on twitter and anyone who knows me there will know that it has, so far been largely unsuccessful. I’m disappearing earlier in the evenings but I am still the first one up in the morning.

Daily Time Stamp- around 4am today

I’m grateful that we mentalists as a community have many interpretations of what constitutes “day” and the nocturnal mentalists are still there when I get up for the day to greet me and send me virtual tea and toast. I meet many fellow insomniacs and sympathise and of course there’s always the trusty Australians, Kiwis, Canadians and Americans happy to give me updates on yesterday and reports from the future.

The protracted bedtime routine includes your basic sleep hygiene (again, a term I hate and to quote a friend “Why do they have to call it hygiene? Hey you… dirty person…this is why you can’t sleep.. stop thinking, drink milk.”) so no tea after 6pm, no laptop/phone after 8pm, think happy thoughts, adjust room temperature, blah, blah- you know the drill.

Sleep hygiene for [number I will never reveal] separate people is a little different.

No tea after 6pm has been surprisingly easy, I suspect our tea drinkers are so desperate for sleep they’ll do anything.

Switching the laptop and phone off  is relatively straightforward though both devices are often switched on again, and off again, and on again and so on.

Getting the room temperature right is a drawn-out battle between those who like it cold, those who like it warm and those who prefer an ambient temperature.

We’ve introduced several new rules to help with sleep (oh how we love rules)

-  No nocturnal bathing- this has not gone down well, scalding hot baths at 3am were clearly very popular but we’re keen to confine the risk of requiring treatment for burns to office hours.

-  No getting up before 5.30am -some do, some don’t. I think it’d be easier if we all woke up and got up at the same time- even if it was horrifically early. Staggered wakening has the “dementia effect” with “what day is it?” being queried repeatedly until around 11am.

-  Snacking during the night is ok; we’re often hungry, thanks mainly to those who still react to any stress by foregoing food during the day. The challenge here is ensuring the snack is toast or fruit as opposed to inhaling half a kilo of Haribo at 2am.

-  No nocturnal housework- this has actually worked quite well though I kind of miss the “Elves and the Shoemaker” effect. Dissociation is many things but it can be handy waking up to a tidy house with no recollection of having tidied it.

There’s a period of around an hour before getting in to bed that is taken up with ensuring everyone knows where they are and more importantly where they aren’t. I think this is a kind of grounding exercise, it mainly involves picking up various objects and pointing out “we didn’t have this before, we do now” it takes ages and not everyone is always convinced.

We throw a little light bedtime reading onto the mix, firm favourites at the moment are Mick Inkpen, Julia Donaldson and Allan Ahlberg (should my future career in surveillance fail I have the potential to be a fantastic children’s fiction reviewer). Then it’s time to actually get into bed.

One success in all of this is that we are now able to ‘sleep’ in the bed every night. Gone are the days of sleeping, terrified on the floor or sofa. I’m glad as the smallest house in the world is also the dampest house in the world and those nights on the floor in the gap betwixt bed and wall were grim and cold, the danger of contracting mycotoxins was both worrying and at times welcome if it brought with it the promise of premature death.

Getting into bed is an event, mainly due to the size of the stuffed-animal menagerie. I used to be ashamed of the number of soft-toys in the bed, ashamed and confused, I’m 37, I don’t think (I don’t know) I had a collection of stuffed animals as a child so why now? I’m over it, pillow-height should be amongst the diagnostic criteria for DID. I’m yet to find an acceptable solution to the problem of having more stuffed-animals than hands so careful arrangement of all bed occupants takes some time.

Lights-out is at 10pm, followed by “panicking because it’s dark” at 10.01pm at which point attention is drawn to the Chernobyl-like glow from the many glow-in-the-dark stars on the walls, ceiling and furniture.

Then the head noise begins. Sleep comes eventually- another success is the ability to get to sleep without medication, (apologies to anyone who has shares in Zopiclone) albeit briefly. There is something soul-destroying about waking-up, checking the clock and figuring out you’ve slept for 40 minutes. Best case scenario is that everyone has slept for those 40 minutes but more often than not those 40 minutes are as busy and noisy as the time we spend awake.

The nights rumble-on, they feel long and a lot of reframing is required-

Only mild pain- good night

No flashbacks- good night

No nocturnal wandering- good night

Two hours undisturbed sleep- good night

In truth, it’s all very shit and I’m fed-up of it. I’ll persevere as I have no choice but I’m beginning to wonder if sleep will ever be anything other than a terrifying, frustrating, exhausting  battleground.

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March for Survival

Posted in mental illness, psychiatrist, tea, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Uncategorized, tagged , , , on March 1, 2012 | 12 Comments »

It’s March, I survived February.

