So, I turn up at the psychiatrists office and I blurt out my prepared blurb. Remember I am mentally ill, have no self esteem an find conflict traumatic. Planning is everything. "I don't want to take the quetiapine anymore". He says, "Ok then." To say it was an anti-climax is an understatement. I was expecting some resistance, a fight, and a sharing of words or opinions. He then says, "well what would you like to take?". I am temporarily stumped as all of this is totally unexpected - I have to hand the power back to him as I have no idea what to take. He's the shrink and I've been politely put back in my place.
The list is slightly boggling and everything seems to do something nasty to you. Fat, anorexic, fits, jerks, nausea, skin problems, confusion, blackouts, disorientation. Sounds like alcoholism and food addiction to me but hey, I'm not a chemist. The up side (Yes there is one) is that my mood may actually stabilize, the hyper mania will stop and thoughts of hanging myself or dying in a hole with twigs in the woods may disappear. I'll pick one - Its worth a shot eh?
We choose Valporate semi-sodium, or what is commonly know as Depakote. Depakote can be injected into your backside, but they trust me to take it regularly so I get to take it as a tablet, thank goodness. It's actually an anti convulsant, not an anti psychotic. In lay mans terms, the different medications work on different types of places in my brain cells, altering the mixture of neuro-hormones to create happiness, wellness and lack of madness hopefully - so maybe it'll do something else more positive to my mood too. I imagine this microcosm of mini brain universes all banging around together in my head, squirting neuro-hormone guns at each other, then changing tactics to try and win the war. At the present time we haven't found the correct WMD - weapon of madness destruction!
So I'm off on another chemical journey - Its really hard to keep being hopeful when after 15 months of struggling to be well you're just not getting there. People often don't remember you're ill either, forget to ask you how you are, or assume that everything is ok because to manage to turn up and do things sometimes. Its like putting on your morning mask - if people can see the true face underlying it they'd be afraid to make eye contact. Its not contagious, but people fear mental illness still. Sometimes its easier just to shut up shop for a few hours to get through what ever it is you are doing. Going to bed sometimes is nice as you can pretend its like dying, just to give you a break from the doom and fatigue. But its great as you can actually wake up, and despairingly force yourself through yet another nightmare day. Remember, thinking about dying isn't about killing yourself necessarily. Its about being so damn fed up of fighting 24 hours a day to remain in the game that you want a day off.
So now I'm at the point where I have to risk all again to swap medication over. Its scary as I may come off this old one, start a new one and feel worse; or the same; or better. Or go completely mad.
Stand on the edge of the cliff and jump.....
Tuesday, 12 October 2010
Wednesday, 1 September 2010
Chemical chaos - should I ignore my shrink or ask someone else???
Something that is very difficult for me is knowing when NOT to listen to medical professionals and trust my instinct. I'm not a shrink, but I do know my own body and how legal chemicals affect it. However, I often defer to wiser counsel as I'm lacking in self esteem and believe on a deep level that everyone is cleverer and more grown up than me!
So here is the situation. I'm feeling slightly mental - not the whole hog psychotic or suicidal, but definitely on the dark side of dicey. I'm trying to decide if its a dip or a relapse beginning. I call a mental health professional, as my CPN is on a jolly with the older persons team. She told me she felt like a change of scenery. What a choice. Psychotic and delusional adults, or, spongy brained dementia clients. Anyway, the duty cpn isn't sure either as she doesn't know me very well. Neither of us is sure whether I should ride out the storm (hoping it'll pass and I'll Improve) or, not leaving it, come into the mental health team for a chat, and try to sort out what to do.
So I come in to the mental health ranch for a chat and my shrink increases my medication. Obviously I'm not happy. I increase it for 2 weeks; my mood lifts but physically I feel shite. Side effects fill as per normal make me feel like I am filling up with concrete, the appetite of the starved man returns and generally I am knocked about the head with cotton wool and fluff in my mouth. I go off to work leaving the front door of the house with the keys in it, leave the car door open in public spaces, forget what I'm doing whether mid sentence or mid task and just can't get it together. So I reduce it back down and feel mentally in the abyss. So I have to return and yet again he increases the meds (even higher than before) and tells me this is the recommended dose for bi-polar. Take 400mg at night and then 200mg when you get up in the morning. Quite frankly, I feel like giving up. I'm so medicated I can hardly function. I'm experiencing the same symptoms as I do when I'm hideously depressed (Over eating, sleeping, phasing out, lacking in motivation, shuffling around) but I'm not suicidal. I gain half a stone in 3 weeks and am totally demoralised.
