What’s that thing called again?

Apologies for my silence on here but I’ve been out in the real world doing that thing where you just get on with stuff. Ah yes, coping that’s the one. I;ve been out there. Coping. And doing a pretty darn good, if slightly awkward, job of it if I may say so myself.

 Following my housing dilemma, I eventually came to a decision after much deliberation and I’ve decided to move back ‘oop North. The additional family support was a big pull as was the illusion of a fresh start which I feel much in need of. I’ve even found a flat! I’m just waiting for references to come back and then it’s mine. Very nice it is too. I think making the decision was more important than whatever the conclusion actually was but I really hope I am doing the right thing for me. I suppose only time will tell but for now at least it feels like I’ve made the correct choice.

I’ve been doing a lot of soulsearching of late trying to determine what’s changed. Why are things currently going so well? I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not actually depressed at the moment. That may not seem like much to note but for me it’s a pretty profound observation. It explains the lack of numbing, destructive fog in my brain, the smiling I’m managing to do and the strange feeling of equilibrium with the world. I haven’t felt this well since last summer and to be honest I’m not sure things were this good even then.

It would be naive to say everything was better. Last night I cried myself to sleep and I still spend vast swathes of time plotting my own destruction. I’m acutely aware that I have recurrent depression and that means things could change any day. But things are undeniably better for now and that has to be a start.

Damn you Risperidone!

Since I started taking Risperidone, I’ve put on 2/3rds of a stone. I can only assume the two events are linked as before my weight was pretty stable. This has me running scared and for good reason. A couple of years ago I weighed a lot more than I do now. When I finally realised this, I had something of an epiphany made up my mind to do something about it which I did (and not by halves either). I lost over 3 stone in about 6 months and got my weight down to something I was happy with. I was hardly super skinny but I could live with it and it seemed to suit me because that’s where my weight stayed pretty much regardless of what I ate and how much exercise I did.

But now the damn drugs have ruined it all. I’ve put back on almost a stone of what I’d lost and I’m not happy about it. My appetite has soared and I seem to have developed a real addiction to sugar. Before if I wanted something sweet I could eat a few squares of  chocolate, now I’ll quite happily scoff the whole 200g and barely even notice it’s gone. This has to stop but I don’t know how. My self control is entirely gone and I’d rather like it back. It’s just getting to the stage when I can really notice a difference. Clothes that fit comfortably before are now tight and I feel considerably less fit than I did.

I know in the scheme of things it’s not all that important and deep down I know I’d rather have the drugs than the paranoia and psychoticish tendencies but it just doesn’t seem fair somehow. I try and eat healthily (most the time) and I aim to do an hours exercise about 4 times a week so I should be healthy but I’m not and I don’t seem to be able to do a thing about it. I’m getting decidedly scared that it can only get worse.

(This post is bought to you courtesy of selective amnesia which I’m using to ignore the few months prior to the risperidone in which I attempted to exist on not very much at all)

Bad posting habits.

Because I am a bad blogger and quite possibly a bad person, I’m going to cheat and have half this post be an email I sent to my case manager at Complex Cases. I know I should reword it all into blog speak but it means I have to think less and quite frankly thinking hurts at the best of times which this definitely is not.

Hi lovely case manager,

I have a rather large problem because my housemate wants to move out by the end of July. She says that I'm not well enough to share with and she probably has a point. This is troubling because I couldn't afford to keep my flat on even if I wanted to. I'm also struggling to see anything else even vaguely affordable in [place where I live]. My friends are all telling me that I'm not stable enough to live on my own which is rather annoying but I do wonder if they can see something I can't. I also get the impression that they are getting rather sick of me and it would be easier for them and everyone would be happier if I wasn't around in
[this place] any more.

As far as I can see it, I have 2 options. The first is to stay here assuming I can find somewhere affordable to live which I really doubt. I also worry about being on my own a lot as I know how easily things can go from ok to very, very bad.

