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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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The Incredibly Poor Escape

Posted in children, communication, DID, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, insight, Internal Communication, Skills, therapist, therapy, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Twitter, Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on July 27, 2012 | 12 Comments »

The 7 year-old has been at home since Tuesday evening, it’s now Friday morning. It’s going well, really well, too well. I’m coping- admirably.

Housework is done, shopping is done, meals are homemade, nutritious and served on plates instead of kitchen-roll, admin that’s been put off for months has been done, the TV is fixed. The 7 year-old has the new shoes, clothes and pyjamas he required (having him home has been much like adopting a refugee) I don’t remember completing any of these tasks but they’re done.

The children are well and happy, the 18 year-old is off to Dublin for a few days and called me this morning to let me know he’d arrived safely. The 15 year-old is in an extended huff with me as I had the audacity to tell her off for not coming home from the cinema until after midnight and going out without her phone. The 7 year-old is delivered daily to his holiday club thing, picked up in time for dinner, happy to come home, energetic and sleeping well.

Coping is not an ‘act’, I’m not ‘putting a brave face on’ most of the time I am genuinely absolutely fine and I feel fine. I’m so fine; I’ve even invented a new word to define my current phase-

Escoping

My favourite response to stress is always to escape, to run-away. Escaping takes many forms, I can run-away physically or to the bottom of a bottle of wine, I can escape for a while in a Diazepam-induced nap and of course there’s always the ultimate indulgence, the ultimate escape of suicide.

Coping is just another form of escape, it’s no less destructive than any of the other methods it just looks better. It’s not that I don’t want to cope but I have been propelled into coping. I initially thought that as the 7 year-old was out of the house between breakfast and dinner that I would have the peace to not cope for a little while and therefore do what was right for my mental health. I am stuck in high-functioning mode, I know it’s not helpful but I don’t know how to get un-stuck.

I look well, sound well and feel well. But I’m just not myself at the moment- a feeling that is nothing new to me. Those of you missing ‘me’ on twitter and Facebook, those of you I keep closest will know, I miss me too but I’m not allowed out to play.

In the past, the mental health professionals involved in my ‘care’ loved it when I was coping, I tried so hard to make them understand, to explain what was going on for me but they never got it. Now I have the right help, the <?> therapist I don’t have to worry that when she sees me on Monday, she’ll be relieved that I appear well, am coping and discharge me. I’m grateful for the selves-imposed rule that states someone must attend every therapy session unless it’s physically impossible to do so- even though I can’t rule out going to therapy on Monday and telling her I made a terrible mistake, I’m actually completely normal. This is not some flamboyant form of avoidance; it’s not that I don’t want to talk about it- I have nothing to talk about. I am ‘symptom’ free, able to do the things I need to do when they need done and my head is quiet.

The only thing worse than head-noise is head-silence.

I’m not better; I have merely turned my back on myselves in an attempt to cope with a stressful situation. I’ve stopped listening and stopped talking; I am the lid on the pressure cooker. Part of the admin that got done was renewing the insurance for the stupid car, this reminded me there was a blog post from around this time last year- it’s about my Weirdest Day Ever and talks a lot about coping.

Self-awareness can be a bitch.

I’ve re-read that post and this one too, I have so much insight I often wonder why I can’t heal myself. I suspect I am just too busy coping.

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According To Our Latest Findings- You’re Super

Posted in Anxiety, CBT, DID, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, emotions, Fantastic CPN, hypervigilance, insight, Internal Communication, MPD, Multiple Personality Disorder, Spiderman, The Fear, The Smallest House in The World, Triggers, Twitter, Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on July 26, 2012 | 20 Comments »

I don’t think  I’ve ever detailed my virulent hatred of CBT (cognitive behavioural therapy) on the blog, I talk about it a lot on twitter and as some of my poor victims will know, I used to practise it there.

In times of distress I was always available to offer therapy, mainly along the lines of-

WHY ARE YOU DEPRESSED? OTHER PEOPLE ARE FAR WORSE OFF; SOME HAVE DEAD PETS. JUST STOP IT!

And

YOU ARE EMPLOYING MAGICAL THINKING. JUST STOP IT!

And

YOU’RE NOT BEING PARANOID. PEOPLE DO HATE YOU- BECAUSE YOU’RE RUBBISH. JUST STOP IT!

I’m in semi-retirement from my CBT practise these days, though rest-assured, should I spot you indulging in a little black and white thinking, mind-reading or catasrophising then I will point it out and insist you desist.

