Please send cake.
Not that one.
Hello! I made my last post about youth work private as I got some hassle via the lovely medium of email and I cannot be arsed to deal with it.
On that note, I seem to be adept at starting hassle unintentionally because of my colourful language and gung-ho ness. For the record, thank you and as lovely as it is that people care enough about me to stand up for me, please don’t feel the need to defend me anywhere, I’m quite capable and it creates needless drama.
EDIT: Whoever you are, you clearly didn’t listen to me. Will you stop, please?
I had an appointment today. We went outside and I chainsmoked my way though it. There was a squirrel family innd I met two cats!
It rained like hell today, which I was grateful for. I like the rain a lot better than the sun. It clapped out when me and Robert were hiding outside Kings Cross after googling Spanish breakfast and ending up eating churros. He’d been on his night shift and wasn’t exhausted yet, and I was wide awake, so it was nice to spend a few hours together before he got his hibernating bear sleep and I did my thing.
My mood is good right now- good enough that my social worker is ringing me to check I’ve not been arrested on Monday. I’ve been having issues with agitation and ARGH! shakiness for a wee while. And some fluttering, constant anxiety that’s been affecting me, ahem, physically, so I need to be within sprinting distance of a bucket or a hole in the ground. I was quite low, but I think a lot of it was to do with the flueyness and feeling awful-ness of shingles. It pissed me off and it hurts! The agitation and a bit of irritation remains while my mood has escalated a little, partly, I imagine, due to lack of sleep. Which was a relief, as my tiny high spikes lately have been rather enjoyable, if not also vaguely silly (Just ask my poor, awful, recently chopped off hair. After spending half my life avoiding looking into mirrors even in a good mood I can’t do it, thus have no fucking clue what the hairdresser is doing. My third haircut since I moved to London and apparently so bad that the stylist didn’t want me to pay for it. It’s growing on me, a bit, unlike my poor hair). She’s not particularly worried and neither am I. It’s a good mood and if it goes tits, well. No point worrying until there’s something to worry about. I’ve been a lot more productive (16000 words in the past week, been writing a lot, although my social worker said, “Did you read over them? They might have been, y’know… manic nonsense…” Nope, never do, but Robert did) and have a lovely clean and tidy bedroom, hurrah. The kitchen still does not exist. And weed helps calm me down.
I think I’m okay without, but it’s a kind of insurance, I guess. There’s little urgency on either side, which is a good thing. It’s all mild suggestion. I told her I knocked my last high mood on the head with a fuckload of Seroquel and Lorezapam, so that was fine. She rightly pointed out how could I knock it on the head now since I have neither of those medications? Ah well, people can duck then, I might meet the new psychiatrist when he starts, and I might not. I still want to be discharged, four years is enough and I don’t think I’m unwell enough for the CMHT.
As for the BPD thing, who knows! If I recovered then I’m skeptical. BPD doesn’t just “get better” on its own without treatment. It’s ingrained, and while it can lessen as you age, usually you need some sort of therapy to recover from it as far as I know. I got nada, and yet I don’t have symptoms of it any more. My own theory is that I had traits-self harm, which, although scarred and I hate those, I often fail to see the problem with, fear of being alone, insecurity, self hatred and etc- to cope with things as a teenager- then I learned to cope better. I don’t have the problems with unstable relationships (I have social anxiety, lessening, but I view that separately, it’s not fear of rejection, it’s embarrassment!), emptiness, etc. I can see why I was diagnosed with it, but not a full-blown disorder. It’s more complicated than that, I know, but in short, I’m no longer concerned. I’m a lot better in a lot of ways so I yay that rather than want to question too much why. Since I stopped throwing up what little I ate and stopped taking laxatives for the rest, I’ve gained 20lbs, but I steel myself, and it’s okay. I eat healthily, my body deserves that and so does my loo, it’s important. It’s all good. I repeat this to myself if I feel panicky. No scuffed knuckles, no blood in my mouth. No self harm, less insecurity. This is good and analysing how I got here isn’t helpful.