I turn up at the gym for my near death experience on a bike session, and a personal trainer asks me if I have got a second opinion about the medication situation and have I challenged my psychiatrist? To be honest it had never occurred to me to challenge him.Later the same evening I sit in the bath and my husband sits on the toilet as we catch up on our day. He asks me exactly the same question, as HIS carer support network mention the benefit of getting a second opinion in their literature. It's definitely something I could consider. It's also glaringly obvious that lack of talking support from my cpn does affect my sense of well being as I feel slightly lost in my so called, "care program approach". Not so much care and absolutely no approach. I suppose the program bit is something I have to make up as I go along - a program of confusion.
So I take the bull by the horn and make some calls. First to my psychiatrist to tell him I really can't take the quetiapine anymore and the second call to my ex-psychotherapist for some advice. She used to run the Lithium clinic years ago so I trust her opinion about medication. I am regaining control. It feels good.
So here is the situation. I'm feeling slightly mental - not the whole hog psychotic or suicidal, but definitely on the dark side of dicey. I'm trying to decide if its a dip or a relapse beginning. I call a mental health professional, as my CPN is on a jolly with the older persons team. She told me she felt like a change of scenery. What a choice. Psychotic and delusional adults, or, spongy brained dementia clients. Anyway, the duty cpn isn't sure either as she doesn't know me very well. Neither of us is sure whether I should ride out the storm (hoping it'll pass and I'll Improve) or, not leaving it, come into the mental health team for a chat, and try to sort out what to do.
So I come in to the mental health ranch for a chat and my shrink increases my medication. Obviously I'm not happy. I increase it for 2 weeks; my mood lifts but physically I feel shite. Side effects fill as per normal make me feel like I am filling up with concrete, the appetite of the starved man returns and generally I am knocked about the head with cotton wool and fluff in my mouth. I go off to work leaving the front door of the house with the keys in it, leave the car door open in public spaces, forget what I'm doing whether mid sentence or mid task and just can't get it together. So I reduce it back down and feel mentally in the abyss. So I have to return and yet again he increases the meds (even higher than before) and tells me this is the recommended dose for bi-polar. Take 400mg at night and then 200mg when you get up in the morning. Quite frankly, I feel like giving up. I'm so medicated I can hardly function. I'm experiencing the same symptoms as I do when I'm hideously depressed (Over eating, sleeping, phasing out, lacking in motivation, shuffling around) but I'm not suicidal. I gain half a stone in 3 weeks and am totally demoralised.
I turn up at the gym for my near death experience on a bike session, and a personal trainer asks me if I have got a second opinion about the medication situation and have I challenged my psychiatrist? To be honest it had never occurred to me to challenge him.Later the same evening I sit in the bath and my husband sits on the toilet as we catch up on our day. He asks me exactly the same question, as HIS carer support network mention the benefit of getting a second opinion in their literature. It's definitely something I could consider. It's also glaringly obvious that lack of talking support from my cpn does affect my sense of well being as I feel slightly lost in my so called, "care program approach". Not so much care and absolutely no approach. I suppose the program bit is something I have to make up as I go along - a program of confusion.
So I take the bull by the horn and make some calls. First to my psychiatrist to tell him I really can't take the quetiapine anymore and the second call to my ex-psychotherapist for some advice. She used to run the Lithium clinic years ago so I trust her opinion about medication. I am regaining control. It feels good.
Sunday, 4 July 2010
Is it a dip or is it a relapse
Being a person of obviously fluctuating mood, I'm trying to learn when to panic and when to just ride out a stormy day or two. I've recently been told that if you've had 3 major depressive episodes, you are 90% at risk of having a relapse. Somber reading for those of us who are in that category. I could be one of the 10%. I could also have carrots growing out of my bum.
It's terrifying to even contemplate being so deeply ill again, so people in my position have to work really hard at relapse prevention and using coping strategies for if or when things do go wrong. It can feel like you're walking around with a loaded gun in your pocket most days, and sometimes the smallest thing can trigger a negative thought, which leads to a period of rumination, which in turn leads to your mood crashing. The triggers too, are those things that you are exposed to on a daily basis. Aggression, disappointment, money worries, family problems, illness, fear, stress. I could go on. But I won't. I think you get the picture. Every day can be a battleground of shifting sands.
