Within a few weeks of taking my anti-psychotic medication, I begin to eat like an Olympic body builder. The ravenous never ending hunger I talked about - well it is a monster! I find myself quite regularly, buying family packs of Wispa bars, and pretending to myself that I'll eat one now and save the rest for later. Yeah right. Alcoholics try this behaviour with booze. I'll have a little bit now, then tomorrow I'll finish off the bottle. An hour later, they're back down the "offie" pretending they dropped the bottle on the concrete and need a new one.
Its not just chocolate either. I keep having 2 breakfasts - one when I get up, and then another one about 9am. Then I'm eating a huge lunch, snacking in between and feeling guilty as I know its going to land on my midriff and expose me. My body doesn't lie. But whilst I'm still depressed eating is the only thing I seem to enjoy. The trouble is, becoming Mrs Tiggiewinkle doesn't do much for my self esteem. Its a rotten cycle to be in - eating because you are depressed and hungry because of the medication - then getting fat and feeling rubbish so you eat for comfort. And on it goes.
So when I was told about the healthy living group, I assumed it would be a bit like the CBT group, a large group of people and someone helping us with new techniques. When I arrive there are only 5 of us around a very small table, 2 mental health workers and a set of scales. Thankfully I am the slim Jim of the group - I know that sounds awful, but its a ray of hope for me as I feel that I am actually enormous. We all have to take our shoes off and stand on the scales. I want to cry as I experience yet another rock bottom. No-one really speaks and no-one discloses their illness. There is shame even amongst fellow sufferers. One person has been on the course before and is back for more inspiration. Lord knows how big he was before poor love.
After the weigh in we talk about food groups and portion sizes. I know its all common sense, but to own in within a group stops the denial and engages you with a desire to look after yourself a bit better. Staving off depression comes in many forms and diet is a great place to start. Resentfully I take a food diary sheet to fill in during the week. What this does is stops me eating crap and brings me up short. I really need to get to grips with it and nurture my body as well as my mind. We're going to be doing this for 6 weeks and then we'll see how we've all got on. The facilitator states very clearly that "This is not a diet group." We don't stop eating and starve, but we eat more intelligently, and learn what foods will give us energy, vitamins and won't damage our bodies. Apparently, it turns out, I've been eating about twice the sensible amount of calories every day. No wonder I'm chubby mummy.
I've met other depression sufferers and they can't eat at all when they are ill. They cannot swallow and everything tastes like cardboard. This is just as damaging for the body and mind. I wonder if there is a group for these people too?
On top of the healthy living group, I've been signed up to do exercise on GP referral. It means I pay a lot less but still run around like a mouse on a wheel, amongst svelte and tanned lovelies. In this environment I am the walrus. A lovely lady inducts me in to the hall of pain, and I hate the fact that after 3 minutes on a cross trainer, I think I'm going to throw up and my legs have gone wobbly. I'm glad that I didn't have to go to the gym on my own steam and sign up. I don't want to have the whole discussion of do you cater for mentally ill fat people? I get my own little program to do, and its suggested I go 2 or 3 times per week. This is really going to take huge effort. I detest the gym. I feel awkward, self conscious, old and fat. If my self esteem was low before, its now under the floor by ten feet. I'm surrounded by huffing weight lifters, and stick thin women sweating profusely. I am so far out of my comfort zone its not funny. This is where I realise that I am willing to go to any lengths to get well. I am doing so many things that go against the grain, I must want to recover.
I tell you this, if I do all of this and still feel rubbish, I may have to reassess my life in a totally different way. And Lord only knows what that might involve.
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
Tuesday, 6 April 2010
The compulsive eating zombie
Anti-psychotic medication is "Heavy duty" medication, my psychotherapist tells me. Lately I feel like she looks at me with a degree of pity, and treats me very gently. In therapy terms, she tries not to treat the illness specifically, but treat the person and their symptoms, and avoid labels. She bangs on about drinking water all the time so "I can flush it all out of my system". I must admit, I feel like a sloth has inhabited my body and I zone out on a regular basis. I'm used to being all high speed, sharp thought and energy, but now I am struggling to get motivated and I cannot hold on to many thoughts at the same time. I find myself standing around quite a bit, not knowing what exactly I was doing, or where I am going.
Something else is happening too. I wake up and feel like I haven't eaten for a week. I am absolutely ravenous and instead of slowly warming up with a coffee and the news, I am head stuck in cupboard, pouring myself a sink full of crunchy nut cornflakes and ramming them in at a speed of knots. Then I'm still hungry and so it goes throughout the day. I was warned about this, so I make a promise to myself that when the mania, depression and side effects ease, I will then look at my diet and health regime. Being borderline suicidal and not eating anything that tastes nice is like punishment. I don't have the joy of alcohol, drugs, inappropriate sexual relationships and other mood changing bad habits. Food is all I have left and I am now nurturing a very unhealthy relationship with it, and be damned....
I slowly turn in to a very large shadow of my former self. Everything gets a bit tighter, I feel a slight sway as I begin to waddle (this may well be my imagination I hasten to add), and when I see myself in the mirror I look like my great grandmother. Lovely though she was, chubby is more accurate a description. Its not pretty. Intellectually I know I'm not up for a morbidly obese award, or a gastric band - I see other women who are most definitely larger than me, but in my head I am the most enormous person alive. If I keep going I am going to be wearing leggings and large sweatshirts and have cankles!
My cpn tells me that although the medication is slowing down my metabolism and increasing my appetite, its me who is putting the food in my body. I agree with her in a very resentful manner. She may as well have said its all your own fault you fat bitch. My husband also puts a very loving boot in when he reminds me of how nice and confident I am when I am smaller. He was practising the whole, "Lets be honest and open" thing, but I'd rather he was less honest about my appearance quite frankly. It was a day when he knew as soon as it had come out of his mouth, it was the wrong thing to say. Poor old men. They are always caught between a rock and a hard place. So CPN and I discuss my weight and my options. She tells me that the side effects will ease, and I will "Level out" at some point. Its at this point I can join the "Healthy living group."