It may surprise you to know that I’m not a trained CBT practitioner, but I am a quick learner and managed to pick-up quite a lot during my own very brief dalliance with the technique. I had three sessions of CBT before I was declared too mental; I don’t remember much, in fact all I remember is

“WHY WOULD YOU MAKE YOURSELF VOMIT? THAT’S JUST STUPID”

Which as you can imagine was enormously helpful for someone who at the time was attempting to ‘regulate their emotions’ by throwing-up every morsel of food she ate. I waited 9 months for some harridan in a maxi-dress (she may have been a psychologist) to berate me for being mental. I’ve never been so glad to be declared ‘un-helpable’ in my life, being discharged was a gift.

CBT was never going to help me; I’m quite capable of berating myself, I don’t deny I sometimes indulge in all the common cognitive distortions but I’m a multiple so I also know when I’m doing it, why and what to do about it. I can administer CBT to myself. It doesn’t make me any better or help at all in any way but I know I should keep doing it or everything will go completely wrong and end in disaster. Furthermore it will all be my fault; I know others will blame me for everything as they all think I’m rubbish anyway.

There is one psychotherapeutic technique with a cognitive basis I don’t despise completely- reframing. I love a good reframe. I often reframe my days in order to make myself feel better; I’m quite the Polyanna and on balance, probably wear my rose-tinted spectacles as often as I wear my shit-tinted ones. At this stage I probably would lose the will to live by 10am most days if I didn’t paint everything with rainbows-

Forget an entire day- it must’ve been rubbish anyway.

Got lost in Tesco- accidentally found the stationery aisle.

Haven’t been out of the house all week- didn’t run away to Paris/Newcastle.

Drank too much wine- didn’t mix with benzos.

It’s a useful technique but there is a danger that a reframe can become a wanky platitude. The two run very closely together, I’ve sketched a graph to illustrate.

I can also spot a reframe a mile away so often feel patronised and invalidated, sometimes this is justified. Back in the day of the frequent dissociative trips that ended in police involvement, MHAs, helicopters, trips to A&E and the bin etc the Fantastic CPN would always comment “but you came back and you’re ok”. I’m not sure what my response at the time was, these ‘trips’ left me confused, terrified and ashamed but the fact I was still alive was supposed to be enough to comfort me when it was quite clear I had completely lost control of my mind and my life. So reframing, whilst useful can also be a tricky balancing act.

The 7 year-old has returned home, earlier than I planned. I’m not entirely sure how this came about but I’m sure there’s a paper-trail somewhere. Today I finally have a man coming to fix the TV- you can’t have a 7 year-old child in the house with no working TV, well you can if you

a)     dislike children

and

b)     are happy to provide round-the-clock entertainment

I’ve mentioned before that this kind of situation, where I have to allow a stranger to enter the smallest house in the world is very challenging for me. I don’t imagine for a second that the TV man presents any real threat (other than to the bank balance) but I am crippled by hypervigilance.

I have extremely keen senses- all of them, they are my useless superpowers. I’m always on the lookout for signs of danger, be they real or imagined. I am permanently primed, ready to freeze, flee or have a complete meltdown at the first sign of peril. It’s not a good way to be, physically or emotionally- hypervigilance makes me mental, bonfire night in this house is probably similar in many ways to bonfire night in Battersea Dogs Home. I can’t just stop being hypervigilant and so, at times I hate myself for it.

I clearly needed some sort of reframe, so you can imagine my unbridled delight when I found this article that confirms that I am not only super-human but Spiderman. I have nothing to fear from the TV man, unless of course his name is Norman Osborn…….

click image to read article

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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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A Thoroughly Modern Multiple (Part 1)

Posted in activist, blogging, book, DID, Dissociation, insight, Internal Communication, laptop, politics, stickers, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Twitter, Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , on July 17, 2012 | 6 Comments »

My head is brimming with blog posts; I think it’s a testament to improved internal communication that our writer in residence is being inundated with ideas and requests. It’s also wonderful to know that now I know I’m not bipolar (I never thought I was and I told them it wasn’t like Stephen fucking Fry) this is not due to mania; it’s also nice to know that all of these potential blog posts are safe, won’t be forgotten. I may not know what they are but I can rest easy as someone else does. I’m still wary of blogging “too often”; I’ve never managed to define what “too often” would be so the aforementioned posts may all appear today, over the next year or so- or not at all. I don’t know.

Anyone who knows me will know I have a love [twitter]/hate [fucking iTunes] relationship with technology and that overall I am technology dependent. I’m not unique in this I know; after all it’s 2012 who doesn’t have internet access at home and on the move? Who doesn’t depend on social networking to stay in touch with friends? Who still buys CDs? I suspect though that as with everything I do- I’m doin’ it the DID way.