February, with its extra day was both painfully long and upon reflection short- reduced now to nothing more than a blur of things I don’t know and things I can’t remember.

February brought more pain, fear, confusion and suffering. February took with it, as it went, more hope and optimism than I would have imagined possible. The further, rapid degradation in anything resembling my quality of life is unquantifiable. I’m not living; I do not even exist other than in the moment.

I am surviving.

In 7  days I have an appointment with a specialist, another appointment, another psychiatrist, another specialist. I’m told this appointment is with the ‘right help’, the right psychiatrist, the right specialist.

I hope they’re right, experience tells me to be extremely cautious, I’ve been told this before and it ended badly. Very badly.

So for 7 days I will continue to survive, hoping, in the face of what I know, in spite of all my experience,  that I’ll finally get to meet someone who listens to my story and says ‘I’ve heard stories like yours before, you’re not wrong, it’s not your fault and I can help.’

I don’t know what I’ll do in 8 days.

I don’t know.

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365 Days of Noise and a Silent ‘H’

Posted in Awesome Psychiatrist, depression, emotions, Fab Psychologist, Fantastic CPN, friends, hospital, mental illness, NHS, stickers, suicide, support, tea, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Twitter, tagged , , , , , , on December 31, 2011 | 52 Comments »

2011 has been a dreadful year, a year which has seen my mental health decline rapidly, as I sit, writing this I have little hope that the 366 days coming up in 2012 will offer me any relief from the fear, confusion, pain, sadness and chaos of my current existence. I dread each one of those 366 days and nights as I have dreaded every day and night for some time. 2011 has taught me that there are places lower than ‘rock bottom’ and places far scarier than your worst fears. I have been badly hurt, betrayed and let down this year, mainly by the medical profession but other people in my life have had a go too.

I don’t know how I’ve made it this far, I don’t know if I want to make it any further and the truth is I don’t know, I just don’t know.

Being New Year (however much denial I am in about the whole hideous event), I thought it might be appropriate to do an honours list; I checked the honours list this morning (around 4am) and was disappointed not to be included- again. In fact nobody who I thought should have been included was so I am going to right that wrong, right here, on one of the best blogs on the internet.

The Professionals


I have encountered far more than my fair share of professionals this year, not just in mental health but also the police, air-ambulance team, medical staff, social workers and paramedics.

The highest honour I can bestow, the order of the ‘sparkly, rainbow-tailed unicorn‘ must go to the obvious recipient-

The Fantastic CPN

The Fantastic CPN has continued to be an enormous source of support to me, she is at the mercy of a system that inherently appears to treat people badly but she continues to do her job and do it well. The Fantastic CPN is caring, compassionate, understanding, determined, clever and funny. She has never once made it obvious that she would just like to run away and leave me in the hands of someone else, I’m sure she’s been tempted, I’m not the easiest patient. The Fantastic CPN is representative of an army of individual, conscientious mental health professionals that are out there in our communities, doing what they can with damaged and broken people caught up in a badly broken system. I wish everybody who needs one could have someone like the Fantastic CPN but of course you can’t have the Fantastic CPN as she’s mine and I’m not very good at sharing.

The next honour, the order of ‘the sparkly box of empty promises’ goes to-

The Awesome Psychiatrist

The Awesome psychiatrist receives a mention in the honours list in recognition of his wonderful job of re-traumatising me. Whilst this was a largely horrific affair for all who experienced and witnessed it, it allowed the truth about my mental health to come out. Unfortunately the Awesome Psychiatrist will be stripped of his honour immediately as he refused to believe the truth he had helped to uncover. I still enjoyed the time I spent with him and think that should you ever be the kind of mental that fits neatly into a psychiatric box then you will struggle to find a more knowledgeable, caring, skilled gentleman to meet your needs.

The order of the ‘Schrödinger’s stickers’ goes to-

The Fab Psychologist


I don’t doubt I have presented a bit of a challenge to the Fab Psychologist this year but I am grateful that for the most part she appeared to take it in her stride in spite of the obvious challenges she faces professionally and personally. I’ll be very sorry to lose her in March and even sorrier that her blind hope I will somehow be any better by March will not come to fruition. I like to think I’ve played a part in the professional development of the Fab Psychologist, I just hope it’s not that the next time she gets someone similar in the patient raffle she runs screaming from the room.

The order of the ‘sparkly, magic, disappearing hammer intended for nailing mental jelly to a wall’ goes to-

All the mental health professionals who have assessed me under the Mental Health (Care and Treatment)(Scotland) Act and the Mental Health Act this year.


Well done all of you, you all made the right decision…….