If things go tits and I end up in hospital at some point, it’ll likely be quite clear what’s up, whether it’s a manic thing, depression, BPD madness or Other. If not, then even better. I’ve been reassured that if I become really unwell, nobody will consign me to the bin. That is what I was terrified of. I’m not concerned, but I am interested in it. It’s been quite a, “Hmm, that’s interesting” thoughtful time. Well, to me, anyway, probably boring as balls to anyone else. I’ve gone on and on about labels and identity here before in my chin stroking moments, but now I’m curious as to the rather quite visceral way me and others refute things.
We talked a little about blogging today. We’ve never really discussed blogging, even though it’s part of my life. In mentioning the borderline thing (in context of medications), I told her a few other mental health bloggers previously or concurrently diagnosed with BPD had resisted it violently and were distraught about it. One blogger was diagnosed with schizophrenia and then BPD, and the BPD thing threw her most. I think it says a lot about that diagnosis. “Phew, schizophrenia…hang on, BPD?” I was, as you know, massively upset with the BPD diagnosis. I’d finally kind-of-accepted bipolar disorder, and that’s apparently a lifelong disorder that’s mostly controlled with medication that makes you fat, sexless, gassy and bald. But borderline personality disorder, well, that seemed like a giant kick in my beautiful, bipolar balls.
I mused on why some people are so resistant to the label, even though it’s all fluid and will change from person to person, doctor to doctor, and is sometimes quite subjective and only useful as far as treatment. It was the, “instead of” rather than, “the and” that threw me. I was quite obsessed with it for a few weeks in that intensely focused way I’m capable of occasionally. I read absolutely everything about it that I could find (including this article on end of life care with a patient who has BPD. It’s fascinating and it literally never occurred to me that such a situation could exist) and tried to find myself in there. I found little bits. Was he right? Was it all really… and here, I think, is the rub… my fault?
There is stigma at work here- inside and out. I like to think I’m a groovy accepting person, but my annoyance at the borderline comment shows I’m not entirely free of stigmatising attitudes myself, which annoys me because my rational mind understands it. The so called “biological” mental illnesses (that is, Axis I disorders in the DSM-IV) are kind of blameless. They’re still unpleasant and joyously murderous, but nobody really blames you for having manic depression or schizophrenia. They blame your genes. Axis II, well, that’s you. You’re just fucked up. Even the moniker, “personality disorder” is accusatory. It’s oft said, but it’s true- your personality, your fault. You’re fucked up. Piss off. DBT handbook will be in the post! Axis I is real, Axis II is made-up. It’s crap. This is stuff that has been classified in a certain way; they all exist with each other, because they are all descriptions of behaviours, and that’s all the names are. Behaviours that exist and that I believe can be classified, named and treated if needs be, but that’s all. Sociopaths exist like schizophrenics exist.
The cruelty of this perspective cuts me to the quick, even though I know on a deeper level, I fear there’s truth in it and that’s why I run from it. Personality disorders- and the dreaded, hated borderline personality disorder in particular- are often shaped by abuse. There’s the “good” abuse victim (hello, PTSD) and the “bad” abuse victim (hello BPD). And she’s usually a young woman. The pain is too visceral, too visible, and thus terribly frightening and threatening. It makes people want to wince and look away, or to expel your from their presence. But in a sane world, people with things like BPD would be treated more sympathetically, not less. I don’t read many mental health blogs anymore (it starts to get bad for…well, your mental health) and I had to stop reading some BPD blogs because the descriptions of abuse that they’d suffered were agonising for me to read. To read, so imagining how they actually felt every day is horrible. And makes me a wanky little coward.
I somewhat intellectualised my protest- labels, pah! I just want the right treatment, pah! You didn’t read my fecking notes properly, pah! But really, one sentence summed it up- “Please, please do not tell me that I have done this to myself!”
Bollocks, this got long. SNIP!
This is the only photo of myself that I’ve liked for a long time. I think it’s settled then; I’m growing a moustache. And a giant chin.
Thanks for the comments on the previous entry- there’s a lot less of a disparity than I thought there would be, but then again, it isn’t exactly a scientific poll…
Oh, and this was bothering me earlier: are Americans on a lot more medication that the rest of the world? The answer is most likely yes (privatised healthcare et al) but I thought I’d ask for personal experiences to see for myself. When I’ve peeked at mentalist forums, which often have signatures that share diagnosis and medication- the Americans seem to be on a fuckload of pills that I’ve never heard of but that if I didn’t know the context, I’d swear were the Latin names for plants.
