The wind, time immemorial & the inner explosion

I live in a small churchyard where there are still bodies underground but only one marker left behind to remind people of what was once there. These days it’s a tiny park just over 1/3 of an acre and is an open secret in my part of town. Most people don’t know it’s there and those who do use it as a cut through without looking up from the desire path that they’re establishing and re-establishing as they go.

I walk around the perimeter with my dog most days and I often walk the perimeter alone thinking of goodness knows what.

Often I will see the trees in the far corner moving gently and they set off a ripple that becomes stronger and more audible the closer it gets. Sometimes the movement dies out before it reaches me, sometimes is batters at me and brings rain but, more often than not, it passes by in a fury.

The gentle undulation in the trees remind me of approaching mood changes and I question how quickly they will descend on me, if depression or mania will dominate the episode and even if, yet again, I’ll be driven to the point of suicide.

Not all warnings of mood changes turn into episodes because sometimes it’s just feeling pissy or happy because I’m a human.

I do not like being caught up in the tornado of mania but it picks me up and spits me out at will these days. Other people have told me that they love the giddy spinning around even though it is also frightening at the time. I am left exhausted, disorientated and I wish I didn’t want to stay alive quite as much as I do.

On the days when the winds bring rain and the only way to walk is with me bending into the wind and hoping I don’t get swept away are the days of depressive episodes. Life is a battle and the storms rage as much inside my home and under cover as they do outside – a permanent exposure to the elements.

This has been happening since, it seems, time immemorial (which 1189 but don’t quote me on that) and it feels as though it will go on long after I am dead, It waited for me to be born and it will haunt me when I am no longer here – it will never let me go.

I didn’t ask to have bipolar disorder and I can’t think of anybody, in their right mind or otherwise, who would wish it upon themselves.

I lived with these episodes for a long time managing to crawl back to the real world but my resilience eventually disappeared along with life as I knew it. Something inside me burst out and I no longer fit into my own skin.

Well hello depression

I have always been on the depressive side of manic depressive and even during the times when I rapid cycle so many times a day that I lose count there was always the certainty that when the cycling stopped that I would stop in depression and not mania.

Depression, while a disgusting and debilitating experience, has always been familiar to me. I never recognise the onset of it but once I do I know how to handle it. I have a check list of things to do until I see my GP. I see my GP at least once every three weeks so I never have long to wait. People often envy my frequent visits to the GP but try being so ill that they’re seeing you often to keep you alive – it’s nothing to envy.

For the past two years or so I have been hypomanic. Hypomania is mania without psychosis. I have never had a full blown pyschotic episode but I have had episodes that are so close that I’ve felt the cold breath of psychosis on the back of my neck.

I hate being  manic. The management of my illness is centred around being in control. I can’t control depression but I can manage it if I’m prepared to lose sleep and look like a mess.

Over the past week or so I’ve seen my sleeping pattern change. It is a paradox that when I am manic I sleep soundly and when I’m depressed I get insomnia in a big way.

I have felt lethargic over the past few days. There have been bursts of  energy and enjoyment but today I just want to curl up into a ball and live in the airing cupboard for a few years. I sent a message to my best friend last night saying that I couldn’t find any positive things about the day, that I wanted to get monstrously drunk (I’ve been in recovery for 26 years) and that the safest thing I could do was to go to bed.

This morning I sent him a message saying that it had dawned upon me that I was actually was depressed. It had taken me two days to get to that point but I got there in the end.

Depression is a violent drag away from all that is enjoyable and worth living for but the feeling is much better than the relentless optimism (and the lack of empathy that came along with it) for the past two years.

If I spend the next few days, or weeks, or months crying and feeling like nothing counts anymore I’ll be happy in a weird kind of way but anything is better that the relentless mania and all the chaos and indignity that comes with it.

Stop the world, I want to get off

I’m waiting to see a psychiatrist again. My GP requested a referral and we’re both hoping I’ll get to see my last consultant mainly because he’s amazing at his job but also because I saw him for about 10 years and we developed a mutual language so it would be easy to talk to him. I can go in and tell him I feel well fucked up and he’ll know what I mean. Priceless.

I’m ultradian cycling (though at this point it’s only one change every 12 hours or so) and this started on Thursday. It was odds on it was going to start – EU Referendum, opportunity to write about it for a website and staying up all night to listen to the results – it was never going to end well. Politics leave a lot of people cold but I love it. I’m not eloquent about the subject but I know what I believe in and that passion, like all the others that inflame me, burn me out with mania and turn me into ashes with depression.