The word resilience means to be able to bounce back into shape after bending or stretching or being compressed. When your mood is contaminated or pressed down by a negative thought, this is exactly what happens. Your mind can feel like it is suffering physical pressure or you are being dragged against your will to a very dark place. You try to force it back into a happy shape, but you can't do it by just trying to think yourself out of it. That doesn't work. This is why CBT has been so good for my daily mood management. I'm learning to allow the mood to bend my emotions, but not to snap the back of them, so I can return to a more manageable state. But its tiring work. I'm unceasingly working to stay on top of the quicksand, and it can be very demoralising.
Recently my mood dipped in spite of my guerrilla tactics. I could feel myself in free fall and the terror was fueled by the unknown depths to which I might plunge. The panic felt like straw in my throat and snakes in my belly. I tried to do a Mood trigger chain, to see where the slide began and yet again it linked to stress at work and tiredness. My fear was amplified as I'd been trying very hard to do all of the right things to stop a slide. And it didn't work. I called the Duty Community psychiatric nurse (mine is on a secondment to older persons) and gabbled down the phone trying not to cry. She soothed me somewhat, and as if by magic, she got me an appointment to see my psychiatrist. He actually called me at home first to talk things through, then called me in to his office anyway. He increased my medication although he said it was a temporary measure for a few weeks, and then we'd see how we were. I think in his view I was not as well as I could be, but I wasn't banging on the hospital door. He was the one who said, "Stop panicking". How easy for someone to spit out a platitude to soothe my chaotic soul.
And because most of this is going on in my head, noone is aware of crisis.
It's terrifying to even contemplate being so deeply ill again, so people in my position have to work really hard at relapse prevention and using coping strategies for if or when things do go wrong. It can feel like you're walking around with a loaded gun in your pocket most days, and sometimes the smallest thing can trigger a negative thought, which leads to a period of rumination, which in turn leads to your mood crashing. The triggers too, are those things that you are exposed to on a daily basis. Aggression, disappointment, money worries, family problems, illness, fear, stress. I could go on. But I won't. I think you get the picture. Every day can be a battleground of shifting sands.
The word resilience means to be able to bounce back into shape after bending or stretching or being compressed. When your mood is contaminated or pressed down by a negative thought, this is exactly what happens. Your mind can feel like it is suffering physical pressure or you are being dragged against your will to a very dark place. You try to force it back into a happy shape, but you can't do it by just trying to think yourself out of it. That doesn't work. This is why CBT has been so good for my daily mood management. I'm learning to allow the mood to bend my emotions, but not to snap the back of them, so I can return to a more manageable state. But its tiring work. I'm unceasingly working to stay on top of the quicksand, and it can be very demoralising.
Recently my mood dipped in spite of my guerrilla tactics. I could feel myself in free fall and the terror was fueled by the unknown depths to which I might plunge. The panic felt like straw in my throat and snakes in my belly. I tried to do a Mood trigger chain, to see where the slide began and yet again it linked to stress at work and tiredness. My fear was amplified as I'd been trying very hard to do all of the right things to stop a slide. And it didn't work. I called the Duty Community psychiatric nurse (mine is on a secondment to older persons) and gabbled down the phone trying not to cry. She soothed me somewhat, and as if by magic, she got me an appointment to see my psychiatrist. He actually called me at home first to talk things through, then called me in to his office anyway. He increased my medication although he said it was a temporary measure for a few weeks, and then we'd see how we were. I think in his view I was not as well as I could be, but I wasn't banging on the hospital door. He was the one who said, "Stop panicking". How easy for someone to spit out a platitude to soothe my chaotic soul.
And because most of this is going on in my head, noone is aware of crisis.
Thursday, 1 July 2010
So where were we . Oh yes! Back at work
So I'm turning up at the office, a partial zombie, self conscious, slightly erratic and detached from the once familiar surroundings. But I'm there and trying very hard to readjust to being back in the workplace. There is nothing like a large dose of reality to help you measure your recovery and level of wellness. Being well at home on the sofa is a mile away from being well amongst the chaos of office politics. Everything and everyone feels complicated and awkward.
The team I work in is like a jigsaw puzzle. Roles and behaviours are embedded and even when we all pretend to change our behaviour or try something new, we all end up reverting to type. I'm trying to find my place again, and have the fear of relapse or not being able to get back to working the hours I used to. I'm also feeling the perceived and probably erroneous pressure from a range of personalities, but mostly from myself. So many people say that work is just a means to an end, a place to go to change activity tokens into shoe tokens, but on deeper scrutiny, people get to be the person they aren't at home. They can be flirty or sarcastic, they can moan or feel powerful; it also gives people a sense on belonging and a place in the universe. I often wonder if we were all told that work no longer existed, what we would all do. Die of boredom and feel completely lost most likely.