Introducing mental health fat club. A club for the insanely fat!
Something else is happening too. I wake up and feel like I haven't eaten for a week. I am absolutely ravenous and instead of slowly warming up with a coffee and the news, I am head stuck in cupboard, pouring myself a sink full of crunchy nut cornflakes and ramming them in at a speed of knots. Then I'm still hungry and so it goes throughout the day. I was warned about this, so I make a promise to myself that when the mania, depression and side effects ease, I will then look at my diet and health regime. Being borderline suicidal and not eating anything that tastes nice is like punishment. I don't have the joy of alcohol, drugs, inappropriate sexual relationships and other mood changing bad habits. Food is all I have left and I am now nurturing a very unhealthy relationship with it, and be damned....
I slowly turn in to a very large shadow of my former self. Everything gets a bit tighter, I feel a slight sway as I begin to waddle (this may well be my imagination I hasten to add), and when I see myself in the mirror I look like my great grandmother. Lovely though she was, chubby is more accurate a description. Its not pretty. Intellectually I know I'm not up for a morbidly obese award, or a gastric band - I see other women who are most definitely larger than me, but in my head I am the most enormous person alive. If I keep going I am going to be wearing leggings and large sweatshirts and have cankles!
My cpn tells me that although the medication is slowing down my metabolism and increasing my appetite, its me who is putting the food in my body. I agree with her in a very resentful manner. She may as well have said its all your own fault you fat bitch. My husband also puts a very loving boot in when he reminds me of how nice and confident I am when I am smaller. He was practising the whole, "Lets be honest and open" thing, but I'd rather he was less honest about my appearance quite frankly. It was a day when he knew as soon as it had come out of his mouth, it was the wrong thing to say. Poor old men. They are always caught between a rock and a hard place. So CPN and I discuss my weight and my options. She tells me that the side effects will ease, and I will "Level out" at some point. Its at this point I can join the "Healthy living group."
Introducing mental health fat club. A club for the insanely fat!
Saturday, 3 April 2010
Lets talk about anti-psychotic medication
I prefer to call them mood stabalisers as people are less afraid of you then. They are not sedatives, but reduce the level of Dopamine in your brain, which apparently, slows you down. It was a horrid rock versus hard place choice when I was told that this type of medication was now to be my best friend. The up side, they tell me, is that I will no longer be off with the fairies, the rushy thinking and confusion will cease and I will, once again, be sane. The down side is that I'll have side effects. As I've said before, these include weight gain, dry mouth, involuntary twitches, sluggishness. I'm going to be a fat, shuddering, half asleep , slightly less mental, shadow of my former self. I am deeply resentful of my new illness and have a bit of a strop.
A wise person once told me accepting it doesn't mean you have to like it. And I don't like it. I remember a few years ago, being so anti medication that I used to use self will and defiance to get through depressive episodes. When it started to get worse, I actually accepted anti-depressants but had to take them with a friend sitting with me, as I was so terrified of what it might do to me. And now here I am approximately 7 years later, loading up with all kinds of voodoo magic, dizzy pills and the like, and I don't really have a choice. Well, that isn't the absolute truth, but if I refused medication, I may well have ended up somewhere far, far away in body and mind.
So I take my prescription to the local pharmacist, and as I hand it to him, he looks a little uncomfortable and states that, "We don't keep this medication, but I can order it in for you for delivery tomorrow?" Now I feel really mentally ill and in need of special medication. A lovely lady arrives at the house the next morning, and hands me over the little white bag , and I read the horrible leaflet inside and dread having to take it. This is a rock bottom. I wish I were someone else, not mentally ill, and not about to take scary tablets.
Everyone is in bed, and I sit with the magic tablets in my hand. Its very "Alice in wonderland" and I do feel that I'm about to travel down the rabbit hole. So I pop them in and wait. 30 minutes in and I feel woozy and most disconcerting of all is that my right arm suddenly starts jumping up and down on its own. I'm a partial marionette. Its springing about uncontrollably and I look like a deranged break dancer. I'm also feeling sluggish and droopy eyed, but I cannot sleep as the alien arm is dancing to its own tune. I actually end up laying on it to stop it moving whilst trying to keep my eyes open and watch a DVD. It's all a bit zombie town.
Finally I'm so zonked I pass out.
When I wake up in the morning, I feel like I've been hit over the head with a badger, and someone has poured sand down my throat. It takes several extremely strong coffees to bring me back to normality and I cannot think straight for love nor money. I have a good chat with my CPN the following week, and apparently, I am now thinking at the speed of normal people. I have one thought at a time, or no thoughts at all. Also, I have the dawning realisation that I am sleeping all night long with no hideous nightmares. After 4 years of disturbed sleep, I can finally sleep like a baby.
Over the 6 week suicidal period and slow introduction to scarily heavy duty medication, I do actually start to feel better. What I have also started to come to terms with is the fact that I am no longer the girl I was, and my internal landscape has had a mental horticultural overhaul. What was once overgrown, slightly chaotic and and rather magical, is now a lawn, some daffodils and a patio. Without wanting to sound dramatic or masochistic, I miss the old garden. When you spend a large amount of time in a maelstrom, you understand it and the devastation that can come with it. Its a roller coaster ride - frightening but exhilarating at the same time.
Welcome to life in the slowly spinning tea cups.
A wise person once told me accepting it doesn't mean you have to like it. And I don't like it. I remember a few years ago, being so anti medication that I used to use self will and defiance to get through depressive episodes. When it started to get worse, I actually accepted anti-depressants but had to take them with a friend sitting with me, as I was so terrified of what it might do to me. And now here I am approximately 7 years later, loading up with all kinds of voodoo magic, dizzy pills and the like, and I don't really have a choice. Well, that isn't the absolute truth, but if I refused medication, I may well have ended up somewhere far, far away in body and mind.