I’m fed up with the in-house mud slinging of those within the Labour Party re Jeremy Corbyn. He was voted leader by people who know that, despite the leadership and Tory Lites of recent years, the Party was born in red brick houses and not red brick universities. If he is deposed then the Labour Party membership will drop overnight.

I’m not at all surprised at the antics of the Conservative Party (has anybody found George Osbourne in their shed yet?) and the desperate please of the Liberal Democrats is rather sad but have any of the shit stirrers thought about what this is doing to me and all the other vulnerable people who have elected them, voted in the referendum and left feeling scared at the uncertain future that has been created?

I’m in that tiny section of people who are considered so ill I was put in the support section of ESA for life (without a face to face assessment) because the risk of me committing suicide if I was forced back to work is too high for them to take the chance. This means that my income is guaranteed but I am not invulnerable to rising prices, higher utility bills and I cannot tell myself to worry about life in the UK because it is something to worry about.

Anyway I’ve been so manic that I can’t get the words in my sentences in the right order and today I’ve dipped into depression and couldn’t care less if my words are in the right order or not. I’ve decided to focus instead on a day out in London I’m having on Thursday and if I burn out then so be it.

Meanwhile the country is being fucked roughly by the people we have trusted it to. Bastards.

Help and the lack of it

When people talk about people with “mental health issues” slipping through the net it’s usually because a person with a mental health diagnosis has killed somebody or they’ve committed suicide after they’ve been in the system and discharged or thought not to be a risk but there is another side to it.

I’ve been in the system three or four times but I’ve never been hospitalised or sectioned because I’m outwardly competent if inside a wreck and because I manage my illness well even though I cope with it badly.

I need help but I fall out of the remit of all the services available. I’m not in a crisis that’s severe enough (I am not in danger of taking my own life but I am close to self harm) so I can’t be referred to a psychiatrist. If I become suicidal or in real danger of self harming badly then I can get in touch with a Crisis Team who, on one occasion, told me if I could verbalise the way I felt then I wasn’t truly suicidal (bastards).

I’d like help in my home but I fall out of the way that Social Services help even if they accepted my referral and I know they wouldn’t.

A group on Twitter in the town where I live want to do “good things”. I need my living room redecorating & I’d like laminate flooring laid. I’ve money to pay for the paint etc. but I need to get estimates and estimates come at around £80 a pop and I can’t afford to spend that to get ripped off. I volunteered myself to this group and was turned down as not being a “real cause”. By that they meant they want photos in the paper of a frail old lady being overwhelmed with gratitude or a “plucky” child in a hospital bed and an article lauding the group. If you want that then you’re not into doing good things, you’re into be praised for them. It’s a barely disguised form of discrimination.

Yesterday a neighbour stopped me in the street to fish for gossip and I let her fish. She asked me outright if I’d been “cured” (I’m not a side of bacon) because I seemed so cheerful. I was manic and tried to explain to her it was a high mood and that I wasn’t cheerful, I was out of control. She looked away from me and muttered words to the effect that I looked all right to her.

And that’s the rub. I spend my life looking okay on the outside and on the inside I’m a peeled baby inside a suit of armour. My greatest fault is being able to mask my illness too well and because people with mental health problems aren’t considered to be in physical need then through those gigantic holes in the net I fall again. And again and again and again.

 

Changes, changes, changes

After around 8 – 10 months of what has become chronic mania I am finally depressed for more than 24 hours. It feels awful but it also feels good in a bizarre way. I’m not in a high grade depression, it’s relatively low grade, and so liveable with.

Strange though it may seem to some people, it actually makes me feel kind of optimistic because after a relentless period of mania I’m feeling something that’s not incredibly out of touch with reality. It’s a form of insanity and I’m glad of the relief that comes with it ending at least temporarily.

How long this will last I don’t know. I am sincerely hoping that it lasts for at least three or four days. I want to be depressed so that I can feel something. I want to cry at the begging adverts on television asking for money for starving donkeys instead of being irritated about them. I want my empathy back for more than 24 hours.

I cried yesterday as my mood plummeted and I’d like to cry some more. It may seem strange to here but I’m actually enjoying this depression because it’s a wonderful change from the relentless fucking optimism that has been haunting me for far too long.

I feel outside of the world and I feel detached from reality but I feel something and I’m grateful for that.