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.

Privacy and the peeled baby

Today I feel exhausted and the pain I felt from writing my most recent blog has left me feeling soulless. I rarely expose so much of myself when I write. People often think that they know me through my writing but that’s not true – they learn of my experiences but me, my inside self, is left inside of me.

There are two reasons for this and they are that I’m an very private person and that I’m a peeled baby.

So what is a private person doing writing a blog and what the hell is a peeled baby?

I write to let people know the reality of living with mental illness and I am mentally ill. In 45 years I have experienced little respite – the longest period lasted eight weeks. I do not write to raise awareness. Raising awareness is an empty phrase because you are aware of mental health problems or you are not and it is far better to educate people in a meaningful way rather than shouting very loudly, “Hey, do you know that there’s something called Mental Illness? No? About your business then.”

I tell you of the devastation of it causes in my life, I tell you of my reality. What you don’t know is the colour of my eyes, what my favourite fruit is,  what this wonderful bed I talk of is like, why I prefer yellow roses over all others and the biggest (and toughest to cope with) phobia that I have.

You don’t know me, you know of my illness.

So what is the peeled baby thing? My GP once called me this and it’s a phrase he only uses when he refers to me. Simply he sees me wearing a suit of armour so tough and sturdy that nobody can penetrate it – life slings stones, boulders and unexpectedly attacks me and, to all intents and purposes, all these things bounce off me. Then I go home.

When I am in my safe place the armour comes off and there is a peeled baby inside of it; small, vulnerable and she has no way of coping with the world. She sits bleeding and unable to cope with the the things that other people call normal. She weeps sometimes and other times she is filled with an energy that is frantic and then she sits down again and is that peeled baby once more.

That is the harsh reality of my life. What you see is not what you get and I think I’m tired of hiding behind the armour. I’m too tired to pretend I’m coping. I’m tired of living the way I do. I’m tired of everything.

The only thing that’s keeping me going today is the love of my family, my close friends and my cats and dog. I am going through the motions because of the love and because the animals need me.

I am not suicidal, I am a peeled baby and a bloody exhausted one at that.

I’m going to talk, are you listening?

A few weeks ago I got a letter through the door telling me I was due for an ESA reassessment. Part of me dreaded looking at the form and so I didn’t for a few days and allowed myself to feel panicked and because I allowed that feeling it passed. When I looked at it I was reminded that it was actually far simpler form than I remembered it to be. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a difficult form to fill in because you have to spill your guts out on to the pages but the form, to me at least, is simple. Or maybe that’s because way back in the day when I worked for DHSS you needed a degree just to open the envelope let alone fill it in.

I talked to my doctor about the supporting letter that I’d need and gave him photocopies of the pages of the form that I’d filled in. (I’ve now posted it and as I write this I’m panicking in case I’ve missed something important out – like my name and address and yes, I have just checked my copy to make sure that I have put it on there.) I digress.

I read the supporting letter that my GP wrote for me this morning before I had it copied and it had me in tears from the the first few lines. I choose the words I used to describe the effects that bipolar disorder has upon me and my life but I cannot choose the words that my GP chooses and it’s those that bring the stark reality of my illness and life into far too a sharp focus.

“She is significantly disabled by her condition.”

“When I first knew her she was particularly unstable, and I had real worries that she would commit suicide…with extremely vivid suicidal fantasies and a degree of derealisation and impulsivity.”

“She experiences very marked irritability that she manages by avoiding interaction with others unless it is very carefully planned and time limited.”

“She is certainly very intelligent, resourceful and insightful however, she copes only by carefully controlling the scope of her life and by reducing as far as she can activities that could result in loss of choice or control.”

“I continue to see her once or twice a month as she always teeters on the edge of instability. Her regular contact with the surgery has been helpful but it does also demonstrate how fragile she is.”

“She only just manages to cope with the necessary activities of daily living.”

“I would strongly recommend that she is not pushed in the direction of work, and that she is allowed to maintain the freedom necessary to make the hour by hour choices that enable her to cope with what is a very unpredictable and exhausting illness.”

Forms are simple, letters are easy to write but coping with the way it spells out your painful life letter isn’t.

So let’s stop with the Time to Change, Time to Talk, Heads Together fuckwitted mentality and really learn what life is really like for those who cope with the kind of shit that I live with every single bloody day.  Instead of harping on about how you’d like to help ask somebody to show you what they have put on the form to prove that they’re in the grip of a mental illness that they can’t escape from. Perhaps then things may change, people may really talk and, miracle of miracles, they may even begin to listen.

Washing wonders, sadness and getting on with it

A week ago today I got my first automatic washing machine in 23 years. Since then I’ve worked its electric fingers to the bone (I’ve lost count of the loads I’ve fed it but we’re talking 16+) and it’s done it all without a complaint.