And I am as inconsistent and the as the wind. My mood swings erratically throughout the day, and I am easily contaminated by negativity. The energy and noise are so immense that I have to keep ducking out of the office just to catch my breathe. There is an endless clamouring that seeps into me and I feel burdened by it. When its time to go home I breathe easy again and rinse out the flotsam and jetsam of the day. I'm hoping I can readjust and that every day that I go in, like exposure therapy, I'll finally not even register the excess mood baggage flying around.
And there is always one person that is your nemesis. A person that pushes your buttons, triggers your shame, infects your positivity, and consciously or not, makes your life a misery. These people are normally thick skinned and with guile, gently stomp all over your cotton soft soul, and muddy your waters. Oh yes, and they tell you its not them, but its you. You are at fault, emotional cripple. I'm just doing it the best way so get in line or disappear. Toughen up jello pants you're a loser. These people can masquerade as friendly, funny and helpful - remember the popular club at school. I try and see them in a more honest light. Is parading with grandiosity a reaction to low self esteem; is the criticism really aimed at me or their own insecurity. Analysing the arse out of it gets you nowhere though, so I have to learn to ignore it or challenge it. But I hate conflict, especially when I'm mentally fragile, so I have to bide my time and stay in hibernation until I can summon the courage to wither the dark beast with the light of truth.
Oh yes and I'm meant to be doing some work too. How the hell am I going to do that in amongst the circus of bedlam?
The team I work in is like a jigsaw puzzle. Roles and behaviours are embedded and even when we all pretend to change our behaviour or try something new, we all end up reverting to type. I'm trying to find my place again, and have the fear of relapse or not being able to get back to working the hours I used to. I'm also feeling the perceived and probably erroneous pressure from a range of personalities, but mostly from myself. So many people say that work is just a means to an end, a place to go to change activity tokens into shoe tokens, but on deeper scrutiny, people get to be the person they aren't at home. They can be flirty or sarcastic, they can moan or feel powerful; it also gives people a sense on belonging and a place in the universe. I often wonder if we were all told that work no longer existed, what we would all do. Die of boredom and feel completely lost most likely.
And I am as inconsistent and the as the wind. My mood swings erratically throughout the day, and I am easily contaminated by negativity. The energy and noise are so immense that I have to keep ducking out of the office just to catch my breathe. There is an endless clamouring that seeps into me and I feel burdened by it. When its time to go home I breathe easy again and rinse out the flotsam and jetsam of the day. I'm hoping I can readjust and that every day that I go in, like exposure therapy, I'll finally not even register the excess mood baggage flying around.
And there is always one person that is your nemesis. A person that pushes your buttons, triggers your shame, infects your positivity, and consciously or not, makes your life a misery. These people are normally thick skinned and with guile, gently stomp all over your cotton soft soul, and muddy your waters. Oh yes, and they tell you its not them, but its you. You are at fault, emotional cripple. I'm just doing it the best way so get in line or disappear. Toughen up jello pants you're a loser. These people can masquerade as friendly, funny and helpful - remember the popular club at school. I try and see them in a more honest light. Is parading with grandiosity a reaction to low self esteem; is the criticism really aimed at me or their own insecurity. Analysing the arse out of it gets you nowhere though, so I have to learn to ignore it or challenge it. But I hate conflict, especially when I'm mentally fragile, so I have to bide my time and stay in hibernation until I can summon the courage to wither the dark beast with the light of truth.
Oh yes and I'm meant to be doing some work too. How the hell am I going to do that in amongst the circus of bedlam?
Tuesday, 29 June 2010
Living with side effects
When you first envisage taking medication, you tend make an assumption that you'll feel better. Intellectually I know there are medications that obviously make you poorly in the journey to wellness, like cancer drugs, Hepatitis C medication, strong anti-biotics. So I'm unsure as to why I naively believed that mental health drugs wouldn't be as bad. They used to tell me that medication is only a small part of recovery - what they didn't tell me is that as well as fighting the madness, I'd also have to spend an enormous amount of time managing the side effects of the drugs they've given me.
My anti depressant isn't too bad, but it still makes things happen that shouldn't, like feeling like you want to wee but can't. But my anti-psychotic is a whole different animal. Although its not officially a sedative, I do feel like I've been hit over the head with a badger as I may have mentioned before. A lovely lady in the mental health fat club, told me to take it 12 hours before I wanted to get up, otherwise I'd be gurning and gouching like a smack head for the fist 5 hours of the day. And she was right. Let me talk you through my day of side effects.