So I take my prescription to the local pharmacist, and as I hand it to him, he looks a little uncomfortable and states that, "We don't keep this medication, but I can order it in for you for delivery tomorrow?" Now I feel really mentally ill and in need of special medication. A lovely lady arrives at the house the next morning, and hands me over the little white bag , and I read the horrible leaflet inside and dread having to take it. This is a rock bottom. I wish I were someone else, not mentally ill, and not about to take scary tablets.
Everyone is in bed, and I sit with the magic tablets in my hand. Its very "Alice in wonderland" and I do feel that I'm about to travel down the rabbit hole. So I pop them in and wait. 30 minutes in and I feel woozy and most disconcerting of all is that my right arm suddenly starts jumping up and down on its own. I'm a partial marionette. Its springing about uncontrollably and I look like a deranged break dancer. I'm also feeling sluggish and droopy eyed, but I cannot sleep as the alien arm is dancing to its own tune. I actually end up laying on it to stop it moving whilst trying to keep my eyes open and watch a DVD. It's all a bit zombie town.
Finally I'm so zonked I pass out.
When I wake up in the morning, I feel like I've been hit over the head with a badger, and someone has poured sand down my throat. It takes several extremely strong coffees to bring me back to normality and I cannot think straight for love nor money. I have a good chat with my CPN the following week, and apparently, I am now thinking at the speed of normal people. I have one thought at a time, or no thoughts at all. Also, I have the dawning realisation that I am sleeping all night long with no hideous nightmares. After 4 years of disturbed sleep, I can finally sleep like a baby.
Over the 6 week suicidal period and slow introduction to scarily heavy duty medication, I do actually start to feel better. What I have also started to come to terms with is the fact that I am no longer the girl I was, and my internal landscape has had a mental horticultural overhaul. What was once overgrown, slightly chaotic and and rather magical, is now a lawn, some daffodils and a patio. Without wanting to sound dramatic or masochistic, I miss the old garden. When you spend a large amount of time in a maelstrom, you understand it and the devastation that can come with it. Its a roller coaster ride - frightening but exhilarating at the same time.
Welcome to life in the slowly spinning tea cups.
Saturday, 27 March 2010
Feeling suicidal and being suicidal are 2 very different things
"A great many people think about suicide, but the majority do not go on to kill themselves. Like them, you can help yourself and you can get help from other people. There is no feeling so terrible that it cannot be changed. There is no difficulty that is insurmountable." (WWW.Mind.org.UK)
It's easy enough reading that statement, but when you are right in the middle of it, it really isn't as clear cut. For me, I have a readily available mind list of reasons not to die tonight. I also have a suitcase of CBT techniques, a raft of friends and family, and a stubborn streak a mile long. Mostly my focus is my children and my loved ones. I follow the rule of, "If I can endure this for the next 12 hours, I can get through it until tomorrow, and tomorrow may be a different day." Even with all of these safety skills, it hard work.
The desire to terminate your life isn't a fluffy and whimsical dreamy thought that passes through your mind. It's a leaden and violent intrusion, that crashes in to your entire being and suffocates you. You cannot get away from it and it taunts you. I remember when I was first in psychiatric services, my husband requested that I don't kill myself as he couldn't bear the thought of finding me dead on the sofa, and then having to explain it to the children. I can see why he felt that way. I wouldn't want to explain a dead wife to 2 children under 5 either. But a suicidal thought sits piggy back on your head, and it natters incessantly about doom and that dying is really the best thing to. It'll put you and everyone else out of their misery.
I am terribly aware that suicide is a very dark and rather taboo subject. So instead of random fear, lets do some statistics to ease you in.
"Although the overall rate of death by suicide is falling, more than 4,300 people still die by suicide in England and Wales each year.[...] In the case of depression, studies have shown that, on average, the risk of suicide is about 15 times higher than the average for the general population. [25] However, this is likely to be an underestimate, as many who die by suicide may have been experiencing undiagnosed depressive illness. The Mental Health Foundation estimates that 70 per cent of recorded suicides are by people experiencing depression, [26] often undiagnosed. [...] Depression is often accompanied by thoughts of suicide; indeed suicidal ideation is an important element in the diagnosis of depression. The deeper the depression, the more likely a person is to experience suicidal ideation. However, suicidal acts become more likely when a person is coming out of a depressive episode and energy levels and motivation become stronger" (WWW.mind.org.UK)
This all sounds a little contradictory - I'm too depressed to kill myself, but when I feel better I'll do it. To be honest, you can never truly know the mind of the person who is feeling suicidal, and a very small thing could push a person over the edge. The other thing I have learnt is that if someone really and totally wants to end their life, there is very little you can do. This is a tough one, particularity if it's someone you love and treasure. But what I do want you to focus on here, is that suicidal thinking is not necessarily suicidal doing. You don't have to panic. It takes strength, courage and absolute conviction to end your life. And it takes a while to go that far down that particular route. Thankfully, for those of us with a CPN and family support, you can talk through your thoughts and know that if you cannot handle it alone, they can get you help.And if necessary, very quickly. I my experience, to spend 6 weeks, trying your best to not buy into the thoughts in your head about dying, takes incredible effort. It takes patience, trust in the process of recovery, and a belief that eventually, your life will be worth living again and the thoughts will go away. For those people who have no support, either family or health, their chances are probably less than average.
What really annoys me is when you're on the tube in London, and the announcement comes over the tannoy about "A fatality" or "An obstruction on the line." You hear a lot of sighing, and phrases such as, "Oh how selfish", or "Why couldn't they do it somewhere less inconvenient." Nobody wants to see behind the inconvenience; the son or daughter, the mother....what tragedy and despair pushed them to deciding that death is the only option. I pray that you be a little less unloving and rash next time you here the ping-pong tannoy spring into life.