This post is in danger of being exceptionally long, this is another one of those “I could write a book on DID and …….” topics (the others so far being, shoes, books, hair, music, parenting and clothes) so I’m going to restrict my ramblings, I can never be sure if parts 2, 3, 4……….100,000 will ever get written but I still have no desire to bore my audience to death. Unless some of the mental health professionals I’ve met are still reading of course…..

The blog

I’ve blogged about blogging before, it’s clear I get something out of it- several things but it’s only now I have a good understanding of the true role it plays. First and foremost I write the blog for myselves, I advise anyone considering becoming a blogger to do the same (multiple selves optional). The blog is my story. I’m 37, I don’t have a story, well I do but it’s in several chapters and many of those chapters are completely inaccessible to me, for over three years now, I’ve had a story; a continuous narrative. Obviously there are gaps (out of all the things the unnecessary medication killed off- the blog was one of them), there’s always going to be gaps but the bare bones of a story are there. Back in the days of extreme chaos, before I was correctly diagnosed, when I sometimes knew I had DID and sometimes didn’t I would read the blog and learn things from it. I often was surprised to find that posts had been written and published as I had no memory of doing so. Posts are littered with clues to my multiplicity; I didn’t pick up on them all on the first reading or the second or even the fifteenth but eventually little bits of information began to sink in. Again back in those days of doubt, certain posts would come to the attention of fellow DIDers who were able to recognise my symptoms for what they were. Those pingbacks, emails and comments were essential validation at a time when those around me were insisting I was wrong. Anyone with a rudimentary understanding of DID who read the blog and followed me on twitter was able to see that I was in fact the most obvious multiple on the internet. I am still enormously grateful to all of you who reached out to me, I appreciate it’s a tricky and courageous thing to do. My own DIDar (it’s like gaydar) has been functioning well for a while and I know how conflicted you can feel when you spot someone, want to help but don’t want to scare the shit out of them by letting on.

The blog is also an aid to internal communication, in times of conflict or confusion I am able to consolidate some of the [number I will never reveal] thoughts, feelings, ideas and perspectives in one place- after several readings of the post some decisions can be made, plans formulated and precarious, short-lived harmony restored. I get a lot of ‘help’ when writing posts- the writer’s head noise is often the loudest. Blog posts may read to the untrained eye as a simple, humorous, sometimes harrowing account of my daily struggles with mentalism but they tell me so much more. I can tell you that some 585 words into this post that two separate parts have had a hand in writing it. I can also tell you that with my knowledge that I, the writer of the blog, am one ‘part’ of a system of dissociated identities am really struggling to make this post read as a first person account! It’s important to me that the blog, though it comes from a fragmented mind and identity represents something whole, it’s a skill I’ve had to work hard to develop. This hopefully also explains why those of you who praise my writing on twitter or wherever get the standard response of “thanks, but I don’t write the blog”. I don’t use twitter.

The blog gives me a voice, allows me a place to make a contribution of sorts. I suspect I have ruined my future career in politics but here I can be political and people listen and respond; it’s enough to satisfy that need.

I like to think that each post educates in some way, demystifies DID, I may be talking about extreme and sometimes ‘scary’ mentalism but I like to think the way it’s presented here makes me your friendly neighbourhood multiple. For those of you who have known me for a long time, the blog comes from “Zoë Smith” (not so much a name as a concept), the same Zoë Smith you have known and loved/hated/tolerated for a while. I may be officially mental now but in many ways I’m just the same as I was, I’m not scary, DID isn’t scary.

The blog is a community for me, I’m having some other thoughts on my place in the larger madosphere community (those thoughts being one of the potential blog posts) but here, on one of the best blogs on the internet I have a family. The regular commenters, some of who know me elsewhere, some who only communicate with me here play an important role in my life. All bloggers love feedback – I love to write, I write for myselves and if I’m happy with it then that’s enough- though I do wish someone, anyone would pick up on the sheer genius that is the title of the posts. I’m beginning to wonder if they’re just a bit too technical or DID-specific as to me, each one, though brief is an essay in itself. When I look back through the blog, as I often do, frankly I astound myself with insight I didn’t know I had- “Where I Play And Do?” being a classic example. That post was a collaborative effort with another part- as many are (if we can get a few more political posts up I reckon the blog could be a contender in next years Total Politics blog awards in the group blog section); it appears to be a fairly banal post about an inappropriate attachment to a laptop. It is far more. I may not have understood a lot of the content myself, my role is to create writings that are easy on the eye using information fed to me from more learned parts but, yeah, I’m dead proud of that title and nobody picked-up on it! All posts are a learning experience for me, in fact I notice for the first time I’m talking about myself- as that one part of many. I’m not comfortable with it so I’ll get back to what I was supposed to be discussing.