The alternative is to move back to [place where I'm from] and get a flat close to my parents. The advantage of this (other than it being infinitely more affordable) is that I'd have a lot of support available from my parents if I needed it as well as the ability to pop home if I needed to. However, I don't really know anyone up there which would mean I'd have to find ways to meet people and visit friends in Cambridge at weekends (which I think they find to be the preferable option). However, I don't know what impact moving would have on continuity of care. I don't know what, if any support is available up in York and if I'd be entitled to it without having to go through stupidly long waiting lists which has been the case in the past.

Basically, I really don't know what to do. Neither option seems particularly ideal but I am determined to keep my independence and have somewhere I can make my own. I am finding this incredibly stressful and that's before I even start to think of the logistics and paperwork involved in actually moving which seem far, far beyond me.

Help please!

Thanks,

Anickdaler

So yes, I’m a bit screwed. I can’t make my mind up one way or the other, or rather I can’t keep my mind made up. I keep making absolute decisions and then switching them half an hour later which is proving rather exhausting. My case manager is looking into accessing (possibly supported) housing association flats for me but I’m scared of ending up somewhere I hate. Plus ending up in council housing was hardly part of the great future I had envisioned for myself.

Argh.



Is this up?

I seem to have reached some sort of stability over the last few weeks. Things look clearer and a lot less bleak. I can see beyond tomorrow even if I don’t want to look there because it’s a terrifying scary place. At least it exists though, that has to be a start. My concentration has improved many times over and I’m now getting things done albeit in a haphazard, incomplete kind of way. I can’t believe the change in me, events of the past six months seem crazy and out of control. How could that have happened to me? What possessed me to do such things, how could I have lost so much control? And why is anyone in the real world still speaking to me after all that?

BUT (and there always has to be a but in this sort of story) it isn’t easy. I’m terrified of losing it all over again, past performance suggests I will and I really don’t want to go back. I still get knocked off course by the most inconsequential of events – a throwaway remark can leave me reeling for hours. I have to accept that I’m not well, I’m just less ill. That’s hard for me though. I see in black and white, either I’m well or I’m ill. And since I’m obviously not ill like I was, I must be well. Therefore I should be perfect, nothing should bother me. I should go out, get a job, map out a future, achieve everything with no effort, next stop the world etc. Deep down I know this in unrealistic, I just have to settle for what I’ve got for now and enjoy it as much as possible while it lasts. Ignore the bleak hours, work through them and move on because for now they do pass.

I just hope this is a corner turned for good but somehow I doubt it.

Hospital, Part 3: The Positives

I don’t think it’s too far from the truth to say that hospital saved my life. I am as of yet unconvinced that this is a good thing but it’s definitely a thing of one sort or another and as such deserves a mention. Post-admission I’m now feeling a lot calmer and more in control. I wouldn’t go as far as saying I was happy but I’m undeniably better than I was and that’s a start.

I also had a chance to understand my diagnosis slightly more. It now seems to officially stand as Borderline Personality Disorder with a recurrent depressive illness. This complicates matters because when I get down it could be for one of two reasons. Either it’s one of the intense short term mood swings that come from the BPD or it’s a more long-term negative trend from the depression and somehow I have to learn to distinguish between the two. That sort of insight would be useful. For a start if it’s depression, it can be medicated whereas there’s no point in medicating the BPD crazies. On the subject of medication, my Venlafaxine’s been upped to 375mg daily which is the maximum possible. It seems to be helping for now and I hope that continues to be the case because otherwise it would mean starting from scratch with something new and that terrifies me.

Other positives? Well the food wasn’t as inedible as I’d expected, I met some interesting people and most importantly of all I learnt that hospital isn’t as bad as all that and is something I could face again in the future if it became necessary.

Hospital, Part 2: The Ward

So from nowhere there I was, having my bag searched to ensure I wasn’t carrying anything too exciting and being given a guided tour so I knew where everything was. I can honestly say that I was terrified. I mean mental hospitals are full of crazy people right? I don’t belong there, I’m fine. I refused to make eye contact with anyone and don’t think I said anything much for the first 24hrs other than to phone friends and let them know where I was. This made friends happy, they’d been pushing for hospitalisation for a while and were just glad I was somewhere safe.

