Changes

There have been some fairly substantial and significant changes in my life of late. Firstly, I now wear glasses so you can update that random mental image you must have of me. I used to wear glasses about 3 years ago but I managed to leave them in the pub (I’ve left a lot of things in the pub over the years including but not limited to a coat, my wallet and my decorum on at leaST one occasion) and never got round to replacing them. I know I should have done something about it much sooner but at least it’s finally sorted and I can now see things without a blurry haze round the outside. Plus they’re purple which rocks.

Secondly, I seem to have accidentally acquired a boyfriend. It genuinely wasn’t my intention to do so. I’d pretty much decided to stay single until I was a lot more stable as past experience shows my mentalness and relationships really don’t mix. I was even determined for the first couple of weeks he asked me out. I said no, I told horror stories, I did everything in my power to dissuade him but for some reason he was still keen. In fact, he was so lovely to me that eventually it seemed churlish to keep refusing and I thought I’d give it a chance. It’s still very early days but for now it’s making me incredibly happy and has given me back something I thought I’d never have again. I’d forgotten just how much fun the early days of relationships are *blushes*.

And finally… I’m getting degus   Yay! Small furry creatures to make my life complete. But this is going to have to be our little secret as I’m not telling the landlord about them. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, right?

Anywho, I’m off to the supermarket to get stuff to make dinner for boyfriend and I tomorrow. *skips off, whistling contentedly*

Side effects

I wrote a while back about risperidone and weight gain as the price I seem to be paying for some stability. Thinking about it though, that’s not the worst problem. I could probably shift the weight if I just got my arse into gear but I can’t bring back what’s gone. I’m talking of course about my memory, vast swathes of which seem to have disappeared. I’ve always had a good memory. When I was a small child, I was always the really annoying one who memorised the whole school play and then attempted to prompt from on-stage causing chaos all round. Through GCSE and A-level exams, I was lucky enough to remember things just by reading them a couple of times and even on into the start of my degree I had a word perfect recall of obscure but relevant facts and figures.

It’s that degree (amongst other things) that has gone. I worked hard for three years to get my degree despite being quite unwell for the last two of them. I learnt a lot, I could apply that knowledge. I could identify minerals, discuss the origin of the landscape and tell you what rock went where. It was a geology degree you see. And now I’m left with nothing. I can’t even remember the fundamental basics. My knowledge of geology is reduced to that of a school child and I miss it.

It seems a high price to pay that to be well I have to lose so much of what got me to where I am today. Sometimes life just really isn’t fair.

Raa!

I’m back! I’m safely ensconced in my new flat and have (finally) got the internet working. It’s been a manic few weeks what with moving and then me going down to London to do a weeks voluntary work. But I am back now bar holidays and I promise to bring you more whining rubbish and hopefully some posts of a more irrelevant, upbeat nature sometime soon.

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.