So here is my 6 weeks of hell in a few short bullet points - its easier to bear that way:
1) First 2 weeks, loud speaker volume on channel death, 16 hours a day whilst awake, but thankfully, off whilst asleep. Do the very basic stuff that I have to do and sit still and wait for it to pass. Rule for living - Do NOT act on thoughts.
2) Mid-phase week 3 and 4: Mid level noise pollution from channel death, with a few special intrusive thoughts from "hang yourself weekly" magazine. Functioning better, but still waiting for the madness to pass.Rule for living - sleep a lot, eat, rest and keep it simple. Do NOT act on thoughts.
3) Entering the calm phase - week 5 and 6: Someone has found the remote control and the noise is barely audible. Every now and then a few noises pop in but they are drowned out by reality and the mundanity of the normal, and slightly more sane, life. Rule for living - Remember There is no feeling so terrible that it cannot be changed.That there is no difficulty that is insurmountable. The insanity will pass. Get on with the business of living.
...and relax.
It's easy enough reading that statement, but when you are right in the middle of it, it really isn't as clear cut. For me, I have a readily available mind list of reasons not to die tonight. I also have a suitcase of CBT techniques, a raft of friends and family, and a stubborn streak a mile long. Mostly my focus is my children and my loved ones. I follow the rule of, "If I can endure this for the next 12 hours, I can get through it until tomorrow, and tomorrow may be a different day." Even with all of these safety skills, it hard work.
The desire to terminate your life isn't a fluffy and whimsical dreamy thought that passes through your mind. It's a leaden and violent intrusion, that crashes in to your entire being and suffocates you. You cannot get away from it and it taunts you. I remember when I was first in psychiatric services, my husband requested that I don't kill myself as he couldn't bear the thought of finding me dead on the sofa, and then having to explain it to the children. I can see why he felt that way. I wouldn't want to explain a dead wife to 2 children under 5 either. But a suicidal thought sits piggy back on your head, and it natters incessantly about doom and that dying is really the best thing to. It'll put you and everyone else out of their misery.
I am terribly aware that suicide is a very dark and rather taboo subject. So instead of random fear, lets do some statistics to ease you in.
"Although the overall rate of death by suicide is falling, more than 4,300 people still die by suicide in England and Wales each year.[...] In the case of depression, studies have shown that, on average, the risk of suicide is about 15 times higher than the average for the general population. [25] However, this is likely to be an underestimate, as many who die by suicide may have been experiencing undiagnosed depressive illness. The Mental Health Foundation estimates that 70 per cent of recorded suicides are by people experiencing depression, [26] often undiagnosed. [...] Depression is often accompanied by thoughts of suicide; indeed suicidal ideation is an important element in the diagnosis of depression. The deeper the depression, the more likely a person is to experience suicidal ideation. However, suicidal acts become more likely when a person is coming out of a depressive episode and energy levels and motivation become stronger" (WWW.mind.org.UK)
This all sounds a little contradictory - I'm too depressed to kill myself, but when I feel better I'll do it. To be honest, you can never truly know the mind of the person who is feeling suicidal, and a very small thing could push a person over the edge. The other thing I have learnt is that if someone really and totally wants to end their life, there is very little you can do. This is a tough one, particularity if it's someone you love and treasure. But what I do want you to focus on here, is that suicidal thinking is not necessarily suicidal doing. You don't have to panic. It takes strength, courage and absolute conviction to end your life. And it takes a while to go that far down that particular route. Thankfully, for those of us with a CPN and family support, you can talk through your thoughts and know that if you cannot handle it alone, they can get you help.And if necessary, very quickly. I my experience, to spend 6 weeks, trying your best to not buy into the thoughts in your head about dying, takes incredible effort. It takes patience, trust in the process of recovery, and a belief that eventually, your life will be worth living again and the thoughts will go away. For those people who have no support, either family or health, their chances are probably less than average.
What really annoys me is when you're on the tube in London, and the announcement comes over the tannoy about "A fatality" or "An obstruction on the line." You hear a lot of sighing, and phrases such as, "Oh how selfish", or "Why couldn't they do it somewhere less inconvenient." Nobody wants to see behind the inconvenience; the son or daughter, the mother....what tragedy and despair pushed them to deciding that death is the only option. I pray that you be a little less unloving and rash next time you here the ping-pong tannoy spring into life.
So here is my 6 weeks of hell in a few short bullet points - its easier to bear that way:
1) First 2 weeks, loud speaker volume on channel death, 16 hours a day whilst awake, but thankfully, off whilst asleep. Do the very basic stuff that I have to do and sit still and wait for it to pass. Rule for living - Do NOT act on thoughts.
2) Mid-phase week 3 and 4: Mid level noise pollution from channel death, with a few special intrusive thoughts from "hang yourself weekly" magazine. Functioning better, but still waiting for the madness to pass.Rule for living - sleep a lot, eat, rest and keep it simple. Do NOT act on thoughts.
3) Entering the calm phase - week 5 and 6: Someone has found the remote control and the noise is barely audible. Every now and then a few noises pop in but they are drowned out by reality and the mundanity of the normal, and slightly more sane, life. Rule for living - Remember There is no feeling so terrible that it cannot be changed.That there is no difficulty that is insurmountable. The insanity will pass. Get on with the business of living.
...and relax.
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
Finally - a diagnosis of bi-polar
On reflection, my mood has never been truly stable, and in periods of hyper mania, I've either got on peoples nerves, exhausted them with my energy, or left them feeling baffled and confused. I can clearly remember being told to slow down, and actually not being able to. So where were we? Oh yes, going to the psychiatrist.
So, I book a taxi to take me to my psychiatric appointment as I'm not allowed to drive after my operation, and request that he wait for me to take me home after. On arrival I sit in the waiting area, and scanning around the room, realise I've been booked in on what looks like geriatric mental health afternoon. I must be the youngest by about 40 years, and wonder if this is where I will be in the future. Everyone one looks disorientated and vague - maybe this is actually a good frame of mind to be in?