I wake up, usually because someone is yelling in my ear (Kids) or pulling the quilt off me to try and arouse me from the cloying and deep darkness in which I am pulled down like quicksand. As I mill about the house trying to kick start my mind, I feel my head bobbing like a nodding dog, and my eyes sinking back into my head and closing of their own accord. Caffeine. I need caffeine.Lots and lots of caffeine. Strong pot of filter coffee on, HUGE bowl of cereal ready to shove in my face. I am permanently ravenous. The feeling of griping in your tummy when you've not eaten for ages - that is how my tummy is the whole time. It doesn't matter how much I eat, its never enough. I'll come back to this. I also mustn't sit down or I will go back to sleep whilst the children happily destroy the house. Its happend to me on a Sunday morning. I've been watching the news and obviously fallen back to sleep. I've been startled back into the land of the living by a shriek and screaming as my 2 naked sons slip and crash to the floor in the tiled kitchen, because they've poured 2 whole bottles of hand soap across the entire space in an attempt to "Clean it". So, I open windows, walk about, stand outside and try to force my body and mind into action.
My mind, once electric and accelerated beyond the norm, now plods from one thought to the next in snail mode. Most mornings I forget something that I am supposed to do. Forget to take dinner money to school; forget to take sunhat; forget to fill in form for trip; forget glasses; I've had to learn how to be less reliable than I used to be because now, its impossible to do it all and do it right, and do it on time. Ask anyone close to me about the anal time keeper I am - Not anymore. Being late has started to re-enter my life, and I hate it as I'm OCD, and in not doing it right, and not being on time, anxiety and intrusive thinking are triggered and that takes a whole set of other skills to manage.
Meetings at work are hard too. Concentration is particularly difficult as I tend to "Zone out" and then return from the misty annals of the plastic mind, slightly befuddled and hoping people haven't noticed. I'm unsure as to whether or not I actually look vacant or just feel vacant. Sitting still brings it's own issues as now I have a distinct twitch. Its usually my hands, and I may be gesticulating to push home and important point in a discussion, and my leopard print Biro flies across the room, now a missile in my hands. More recently, bright orange nail polish has flown across the carpet, Jackson Pollack-esque style and won't come out! I feel it in my legs at bed time too when I am drifting off, and as well as the little flick of the foot, I seem to let out a weird, "ooh" noise as it happens. I'm terrified I'm only one spasm away from the tongue flicking, shuffling, loonalike person of the late Victorian asylums!!
Managing the daily, never ending hunger is an all consuming nightmare (Excuse the pun). I try to battle the muffin top with exercise, portion control and healthy eating and when I say battle, I spend half the time thinking about food, a quarter of the time looking at food and trying not to eat it, and the final quarter eating it and feeling bad as I know I'm more than likely eating too much. Its completely demoralising. I could play a mantra in my head that reads something along the lines of, "Beauty comes from within, I am a woman of intelligence and substance - I accept myself exactly as I am." Yeah right - vanity is an insidious creature that constantly tells you are aren't working hard enough, looking thin enough, and if you carry on the way you are you will look like "The Rolly Pollys". And once the food goes in, it won't come out without assistance. I have a dry mouth the whole time too and I worry that I'll get that weird white deposit around the corners of my mouth the people get when they've been talking for too long without a drink. I still have weird dreams too, usually along the line of being abandoned or being in a relationship with Noel Gallagher. Quite frankly I don't know which is worst.
But is it all worth it. Do I actually feel better or not? Can I live with the symptoms that need micro management on a daily basis? To be honest, I'm really not sure. I've accidentally missed taking my tablets before, and I had withdrawal like a Junkie - I was like the bloke from trainspotting grabbing his twisting gut, sweating and groaning. Apparently it'd be a week like that if I just stopped taking it. But do I feel "Happy" and less manic? The answer to that is most of the time. The problem I've had over the last 6 months is my illness keeps pushing through the medication. The Milligram amounts keep creeping up to reign in the cycling mood and we're getting to a point where the levels are probably too high, and I'd end up being a zombie. I'm having a review with my psychiatrist soon to, "Talk about my options." Don't think about "One flew over the cuckoos nest".
What I keep having to weigh up it the balance of wellness with side effects. I have to try and maintain some kind of normality, but I'm doing so many things I feel like I haven't got the time or the energy to do more, or take different medication, or come off this one and try that one. In amongst all of this I'm also trying to be a parent, a wife, a sister, a work colleague, a decent human being. Its really hard work and although I'm hugely better than I was, I wonder if this is as good as its going to get, because if it is, I'm still not sure if it's good enough.And if its not, what is there left. I expect I'll have to try and figure that one out. And it not going away. Not ever.