As a new arrival, I had to be assessed and admitted by the doctor. Unfortunately he was rather busy and so didn’t get to me until 1am by which point I just wanted to be home and in bed pretending none of this had happened. I slept badly that first night. Somebody in the dorm snored, the mattress was hard and I missed my duvet. It all felt like a particularly bad dream.

Eventually, though I started to settle to it. People weren’t that scary after all, in fact with one or two exceptions they were all really rather lovely which I’m ashamed to say surprised me. I don’t really know what exactly I was expecting but everybody seemed so “normal” and that was very reassuring. I took part in scheduled activities in order to break up the day, everything from Yoga to Dealing with Anxiety and many more in between. I don’t feel I contributed anything useful or learnt much that I didn’t already know but the presence of other people was comforting. I was safe for once and that quietened the thoughts in my head that are hell-bent on destroying me.

It’s so easy to become institutionalised. Up at 9, lunch at 12, dinner at 5, meds and then bed at 10. Repeat indefinitely. I read books, eventually almost finding the ability to concentrate that I’d been lacking for so long. It wasn’t perfect, I had to keep rereading chapters and I’m not sure I could tell you the plots of the books even with that but at least I tried.

On the third night I started getting visitors. I nearly cried, I was that grateful to people for coming to say hi. Even though they probably only came out of a sense of duty, it was good to talk to people I knew and be reassured that it was all going to be ok. Plus friends bring chocolate   And colouring books… There’s something slightly wrong with a Cambridge educated geologist sitting in the middle of a mental hospital ward contentedly colouring in a join the dots dinosaur! Was fun though.

Although boring, I found the environment secure and the structure relaxing. My head was quieter than it had been for a long time and for a while I was almost what I’d describe as calm.

Hospital, Part 1: The Admission

A week ago I saw my psychiatrist. Things were bad but to be honest they were no worse than they had been for a while. In fact, I felt slightly more in control than I had done for a little while. I told her about the overdose (the NHS is that joined up that she hadn’t been informed) and how I was planning on doing the same thing again as soon as I got the chance. All things I’ve said before. But something must have changed, the Crisis Team were mentioned, the word admission raised its head. But I didn’t understand, I was the same as I’d been for weeks, why would I suddenly get help now?

I went home fully expecting to hear nothing more about it and when it got to 5pm I started to relax, safe in the knowledge I’d been overlooked by the system one more time. 1730 and my phone buzzed. It’s the Crisis Team, can we come and assess you? I didn’t expect much from the encounter. Their previous advice on encountering me in an acutely suicidal state included go for a walk and go feed the ducks. Good for minor depression perhaps but hardly likely to be a lifesaver.  Anyhow, I digress… We talked and I thought things were much as normal, some advice to read a book or go for a run was sure to follow. Something though was different and that admission word popped up again combined with the words “immediately” and “for your safety”. This wasn’t the plan. Not how things were meant to go at all. Where was the patronising self-help tips? The judgemental and snide remarks?

So I packed a bag. What does one need for incarceration in a psychiatric hospital? Some clothes, a book, my knitting. And there I was, being driven off to what, I didn’t really know and waiting for my thoughts to catch up with the speed of the change of direction of events.

‘Parts: the rest’ are to follow as and when I write them. I don’t want to stress myself too much by attempting to write everything at once.

Maybe not going quite so well then.

The (very) short story:

I overdosed again. Bugger.

If you don’t want to know or may be triggered by the details, stop reading here.

The short story:

Last Saturday night I went out. Unfortunately the night didn’t go according to plan and ended in an unplanned trip to A+E with rather more of my medication in my system than there should have been. Spent rest of week at home with parents staying to keep me safe. Parents have now gone leaving me with intensive crisis team intervention to survive the bank holiday weekend. We shall see.

It’s still not too late to stop reading…

The long story:

Last Saturday night I went out, to a Ceilidh. This should have been a good thing. I wanted to enjoy myself, have fun, feel normal. The problem was that the venue was crowded and noisy, two things I find hard to cope with at the best of times. To cope with this I took diazepam. Unfortunately diazepam doesn’t go well with remembering or coordinating  dance moves and I felt that I made a bit of a prat of myself to put it lightly. By the end of it, I had completely cut myself off from reality. I have no recollection of leaving the event or of how I got home. I remember feeling happy that nobody seemed to be in so I could carry out my plans in peace. I collected all the medication I could find (I’d stashed a reasonable amount) and went to my computer. Glass of water in one hand, tablets in other with occasional pauses to write my note. I recall being proud that I had a note, I didn’t write one last time.