Last Saturday I had no clean jeans in my wardrobe and the pair I was wearing I’d had on for a week. I had two clean blouses/shirts, no clean socks and I was running out of briefs (or knickers/shreddies – you choose). I had just put clean bedding on the bed and only had that because a friend had washed it for me.

I’ve had a twin tub for a long time but they are such hard work. You have to swap the laundry from tub to spinner and it never seems to be quite clean. I run out of energy doing this even if it’s only a few loads because it bleeds me dry. So my laundry pile got higher and higher and I felt that I would never be free from it.

Today I don’t have a laundry pile. Between the new machine, my alien dryer, clothes horses and the odd radiator it’s all done and mostly dried. Most of it is ironed too – not because I want to do it but because ironed clothes are easier on the skin when you have eczema.

My kitchen is tidier because it’s new and not falling apart around me so I feel that’s two  things I have more control of.

I still have no control over the rapid cycling, the continued physical tiredness but unable to feel rested because of an over-stimulated, never resting mind. Because of this my eating habits are dire and  I have to accept that this is probably always going to be the way. I’m not giving up on them but having bipolar disorder to this degree means that I either accept my limitations now or being driven half (or closer) to suicide by driving myself too hard.

Self-neglect is both a symptom and an outcome.

The sadness in today comes via a supporter of a vile politician who is entitled, quite rightly, to her own views but when it comes to supporting discrimination against people because of their religion then it’s time to say goodbye to them. I’ve withdrawn quietly from their lives and, as we’ve never met in real life and she’s an ocean away, there will be no confrontation.

And so on we move.

Desperate and deranged

I have had three days of hell. I know people describe days as “hell-like” a lot but when the hell is in your own mind and conspiring against you it really is bloody hellish.

I’ve tried to get across to my GP and a psychiatrist that I’ve been manic for over a year now and it began when I tried to reduce the medication I take. I do this from time to time as do a lot of people with mental health problems because the medication is seventy different kinds of foulness.

I became unstable last year, I don’t remember too much about the event that convinced me that I was manic but a friend does and described my behaviour as “out of character”. This concerned me and it was enough to get me back to my GP and back on proper drug doses again. I didn’t level out and there had to be a chat to my former consultant so that the dose could go up and I still haven’t levelled out.

There was a visit to a psychiatrist who told me he didn’t believe that I was hypomanic because of my behaviour (which is an exaggeration of my normal range of behaviour and mania distorts behaviour) and sent me off for a CT scan on my brain that came back all clear.

I had resigned myself to there being something wrong with my brain and there being some other explanation for my current run of weirdness but I think, in a way, I was really resurrecting an old hope that I didn’t have bipolar disorder after all. Heaven knows what I wanted it to be but some days anything would be better that the bipolar label.

On Tuesday my head exploded. I had an extreme manic episode of the kind I haven’t had for a few years. My mind races so fast that eventually I can’t speak and I want to die just to stop the pain. If anybody ever tells you that mania is purely a physical thing then don’t believe them – I still have the headache and it’s Thursday evening. I managed to talk to a doctor and the two guys who hold Lasting Power of Attorney for me and I don’t think I made much sense to any of them.

I felt desperate and by the time I saw a GP on Tuesday evening I was exhausted and I’m still pretty tired. As you age mania burdens you physically in ways that it doesn’t when you’re younger; the wild energy eats away at your body and soul destroying your mind for at least a while. It is devastating.

Yesterday I spoke to a triage nurse on the phone and I was at the desperate and begging stage. All I wanted was to be both unconscious and yet well at the same time. Mania has me wanting to live with the same kind of savageness that makes me want to die.

I’ve slept and as my energy has became more usable I’ve been able to cook without setting myself or the flat on fire and because my energy was usable last week at least home is largely clean and tidy. Except for the bathroom, I’m never manic enough to want to clean the bathroom.

Today I saw a psychiatric nurse who came to see me in my own home to do an assessment. He’s confident I don’t need hospital or sectioning and that a medication review is the way forward but it’s not going to be as quick as I want it to be. There was a team meeting this afternoon where I will have been a topic of discussion and someone will write to me and tell me what will happen. So any solution is at least a week away from starting and it’s going to be a long time to wait.

I’m angry that I can’t have a quicker solution but when mental health services have been stripped to the bone (and they weren’t exactly fleshy bodies to begin with) then the government decides to graciously sling some money at them that doesn’t even get to fund people like me it’s a pointless anger.

There is no safety net you know, it’s just two pieces of string knotted in the middle – the emperor’s new clothes of medicine.