My anti depressant isn't too bad, but it still makes things happen that shouldn't, like feeling like you want to wee but can't. But my anti-psychotic is a whole different animal. Although its not officially a sedative, I do feel like I've been hit over the head with a badger as I may have mentioned before. A lovely lady in the mental health fat club, told me to take it 12 hours before I wanted to get up, otherwise I'd be gurning and gouching like a smack head for the fist 5 hours of the day. And she was right. Let me talk you through my day of side effects.
I wake up, usually because someone is yelling in my ear (Kids) or pulling the quilt off me to try and arouse me from the cloying and deep darkness in which I am pulled down like quicksand. As I mill about the house trying to kick start my mind, I feel my head bobbing like a nodding dog, and my eyes sinking back into my head and closing of their own accord. Caffeine. I need caffeine.Lots and lots of caffeine. Strong pot of filter coffee on, HUGE bowl of cereal ready to shove in my face. I am permanently ravenous. The feeling of griping in your tummy when you've not eaten for ages - that is how my tummy is the whole time. It doesn't matter how much I eat, its never enough. I'll come back to this. I also mustn't sit down or I will go back to sleep whilst the children happily destroy the house. Its happend to me on a Sunday morning. I've been watching the news and obviously fallen back to sleep. I've been startled back into the land of the living by a shriek and screaming as my 2 naked sons slip and crash to the floor in the tiled kitchen, because they've poured 2 whole bottles of hand soap across the entire space in an attempt to "Clean it". So, I open windows, walk about, stand outside and try to force my body and mind into action.
My mind, once electric and accelerated beyond the norm, now plods from one thought to the next in snail mode. Most mornings I forget something that I am supposed to do. Forget to take dinner money to school; forget to take sunhat; forget to fill in form for trip; forget glasses; I've had to learn how to be less reliable than I used to be because now, its impossible to do it all and do it right, and do it on time. Ask anyone close to me about the anal time keeper I am - Not anymore. Being late has started to re-enter my life, and I hate it as I'm OCD, and in not doing it right, and not being on time, anxiety and intrusive thinking are triggered and that takes a whole set of other skills to manage.
Meetings at work are hard too. Concentration is particularly difficult as I tend to "Zone out" and then return from the misty annals of the plastic mind, slightly befuddled and hoping people haven't noticed. I'm unsure as to whether or not I actually look vacant or just feel vacant. Sitting still brings it's own issues as now I have a distinct twitch. Its usually my hands, and I may be gesticulating to push home and important point in a discussion, and my leopard print Biro flies across the room, now a missile in my hands. More recently, bright orange nail polish has flown across the carpet, Jackson Pollack-esque style and won't come out! I feel it in my legs at bed time too when I am drifting off, and as well as the little flick of the foot, I seem to let out a weird, "ooh" noise as it happens. I'm terrified I'm only one spasm away from the tongue flicking, shuffling, loonalike person of the late Victorian asylums!!
Managing the daily, never ending hunger is an all consuming nightmare (Excuse the pun). I try to battle the muffin top with exercise, portion control and healthy eating and when I say battle, I spend half the time thinking about food, a quarter of the time looking at food and trying not to eat it, and the final quarter eating it and feeling bad as I know I'm more than likely eating too much. Its completely demoralising. I could play a mantra in my head that reads something along the lines of, "Beauty comes from within, I am a woman of intelligence and substance - I accept myself exactly as I am." Yeah right - vanity is an insidious creature that constantly tells you are aren't working hard enough, looking thin enough, and if you carry on the way you are you will look like "The Rolly Pollys". And once the food goes in, it won't come out without assistance. I have a dry mouth the whole time too and I worry that I'll get that weird white deposit around the corners of my mouth the people get when they've been talking for too long without a drink. I still have weird dreams too, usually along the line of being abandoned or being in a relationship with Noel Gallagher. Quite frankly I don't know which is worst.
But is it all worth it. Do I actually feel better or not? Can I live with the symptoms that need micro management on a daily basis? To be honest, I'm really not sure. I've accidentally missed taking my tablets before, and I had withdrawal like a Junkie - I was like the bloke from trainspotting grabbing his twisting gut, sweating and groaning. Apparently it'd be a week like that if I just stopped taking it. But do I feel "Happy" and less manic? The answer to that is most of the time. The problem I've had over the last 6 months is my illness keeps pushing through the medication. The Milligram amounts keep creeping up to reign in the cycling mood and we're getting to a point where the levels are probably too high, and I'd end up being a zombie. I'm having a review with my psychiatrist soon to, "Talk about my options." Don't think about "One flew over the cuckoos nest".