I'm finding it hard to sit still and am literally jumping in my seat and cannot concentrate. All I attempt to focus on is the request I have in my mind which is, "Can you help me?" I feel erratic, agitated and so deeply depressed, I feel as though a force in pushing me down into my seat and I can hardly see. I just want it to end. I feel breathless and frightened. I finally get called in, and get a whiff of TCP and old cigarette smell as I pass the old duffers into the waiting room. I sit on my designated chair, hunched over and fractious. I must look like a rabbit caught in headlights. My lovely psychiatrist has a slow, smooth voice and he asks me what is going on and requests that I communicate to him my thoughts and feelings. This is actually quite difficult and I've got so much going on in my head I can't seem to hold on to a train of thought for very long. He keeps asking me if anything has happened, other than the accumulation of stress incidents. I keep telling him no, and continue to try and describe the pictures in my head. I have an internal visual world that is like an I-MAX cinema screen and I attempt to translate these pictures into words of explanation. I am speaking so fast I can hardly keep up with myself, and at the same time, break down in sobs as I feel so depressed I am actually ready to give up.
Sitting there, I feel that I had lost touch with my insight and turned into a raving, rambling thing, with no consistency, boundaries or understanding. I am out of control. What brought me back into the moment was my psychiatrist picking up the phone. I immediately panic, thinking he is ringing the mental health ward, and my legs literally begin running on the spot, ready to run for it. But then he speaks to reception, and asks if my old CPN is around, and could she come down. For a second I feel some relief, but then think she is being summoned to give me a lift to the psychiatric unit. The tension and fear is unbearable. I'm still rambling when she comes in the room, and immediately she says how awful I look. It must be odd for them as most of the time I'm functioning at a reasonable level. To see me on my knees, babbling and gesticulating wildly in some ways is a reassurance. They kept me in services for the 3-5 year window for exactly this reason. They needed to see me this way, instead of me just telling them how I can be.
What happened next was both a relief and a moment of despair. My psychiatrist says I am having a manic episode, mixed with a severe depression which is known as a mixed phase episode. He politely explains that I have Bi-polar disorder, and that I am going to have to take a mood stabalising medication today and for the foreseeable future. The cpn and the psychiatrist both start talking to each other about different types of medication, trying to agree what would be best to level me out. At this point I feel left out. They both turn to me smiling like weird parents, and tell me I have to take a medication called quetiapine. It will bring down my mania and will work well with my anti-depressant. Apparently, although mentally I will be better off, I may gain weight, twitch, have a dry mouth and constipation, feel sluggish and generally a bit naff. For a while. My response is, "Great! I'm going to be mental and fat." Well its either that, or get even worse and go on a mental health holiday for 6 months. Maybe not.
Although throughout my mental health journey up until this point, there was a possibility of being diagnosed as Bi-polar, to actually have it confirmed is devastating. Life as I know it has changed beyond recognition and the fall out will be significant. I know my illness is treatable, but to take anti-psychotic medication feels like the worst thing that could happen. Its a confirmation of being seriously mentally ill that bothers me. I know it makes sense, the diagnosis, the medication, but I don't actually want to be like this. It feels so very final.It won't go away. I wonder if people will now categorise me with the stereo typical serious mental health image - the one where I shuffle, poke my tongue out uncontrollably and scare small children by my general demeanour. I take my prescription resentfully and scurry off with my head in my boots.
The taxi driver is still in the car park and the charge is huge. I've actually been in the centre an hour and I now have to go home via the chemist. When I hand over my magic slip, the pharmacists face changes slightly and says, "Oh we don't have this in normally so I'll order it for you and get it delivered to your house tomorrow." I feel like shouting, "Yes I'm fucking mental, so fuck off!" I think I have some residual anger regards my new diagnosis.
All I want to do is go home and go to bed. For a long time. This is where my mania will stop and the period of suicidal depression will begin. I'm entering 6 weeks of living hell.
So, I book a taxi to take me to my psychiatric appointment as I'm not allowed to drive after my operation, and request that he wait for me to take me home after. On arrival I sit in the waiting area, and scanning around the room, realise I've been booked in on what looks like geriatric mental health afternoon. I must be the youngest by about 40 years, and wonder if this is where I will be in the future. Everyone one looks disorientated and vague - maybe this is actually a good frame of mind to be in?
I'm finding it hard to sit still and am literally jumping in my seat and cannot concentrate. All I attempt to focus on is the request I have in my mind which is, "Can you help me?" I feel erratic, agitated and so deeply depressed, I feel as though a force in pushing me down into my seat and I can hardly see. I just want it to end. I feel breathless and frightened. I finally get called in, and get a whiff of TCP and old cigarette smell as I pass the old duffers into the waiting room. I sit on my designated chair, hunched over and fractious. I must look like a rabbit caught in headlights. My lovely psychiatrist has a slow, smooth voice and he asks me what is going on and requests that I communicate to him my thoughts and feelings. This is actually quite difficult and I've got so much going on in my head I can't seem to hold on to a train of thought for very long. He keeps asking me if anything has happened, other than the accumulation of stress incidents. I keep telling him no, and continue to try and describe the pictures in my head. I have an internal visual world that is like an I-MAX cinema screen and I attempt to translate these pictures into words of explanation. I am speaking so fast I can hardly keep up with myself, and at the same time, break down in sobs as I feel so depressed I am actually ready to give up.