I don’t respond to the comments left here, I leave that to someone else but the conversations and connections made in the comments are essential and bring much needed friendship, love, humour, support, sympathy and acceptance. Many friends have been made through the blog and as a collector of people (they’re cheaper than stickers and stationery) this brings a lot of joy to an otherwise challenging life.

So there you have it, my own unique relationship with blogging. I was going to write about twitter too but I think the relationship I’ve described with blogging is revealing, weird, convoluted and mental enough for one post.

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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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Mental For Five Minutes

Posted in activist, benefits, blogging, Celebrity Mentalism, DID, mental illness, NHS, Told you it wasn't like Stephen Fucking Fry, Twitter, tagged , , , , on April 24, 2012 | 56 Comments »

This has been swirling around in my head for years, so far I’ve kept it to rants on twitter in 140 characters or fewer but it deserves more words.

Today’s twitter rant actually leapt over the line from ‘rant’ to ‘just plain old abuse’ I don’t care-


It was a long time coming.

To quote, from the Rethink article

“We wish her all the best in getting through this difficult time and commend her for her continued honesty when it comes to talking about mental health.

 When celebrities speak frankly about mental illness they go a long way in helping to break down the stigma that still surrounds it.”

It’s a commonly held misconception with MH organisations that celebrity mentalism does anything at all to break down stigma. I’ve had this conversation calmly with Rethink and others in the past; I’ve also tried to get Rethink to make reference to dissociative disorders and DID on their website, they gave me some lame excuse about not having information available, I told them where they could get information, I offered to write information they still haven’t done anything about it.

That is stigma

Being afflicted by the MH equivalent of leprosy I am all too familiar with stigma, most of it comes from the NHS but the fact that MH organisations such as Rethink and SAMH refuse to make any reference to dissociative disorders or DID does nothing but compound the idea that it is the illness that must not be spoken of.

I am eternally grateful to Mind for their leaflet on dissociative disorders, it’s a great place to start for information, my only complaint is that they even address the ‘does DID exist’ issue (see ‘other theories’), to be fair they handle it very well but until mainstream literature stops even considering whether DID ‘exists’ or not, people will continue to question it.

So my rant at Rethink today has a bit of a history but my original point and one I have made many times is that celebrities ‘confessing’ to having mental illness does nothing other than provide a bit of a news flurry, an opportunity for the media to tie themselves up in knots about semantics and a few interviews, maybe a book deal for the celebrity in question.

Celebrity experience of mental illness never reflects the day-to-day reality for those of us living with a mental illness. I accept that the way celebrity and the media work are probably to blame for this but we cannot challenge stigma with

Has breakdown- goes to Thailand- is all better now.

Or

Has breakdown- keeps job- writes books- gets more jobs- is all better now.

Or

‘Catches’ bipolar- goes to clinic for 4 days- drinks smoothies- makes film- is all better now.

Or

Has breakdown- goes to Priory- enhances career with a touch of mentalism- gets more jobs- is all better now.

Etc.

My frustration is both personal and on the behalf of the many people I have come to know and love who are struggling with mental illness. All of these people have ‘bravery’ and ‘honesty’ in bucketloads- and the MH organisations follow most of them on twitter so see their stories unfolding every day. Day-to-day existence with a mental illness is grim, protracted and painful. Mental illness is pervasive; it destroys lives and steals futures. For most of us getting any care and treatment is a fight, getting the correct care and treatment is a fight, for most of us neither Thailand or the Priory is an option- if we can make it through the humiliating, degrading DLA and ESA application processes without attempting to end our own lives, we may have enough money to scrape by on.

Celebrity mentalism and the discussion of it could be a great platform for more useful discussion- discussion that perhaps does something to effect change, something tangible, but it rarely is.

Every day I have to watch people I care about going without care and treatment, being refused help, being mistreated, struggling, fighting, being brave. I’ve yet to meet anyone who has got what they need, when they needed it. I’m currently watching someone I love very much suffer through months and months of having no hot water due to massive incompetence on the part of her housing association, she’s got sicker as a result- I don’t see Rethink jumping in with a statement of support.

Mainstream media does and will always use celebrity mentalism as a platform for nothing more than gawking but I think we should expect more of MH organisations.

There is an army of honest, brave, frank bloggers within the Madosphere (most comprehensive blogroll here at TWIM)- all of them challenge stigma far more than any 15 minute interview with a celebrity (and you’ll note that those interviews are all ‘when I was mental’).

All of these bloggers provide education and information about mental illness- and any of them could be your next door neighbour, your daughter, your son, your boss, your postman, your GP, your child’s teacher, the checkout operator at Tesco, your friend. They just might not be famous enough to make the difference they deserve to make, they just might not be famous enough to really challenge the way you think about mental illness.

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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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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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