What I keep having to weigh up it the balance of wellness with side effects. I have to try and maintain some kind of normality, but I'm doing so many things I feel like I haven't got the time or the energy to do more, or take different medication, or come off this one and try that one. In amongst all of this I'm also trying to be a parent, a wife, a sister, a work colleague, a decent human being. Its really hard work and although I'm hugely better than I was, I wonder if this is as good as its going to get, because if it is, I'm still not sure if it's good enough.And if its not, what is there left. I expect I'll have to try and figure that one out. And it not going away. Not ever.
Wednesday, 16 June 2010
The secret life of the Muffin top
As my owner trudged along the path of slight madness, I worked hard at storing up her comfort food. I gave her sugar cravings and made her pop sweeties in her mouth when she was sad or bad. After some time, I became a soft, pastry dough type ring around her tummy. I was able to bounce and fold, I could pop above her trousers and give the world a peek of my magnificence. I became, "The Muffin Top."
I could bounce and sway, depending on her activity. The bike was fun as I could use her thighs like a ping pong bat, and jiggle to my hearts content. I tried to stop her reaching her toe nails to make them pretty. I made her enjoy adult fun in the dark. I masqueraded as a pregnancy, and I laughed when people asked if she was in the family way. I was soft and creamy, and she could balance her cup or plate on me whilst sitting on the sofa. I felt important, and hoped to keep growing. I could cast a shadow of my own, I was immense and dominating. All clothing had to give me priority as I grew and grew. I loved the new me.
She tried to keep me under control. She hid me under black, loose clothing to disguise me, and sometimes forced me into tight, Lycra pants to try and stop my hideous bulging. I kept telling her that a size 16 was average. I kept showing her other, larger muffin tops to try and encourage her to keep feeding me. I was in control.
But then, a healthy witch cast a spell. She introduced a new mantra for her life and repeated:
I will eat and I will claim,
that healthy eating is my aim,
The muffin top shall be no more,
I shall banish it out of my door,
No more wobbles, no more fat,
No cup or plate where I am sat,
My shadow will be long and thin,
Unhealthy foods go in the bin,
Goodbye to muffin the chocolate slut,
The door of fatness will now be shut.
I began to shrink, and felt myself losing my grip. She dissolved me with her activity and fruit. Instead of bouncing, I mildly jiggled and was pulled inward by abdominal muscles, my greatest enemy. Trousers began to laugh at me as they had room to play, and I was disappearing. My once unfit, overeating friend had turned on me, and I was soon to be no more. I was withering, fading , melting out of existence.
RIP muffin top
I could bounce and sway, depending on her activity. The bike was fun as I could use her thighs like a ping pong bat, and jiggle to my hearts content. I tried to stop her reaching her toe nails to make them pretty. I made her enjoy adult fun in the dark. I masqueraded as a pregnancy, and I laughed when people asked if she was in the family way. I was soft and creamy, and she could balance her cup or plate on me whilst sitting on the sofa. I felt important, and hoped to keep growing. I could cast a shadow of my own, I was immense and dominating. All clothing had to give me priority as I grew and grew. I loved the new me.
She tried to keep me under control. She hid me under black, loose clothing to disguise me, and sometimes forced me into tight, Lycra pants to try and stop my hideous bulging. I kept telling her that a size 16 was average. I kept showing her other, larger muffin tops to try and encourage her to keep feeding me. I was in control.
But then, a healthy witch cast a spell. She introduced a new mantra for her life and repeated:
I will eat and I will claim,
that healthy eating is my aim,
The muffin top shall be no more,
I shall banish it out of my door,
No more wobbles, no more fat,
No cup or plate where I am sat,
My shadow will be long and thin,
Unhealthy foods go in the bin,
Goodbye to muffin the chocolate slut,
The door of fatness will now be shut.
I began to shrink, and felt myself losing my grip. She dissolved me with her activity and fruit. Instead of bouncing, I mildly jiggled and was pulled inward by abdominal muscles, my greatest enemy. Trousers began to laugh at me as they had room to play, and I was disappearing. My once unfit, overeating friend had turned on me, and I was soon to be no more. I was withering, fading , melting out of existence.