Sitting there, I feel that I had lost touch with my insight and turned into a raving, rambling thing, with no consistency, boundaries or understanding. I am out of control. What brought me back into the moment was my psychiatrist picking up the phone. I immediately panic, thinking he is ringing the mental health ward, and my legs literally begin running on the spot, ready to run for it. But then he speaks to reception, and asks if my old CPN is around, and could she come down. For a second I feel some relief, but then think she is being summoned to give me a lift to the psychiatric unit. The tension and fear is unbearable. I'm still rambling when she comes in the room, and immediately she says how awful I look. It must be odd for them as most of the time I'm functioning at a reasonable level. To see me on my knees, babbling and gesticulating wildly in some ways is a reassurance. They kept me in services for the 3-5 year window for exactly this reason. They needed to see me this way, instead of me just telling them how I can be.
What happened next was both a relief and a moment of despair. My psychiatrist says I am having a manic episode, mixed with a severe depression which is known as a mixed phase episode. He politely explains that I have Bi-polar disorder, and that I am going to have to take a mood stabalising medication today and for the foreseeable future. The cpn and the psychiatrist both start talking to each other about different types of medication, trying to agree what would be best to level me out. At this point I feel left out. They both turn to me smiling like weird parents, and tell me I have to take a medication called quetiapine. It will bring down my mania and will work well with my anti-depressant. Apparently, although mentally I will be better off, I may gain weight, twitch, have a dry mouth and constipation, feel sluggish and generally a bit naff. For a while. My response is, "Great! I'm going to be mental and fat." Well its either that, or get even worse and go on a mental health holiday for 6 months. Maybe not.
Although throughout my mental health journey up until this point, there was a possibility of being diagnosed as Bi-polar, to actually have it confirmed is devastating. Life as I know it has changed beyond recognition and the fall out will be significant. I know my illness is treatable, but to take anti-psychotic medication feels like the worst thing that could happen. Its a confirmation of being seriously mentally ill that bothers me. I know it makes sense, the diagnosis, the medication, but I don't actually want to be like this. It feels so very final.It won't go away. I wonder if people will now categorise me with the stereo typical serious mental health image - the one where I shuffle, poke my tongue out uncontrollably and scare small children by my general demeanour. I take my prescription resentfully and scurry off with my head in my boots.
The taxi driver is still in the car park and the charge is huge. I've actually been in the centre an hour and I now have to go home via the chemist. When I hand over my magic slip, the pharmacists face changes slightly and says, "Oh we don't have this in normally so I'll order it for you and get it delivered to your house tomorrow." I feel like shouting, "Yes I'm fucking mental, so fuck off!" I think I have some residual anger regards my new diagnosis.
All I want to do is go home and go to bed. For a long time. This is where my mania will stop and the period of suicidal depression will begin. I'm entering 6 weeks of living hell.
Monday, 22 March 2010
and the nightmare continues
The whole family go to my mother-in-laws for the weekend as I am unable to function. I lay about on the sofa feeling slightly spaced, but I'm grateful for the peace and quiet, and I don't have to do any lifting or carrying of children. I have both boys at home with me on a Monday, so I ask my friend and her son if they would like to help me out whilst my husband is at work. She agrees and the day starts well. The sun is out, I feel a little better and all of the boys are playing in the garden together.
As we drink coffee and chat in my dining area, we can watch the boys running about through my big patio doors. It feels warm, cosy and almost idyllic. Then a scream rips through the clear air and my son comes flying down the garden holding his arm. Even from a reasonable distance away I can see it is horribly bent. He has just become a re-break statistic. He is absolutely beside himself and wailing, and regardless of my stitches I lift him up to my chest and hold him. I am appalled and distressed, but manage to get my friend to get the phone as I ring an ambulance. They're going to want me to set up an account at the rate we're going. When they arrive, they look annoyed as I think they thought we should have driven ourselves to A+E. I explain that I've just had an operation, cannot drive and will need someone to look after my other son as I go to the hospital. They are all apologetic and confirm that yes, its really broken and we'll have to go back to hospital and go through the whole procedure again.
I begin to get paranoid in the ambulance and wonder if they think I'm abusing my child or am emotionally absent and don't look after him. The whole "Its my fault" self esteem trigger is through the roof. Its horrible to know he's going to have to have yet another operation, a full arm cast, and to top it off, he'll be in plaster for at least the first 2 weeks of school. When I call my husband he is furious, and is even more furious that he's got to do the whole hospital thing again. I feel like giving up. There have been too many stressful events going on and to be honest, my grey matter is imploding. And I slowly have the dawning realisation that I am in mental health free fall. I'm hanging on by my finger nails. When I said to my cpn that I could make it for a few weeks before seeing my psychiatrist, I really thought I could. I'm now beginning to wonder.
As we drink coffee and chat in my dining area, we can watch the boys running about through my big patio doors. It feels warm, cosy and almost idyllic. Then a scream rips through the clear air and my son comes flying down the garden holding his arm. Even from a reasonable distance away I can see it is horribly bent. He has just become a re-break statistic. He is absolutely beside himself and wailing, and regardless of my stitches I lift him up to my chest and hold him. I am appalled and distressed, but manage to get my friend to get the phone as I ring an ambulance. They're going to want me to set up an account at the rate we're going. When they arrive, they look annoyed as I think they thought we should have driven ourselves to A+E. I explain that I've just had an operation, cannot drive and will need someone to look after my other son as I go to the hospital. They are all apologetic and confirm that yes, its really broken and we'll have to go back to hospital and go through the whole procedure again.
I begin to get paranoid in the ambulance and wonder if they think I'm abusing my child or am emotionally absent and don't look after him. The whole "Its my fault" self esteem trigger is through the roof. Its horrible to know he's going to have to have yet another operation, a full arm cast, and to top it off, he'll be in plaster for at least the first 2 weeks of school. When I call my husband he is furious, and is even more furious that he's got to do the whole hospital thing again. I feel like giving up. There have been too many stressful events going on and to be honest, my grey matter is imploding. And I slowly have the dawning realisation that I am in mental health free fall. I'm hanging on by my finger nails. When I said to my cpn that I could make it for a few weeks before seeing my psychiatrist, I really thought I could. I'm now beginning to wonder.