The order of the ‘ever-present fear you will see me in the Spar and recognise me’ goes to-

The Police (both forces involved)


Thanks for tracking me down all those times, I’m less grateful for the place of safety order but I appreciate I generated a lot of work for you this year. You did your job well.

The order of the ‘it must’ve been awesome; I wish I could remember it’ goes to-

The Air-Ambulance Crew


Thank you for using your skills and valuable resources to rescue me, even though I suspect I was a little reluctant to be rescued.


The order of the ‘magical teleporting to hospital machine’ goes to-

All the paramedics I have inconvenienced this year


I think some of you saved my life, I think some of you had a wasted journey, I am grateful to you all for the work you do.

The order of the ‘itchy steri-strip’ goes to-

All the A&E staff I encountered this year


I don’t actually remember being in any A&E departments but I know I was, you all did a fantastic job, I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time.

So there are the professionals all honoured. To the mental health profession as a whole, I cannot resist awarding the order of the ‘just how much do people’s lives have to be destroyed before you do anything useful?’.

The next bit is hugely predictable for anyone who knows anything at all about me. It has to be done.

I cannot put into words the honour I would choose to bestow on the following people; your importance in my life is priceless. There are not enough rainbows and unicorns and there isn’t enough glitter in the whole world to illustrate just how much you mean to me.

All my Twitter Followers


Since the giant follower cull I have been fortunate to gather a rather small group of very important people to help me through my days. Thanks for all the hand-holding, advice, soothing, virtual cups of tea, news, virtual toast, politics, company, presents (real and virtual), letters, mental mentoring, weather reports, cards, music, care, reports from the future, understanding, acceptance and love. Thanks especially for all the laughs as we do like to laugh.

I don’t doubt for a second that it is down to you that I have made it this far.

There are less than 12 hours of this year left, I’m glad and I know many of you are too. I also know that many of you share my dread of the upcoming year.

There isn’t really anything left to say, I was going to say “I hope we can all make it through safely and that things improve for us all in 2012” but in all honesty I am out of hope and have been for some time.

We’ll just take the time-honoured approach of crossing our fingers and tweeting voraciously, see you all there.

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We Are Not Amused

Posted in Awesome Psychiatrist, blogging, friends, insomnia, mental illness, sleep, support, tea, Twitter, Uncategorized, tagged , , on October 2, 2011 | 3 Comments »

It’s been a while since I blogged, it’s not that nothing has happened, as ever I could probably fill a book with the events of today alone (it’s only 8.50am but I have, as ever, been up for a while) I was simply waiting for my blogging muse to visit.

I can’t/ won’t/ don’t want to go into detail about what’s been happening lately, I daresay at some point in the future I will feel compelled to come here and broadcast all the gory details, but not today.

Life recently has mainly revolved around the constantly emerging jigsaw that is my mind and my life. I’ve discovered things about myself I’d really rather not know, there has been a lot of pain, fear, confusion and sadness. Mainly confusion- though fear rates quite highly too. I don’t think I’m very well, in fact I know I’m not very well as the Awesome Psychiatrist told me so. I feel about as stable and safe as a very unstable very unsafe thing.

As ever I continue to play out my life on twitter, having re-read my tweets I think it may be better if I start to carry a notebook and pen to record my days, there must be a limit to how often someone can publicly unravel. I suspect I reached that limit long ago.

The blog was going to get a facelift as someone lovely from WordPress who had seen my Babybel wax animals on twitter and saw my quest the following day for a new hobby, very kindly sent me an upgrade. I was initially very excited by this and the possibilities seemed endless- until I remembered how much I hate change, so the blog will remain as is for now. One of the best blogs on the internet- with the most boring fonts and no fancy borders.

I take a lot of comfort from those of you who have contacted me about the blog, those of you who join me in the insomnia Olympics team on twitter, those of you that stay in touch with me even when it’s quite clear I have lost touch with myself. I feel lucky that so many people are willing to accompany me in some way on my horrible, terrifying journey.

So again, a brief update that doesn’t really say that much but it’ll do. Now that the blogging muse has visited I await the housework fairy and money munchkin and still hope for the magical mental-curing unicorn to turn up at the foot of my bed.

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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 , , , , , , , , , , , 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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Premeditated Murder- Part One

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fluoxetine

Venlafaxine

Olanzapine

Quetiapine

Aripiprazole

Carbamazepine

Lithium

Agomelatine

Sodium Valproate

Duloxetine

Various benzodiazepines

Various hypnotics

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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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DSM VI Mentalism Criteria

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

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

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

DSM-VI Mentalism Criteria

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

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

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

or

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

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

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

or

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wineclone© copyright owned and controlled by @mnicsleepteachr

Winesthetic© copyright owned and controlled by @Zoe_Smith

 


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