RIP muffin top
Monday, 24 May 2010
Exercise - the evil of the cross trainer
When you are so depressed that even breathing is an effort, the thought of actually going to the gym is abhorrent and ridiculous all at the same time. Why would a fat and verging on suicidal woman, want to go and run on a machine like a hamster? In front of people? In a silly outfit of Lycra from the 1980's? I know - it sounds like a bad idea, BUT, endorphins make you happy. Happy people don't want to kill themselves. That's the theory.
Part of my return to mental health is the whole "Healthy living" thing, so after a chat with my cpn I finally go to the gym to sign up for "GP referral" - exercise on the cheap, with anonymity thrown in if you want. No one needs to know why you are there. It doesn't involve going up to the front desk and saying, "Is there a special scheme for the fat mad people", but does involve being weighed (OMG), having my blood pressure taken and being shown around by a very muscular, thin, super fit women in her 50's. I bet I could bounce ping pong balls off her abbs.
Sadly she actually introduces me to some other gp referrals who are absolutely ancient, heart patients and stroke survivors. I immediately do not fit in and promise that I will not be going for coffee with them affter my session of torture. They are lovely but I'm afraid if I break the news to them that I am mentally ill in quite a serious way, they might keel over with the shock or something.
So I am led around the machines - its a masochists version of Alton Towers, and masquerades as "fun" and "good for you." I try my first effort on the cross trainer. Its the weirdest sensation and completely throws off my sense of balance - and yes I do look ridiculous. After 3 minutes I'm heaving for breath and my legs are burning and wobbly. I am the epitome of the unfit. Lord only knows how I'm going to try anything else. We do bike, treadmill, rower, arm presses and some weird leg weights thing. At the end I'm so exhausted I might not make it to the car. My legs are so unstable I might not be able to depress the pedals or focus. My face is as red as a radish and I hurt in places I never knew existed.
But hold the phone. I also have a mild feeling of exhilaration. And its not of the psychotic tendency either. ooh. Maybe this is what people get addicted to, the mild euphoria and lightness of step. I like it. Sadly it doesn't last long and the following day I think I have rigor mortise. I have to roll out of bed as i can't lift my legs up properly and shuffling is the best I can do. It takes about 3 days to pass, but, with leggings and water bottle in hand, I trudge back to the air conditioned yet sweaty room, and commit to a program of wellness. I decide that I should try it at least 3 times, not because I want to, but because CBT tells you too. And I want to be well, and I do as I'm told.
Bring on the butt cheeks of Iron. Mad woman's in the house.
Part of my return to mental health is the whole "Healthy living" thing, so after a chat with my cpn I finally go to the gym to sign up for "GP referral" - exercise on the cheap, with anonymity thrown in if you want. No one needs to know why you are there. It doesn't involve going up to the front desk and saying, "Is there a special scheme for the fat mad people", but does involve being weighed (OMG), having my blood pressure taken and being shown around by a very muscular, thin, super fit women in her 50's. I bet I could bounce ping pong balls off her abbs.
Sadly she actually introduces me to some other gp referrals who are absolutely ancient, heart patients and stroke survivors. I immediately do not fit in and promise that I will not be going for coffee with them affter my session of torture. They are lovely but I'm afraid if I break the news to them that I am mentally ill in quite a serious way, they might keel over with the shock or something.
So I am led around the machines - its a masochists version of Alton Towers, and masquerades as "fun" and "good for you." I try my first effort on the cross trainer. Its the weirdest sensation and completely throws off my sense of balance - and yes I do look ridiculous. After 3 minutes I'm heaving for breath and my legs are burning and wobbly. I am the epitome of the unfit. Lord only knows how I'm going to try anything else. We do bike, treadmill, rower, arm presses and some weird leg weights thing. At the end I'm so exhausted I might not make it to the car. My legs are so unstable I might not be able to depress the pedals or focus. My face is as red as a radish and I hurt in places I never knew existed.
But hold the phone. I also have a mild feeling of exhilaration. And its not of the psychotic tendency either. ooh. Maybe this is what people get addicted to, the mild euphoria and lightness of step. I like it. Sadly it doesn't last long and the following day I think I have rigor mortise. I have to roll out of bed as i can't lift my legs up properly and shuffling is the best I can do. It takes about 3 days to pass, but, with leggings and water bottle in hand, I trudge back to the air conditioned yet sweaty room, and commit to a program of wellness. I decide that I should try it at least 3 times, not because I want to, but because CBT tells you too. And I want to be well, and I do as I'm told.
Bring on the butt cheeks of Iron. Mad woman's in the house.
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