Monday, 15 March 2010
Luck is not my lady in the day or night - its going to be a long one
The conference ends and I am so relieved I want to celebrate by sleeping for a week. I actually request some annual leave on that basis, and my boss looks baffled but agrees. My low self esteem thought filtering is at an all time high, and I spend quite a bit of time re-running things over in my head. I work hard at letting it go, but I've got too tired so it seems to be off and running on its own steam. I feel rubbish and I'm hoping catching up on some sleep will help me out a bit, but my mood is definitely going downhill and although I'm trying my CBT techniques, resting and eating well, it isn't working.
We begin the week with my son going to see the hospital fracture clinic for a check up,and his arm is fixed. Its slightly bent but we are relieved that he seems ok and they take off the plaster cast. Its only been 4 weeks but the consultant says that it is common practice. They do the regular post fracture chat, saying not to hang off his arm like a monkey, no high contact sports etc, and that he is at risk of re break as the bone is soft, but don't worry. Take it easy and all will be well.
The following week at work, if I were to rank my self on the scale of mental wellness from 1 - 10 (10 being fabulous), I'd say I was about 2. My mind is racing, racing, racing and I cannot concentrate or make decisions, and I'm so agitated I feel like I'm constantly jumping up and down on the spot. A colleague comes to my desk and asks me to do something for him in the next hour, and basically I turn round and say, "Oh just fuck off!" My fellow work bank members stare at me, and I realise that I'm at a jumping off place. This is not good. For anybody that knows me well, this is way out of character. I am generally more loving, tolerant and accepting of others, and I would never abuse you so obviously and terribly in front of others or by yourself.
I walk at a fast pace to my bosses empty office and call the mental health team. I request a quick chat with my old CPN as I need to touch base with a sensible person. As soon as she comes on the line, I "Vent my spleen" hardly drawing breath, and when I finally do stop, she tells me to slow down and sit still if I can. All is not well in the garden of sanity, and she tells me that she'll get me an appointment with my psychiatrist as soon as she can. I start crying with relief and she tells me to rest lots, and if I go completely bonkers before she gets back to me (My words, not hers of course) to call the out of hours crisis resolution team, or, go to A+E (in the little white van, with little yellow wheels as people used to joke in the 1970's). In her words I am "Terribly jumbled."
I spend the weekend trapped in my head. The only way I can describe it, is an internal mind experience of having the whirlies. You know when you drink too much scrumpy cider and you come home only to find everything spinning around. Then when you shut your eyes its actually worse? Well, being hyper manic is like that but in your own head. You cannot hold a thought and it splinters at high speed, and when you think you've caught the thread it disappears. It's like thoughts teleporting around your brain with you running behind it.
When my lovely cpn actually calls me back she says the earliest I can be seen is in about 2 weeks time and can I hang on that long? I take a deep breath and say "ok" but again she stresses that if I am really frightened or lose it completely, that I need to access emergency care. I promise her that I won't do anything stupid and that I'll see her soon. At this point in time, although I feel very ill, I still have insight and I'm still functioning - Just.
I never work on a Monday, so on the Tuesday I go to a multi agency meeting at the ambulance service headquarters. My luck is running short and our car has broken down yet again, so I get the train and walk to HQ. Whilst I'm there I start to feel physically ill. I begin to wonder if I have some kind of nasty virus as physical illness can really effect my emotional and mental health.Maybe this is why I feel so crap. It feels like I have food poisoning as I start to feel very hot, I feel nausea and I have pains in my tummy. You know that weird griping and then the watering mouth when you think you're going to throw up? Well this is how I am, so at the end of the meeting, I politely ask if anyone would volunteer to drop me home as I feel terrible. They all remark that I look a little grey, and laugh and chortle as all the ambulance staff I am currently talking to are off duty! HA!HA! they cry!!!
I fall into my house and strip as I am burning hot and lay on my living room floor. Any mothers reading this will recognise that this is serious stuff. Mothers, unless they are knocked over by a bus, or strapped to a chair, function in all conditions. My stomach hurts so much I have to roll up in a ball and I cannot straighten my legs very well. I call my GP surgery and plead for someone to come and see me. I have no car and cannot imagine calling a cab, waiting for a cab, etc etc. Thankfully, they agree for a GP to at least phone me so I can discuss my symptoms. I shuffle to get my pyjamas on and then lay on the sofa with the phone. My husband arrives with the kids, and amazingly, my GP. I have no idea why they actually sent her but she is an image of salvation. After a push and a prod, she confirms my fears. Its not an enormous poo that has got stuck somewhere or food poisoning. Its either an ectopic pregnancy or appendicitis. Shit. She calls for an ambulance to get me within 2 hours. I'm not at the dying stage apparently, so I can get admitted to a ward and be sorted out in real time, not another cut and shut emergency. My husband gets me a hot water bottle as I have the shivers, and we wait. By 9pm I am squealing, "Like a stuck pig" I think is the phrase, and my husband is ringing the number of the non-emergency ambulance to find out where they are. They arrive in the next half an hour, then immediatly fill me with morphine and request I take off most of my clothes as I am cooking. Morphine injections make you feel like someone is injecting concrete into the back of your head, that your eyeballs are rolling and you're falling backwards into candy floss. They pop me in a wheel chair and both they and I complain as the drive is filled with pot holes. They can't push and every time we drop down a hole I yelp. Its not going well.
When I am finally admitted to the ward I am almost beyond communication, so when the registrar comes and pulls my legs out flat and pokes me I almost punch her in the face. She kindly reminds me that she is trying to help me. I kindly remind her that I am in huge amounts of pain. We reach an impasse and decide that actually I need my appendics out. She's going to knock me out with pain relief for the night, and I'll go down to theatre first thing. Well Thank God for that.