Then there was a knock at the office door. Turns out my housemate wasn’t as out as I’d initially surmised. Instead she’d received a concerned text from someone I’d been at the ceilidh with to ask if I’d got home safely. Unfortunately it didn’t occur to me in time to hide what was going on and other friend was quickly summoned to transport us to A+E which was surprisingly quiet for a Saturday night.

I was pretty rapidly hooked up to a cardiac monitor as my pulse was dancing somewhere around 120-130. This was somewhat irritating as the warning alarm was triggered every time it topped 125. This meant I was beeping almost continuously. Time passed. Conversations were had but I can’t remember what they were. Friends didn’t leave me for which I’m very grateful. At some point in the early morning, I’m guessing around 3am, I was moved from A+E to CDU. Seemingly simultaneously my parents arrived. having been called by my housemate at an earlier point. Friends went home. By this point the drugs in my system had kicked in big time and my recollection is decidedly hazy. I hadn’t taken enough to knock me out and I was too nervous to let them send me to sleep. Everything seemed like a dream. The voice coming out of my mouth wasn’t mine, the movements of my hands weren’t a part of me. At some point they put a bag of fluids up, this helped things come back to reality somewhat.

A baby doctor determined I wasn’t an alcoholic (I think he was a medical student doing research). This was odd. It was late afternoon by the time my obs were anything like approaching normal and the on-call psych came to visit. It was immediately apparent that all she wanted to do was send me home so I shouted at her. I don’t think this helped much. In the end it was indeed decided to send me home, not least because I really needed to attend my ESA medical the next day (incidentally I passed this, the fact I’d been in hospital the day before and was still wearing my patient ID band may have helped my case somewhat).

My parents moved into my living room floor. I visited Complex Cases and spoke to people on a daily basis but nobody seemed to listen, nothing was being done. On Thursday  the Home Treatment (crisis) team were finally involved. We have a plan. It’s a risky plan but a plan nonetheless. The plan is I stay at large in the community. I am a real risk to myself at the moment. There’s no denying that. I have multiple plans in place which could be acted on should the need present. However, the benefits of staying home may outweigh these risks. The HTT are going to visit daily and I have their phone number (as if I’d use it).  So we shall have to see.

Right now though I feel just fine. The plans are there if and when I need them and in the mean time I have my space back.

ESA Medical

Sorry I’ve been rather quiet of late but the sun has been shining and I have been nearly (and I almost don’t dare say it for fear of cursing the situation) up. This is a good, and somewhat miraculous, thing. However, the one dark cloud on the horizon is that I have my ESA medical on Monday. For readers from abroad, this is to determine if I’m entitled to benefits on the grounds of incapacity to work. So this is a plea, if anyone has been through one of these can you give me some pointers of what to expect? I’m absolutely terrified of it. I already have a sympathetic friend lined up to accompany me but this doesn’t mean I want to go.

But I had a good day

This weekend has been fun. I did things I like in the company of people who I enjoy spending time with. The sun shone and I laughed. Lots. This being so, why am I not happy? What the hell have I done so wrong that means that I can’t just enjoy the experience? I don’t know what changed. One minute I was doing well and the next, the insidious doubt had found a chink, balanced precariously on it and then slipped inside to wreak havoc amongst the happiness.

It’s just not fair (cue foot-stamping toddler tantrum). I don’t want to have to deal with part of me me telling the rest that I’d be better off dead. I don’t want to plan my own suicide in exquisite detail while smiling on the outside so that nobody will suspect. I don’t want to feel the need to hurt myself. I don’t want to analyse in minutiae every single detail of the last 48hrs and identify every petty occurrence of me behaving in a sub-optimal manner.  All I want is to be happy.

And after all that. what’s the thing I want least? I don’t want to know for sure that nothing is ever going to change.