When I come round thay have sucked out the wretched and quite frankly, useless part of my stomach, via keyhole surgery. I am done and dusted and home by tea time, although I'm not allowed to do anything for 2 weeks like lifting, driving and all of that. I have great joy in using my work blackberry to e-mail my colleagues about my adventure. They are contrite and apologetic. So they bloody should be! I hope that this medical emergency was the root of my mental ill health and wait for a recovery of both mind and body.
We begin the week with my son going to see the hospital fracture clinic for a check up,and his arm is fixed. Its slightly bent but we are relieved that he seems ok and they take off the plaster cast. Its only been 4 weeks but the consultant says that it is common practice. They do the regular post fracture chat, saying not to hang off his arm like a monkey, no high contact sports etc, and that he is at risk of re break as the bone is soft, but don't worry. Take it easy and all will be well.
The following week at work, if I were to rank my self on the scale of mental wellness from 1 - 10 (10 being fabulous), I'd say I was about 2. My mind is racing, racing, racing and I cannot concentrate or make decisions, and I'm so agitated I feel like I'm constantly jumping up and down on the spot. A colleague comes to my desk and asks me to do something for him in the next hour, and basically I turn round and say, "Oh just fuck off!" My fellow work bank members stare at me, and I realise that I'm at a jumping off place. This is not good. For anybody that knows me well, this is way out of character. I am generally more loving, tolerant and accepting of others, and I would never abuse you so obviously and terribly in front of others or by yourself.
I walk at a fast pace to my bosses empty office and call the mental health team. I request a quick chat with my old CPN as I need to touch base with a sensible person. As soon as she comes on the line, I "Vent my spleen" hardly drawing breath, and when I finally do stop, she tells me to slow down and sit still if I can. All is not well in the garden of sanity, and she tells me that she'll get me an appointment with my psychiatrist as soon as she can. I start crying with relief and she tells me to rest lots, and if I go completely bonkers before she gets back to me (My words, not hers of course) to call the out of hours crisis resolution team, or, go to A+E (in the little white van, with little yellow wheels as people used to joke in the 1970's). In her words I am "Terribly jumbled."
I spend the weekend trapped in my head. The only way I can describe it, is an internal mind experience of having the whirlies. You know when you drink too much scrumpy cider and you come home only to find everything spinning around. Then when you shut your eyes its actually worse? Well, being hyper manic is like that but in your own head. You cannot hold a thought and it splinters at high speed, and when you think you've caught the thread it disappears. It's like thoughts teleporting around your brain with you running behind it.
When my lovely cpn actually calls me back she says the earliest I can be seen is in about 2 weeks time and can I hang on that long? I take a deep breath and say "ok" but again she stresses that if I am really frightened or lose it completely, that I need to access emergency care. I promise her that I won't do anything stupid and that I'll see her soon. At this point in time, although I feel very ill, I still have insight and I'm still functioning - Just.
I never work on a Monday, so on the Tuesday I go to a multi agency meeting at the ambulance service headquarters. My luck is running short and our car has broken down yet again, so I get the train and walk to HQ. Whilst I'm there I start to feel physically ill. I begin to wonder if I have some kind of nasty virus as physical illness can really effect my emotional and mental health.Maybe this is why I feel so crap. It feels like I have food poisoning as I start to feel very hot, I feel nausea and I have pains in my tummy. You know that weird griping and then the watering mouth when you think you're going to throw up? Well this is how I am, so at the end of the meeting, I politely ask if anyone would volunteer to drop me home as I feel terrible. They all remark that I look a little grey, and laugh and chortle as all the ambulance staff I am currently talking to are off duty! HA!HA! they cry!!!
I fall into my house and strip as I am burning hot and lay on my living room floor. Any mothers reading this will recognise that this is serious stuff. Mothers, unless they are knocked over by a bus, or strapped to a chair, function in all conditions. My stomach hurts so much I have to roll up in a ball and I cannot straighten my legs very well. I call my GP surgery and plead for someone to come and see me. I have no car and cannot imagine calling a cab, waiting for a cab, etc etc. Thankfully, they agree for a GP to at least phone me so I can discuss my symptoms. I shuffle to get my pyjamas on and then lay on the sofa with the phone. My husband arrives with the kids, and amazingly, my GP. I have no idea why they actually sent her but she is an image of salvation. After a push and a prod, she confirms my fears. Its not an enormous poo that has got stuck somewhere or food poisoning. Its either an ectopic pregnancy or appendicitis. Shit. She calls for an ambulance to get me within 2 hours. I'm not at the dying stage apparently, so I can get admitted to a ward and be sorted out in real time, not another cut and shut emergency. My husband gets me a hot water bottle as I have the shivers, and we wait. By 9pm I am squealing, "Like a stuck pig" I think is the phrase, and my husband is ringing the number of the non-emergency ambulance to find out where they are. They arrive in the next half an hour, then immediatly fill me with morphine and request I take off most of my clothes as I am cooking. Morphine injections make you feel like someone is injecting concrete into the back of your head, that your eyeballs are rolling and you're falling backwards into candy floss. They pop me in a wheel chair and both they and I complain as the drive is filled with pot holes. They can't push and every time we drop down a hole I yelp. Its not going well.
When I am finally admitted to the ward I am almost beyond communication, so when the registrar comes and pulls my legs out flat and pokes me I almost punch her in the face. She kindly reminds me that she is trying to help me. I kindly remind her that I am in huge amounts of pain. We reach an impasse and decide that actually I need my appendics out. She's going to knock me out with pain relief for the night, and I'll go down to theatre first thing. Well Thank God for that.
When I come round thay have sucked out the wretched and quite frankly, useless part of my stomach, via keyhole surgery. I am done and dusted and home by tea time, although I'm not allowed to do anything for 2 weeks like lifting, driving and all of that. I have great joy in using my work blackberry to e-mail my colleagues about my adventure. They are contrite and apologetic. So they bloody should be! I hope that this medical emergency was the root of my mental ill health and wait for a recovery of both mind and body.
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