So, out of curiousity…(and by prescribed, I mean currently, not in total)…
If you’re taking more than 4, why? I don’t mean that in a howling OH MY GOD WHY way, but what were they prescribed for? I know with things like manic depression you can get a mood stabiliser, antipsychotic and antidepressant, so there’s three already (that’s the most I’ve been on at any one time and it felt like far too much).
Thanks, I’m just curious!
Do you ever read your old journals, diaries, blogs and forum posts and want to chew your own fist off in embarrassment?
As a general rule, I never read anything on this blog from 2007- mid 2008. Oh god. What an uppity little madam. Young and mad (and newly diagnosed as such, which is even worse! Once I got that magic affirmation of my mentalism and sort-of accepted it, I pretty much thought psychiatry was my bitch and had to do what I said), that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. See also: my old Livejournal, 2003-2007, especially the manic periods where I’d write 3000 words four times a day, sometimes going into exquisite and florid detail about the beauty of the walk home from a tube station. Oh how the cosmos and I were one! Jesus christ. There’s something charming and innocent about the obnoxiousness of youthful diaries. The universe-halting significance of a nipple hair. The emotional storms blazing across pock marked skin. Relationships based entirely on mutual music taste. But my seventeen year old self really sounds like the manic depressive Adrian Mole. As did my twenty year old self. And my twenty four year old self. Only, y’know, sexier.
It’s there forever online. Or for at least 10 years. If I hadn’t thrown out all my paper journals (when I’ve been depressed and thinking about suicide I’ve tided up a lot and thrown things out) I think I’d have no knuckles left. And I’m writing a bloody book! In ten years, in the unlikely event it’s still in print, should it even be published at all, I’ll be sneaking into Waterstones wearing a beige mac with a lighter in my pocket. (If they still have Waterstones, and not just iPads. OOH YOU CRAZY KIDS AND YOUR TECHNOLOGY!)
There is something sad about being a Grown Up and not being allowed to be a stroppy seventeen year old anymore. I don’t think I was ever really emotionally unstable, I think that I was a teenager, maybe for two years longer than I should have been. A teenager who was coping with some quite adult things sometimes, but still delightfully, stupidly, simply a teenager. As a teenager, everything felt so vitally important and significant, and thus every little thing could illicit a dramatic response. Nowadays anything short of a nuclear bomb dropping on my face doesn’t faze me. I’m still moody and insecure and still feel like the girl in the corner of the playground sometimes. I still get pissed off and stroppy about things. But now I’m all Grown Up about it. Instead of thinking, “OH MY GOD THEY HATE ME, THEY HATE ME, I’M AWFUL!” when people don’t speak to me, I get all Grown Up and think, “Well, they’re probably busy, and to be fair, here I am not saying hello to them, either”. I should, one day for old time’s sake, run home in tears and write a poem about it, in my own blood, titled, “Why Am I So Fucking Shit?”
I do sometimes miss slamming the door because my mum shouted at me. And writing loud UNDERLINED!!!!!!!! diary entries about how much I hate her. I became a grown up, and one who grew up in the psychiatric system. It can feel like being emotional is punished within it, and it’s a shame. Teenagehood had a lot going for it. It still does- I think as a teenager, unformed as we are supposed to be, we’re also our raw, essential selves.
If you kept a diary or journal when you were younger, what was it like? Bonus points if you post excerpts! I may if I get the balls to.
I jokingly called Robert a narcissist earlier. His response was, “I’m as narcissistic as any handsome, intelligent, excellent dancer with a body built for sex”.
I like Robert.
It’s all true, of course.
Today has been conducted through a haze of painkillers, which is getting me down somewhat. The only thing I really did was go to Tesco for juice and toilet roll. I spent about five minutes agonising over the decision. “I could get the cheap rolls. They’re only 42p. Or I could treat myself with 3ply posh roll. But that’s nearly £2…”
And that is how interesting my life is.
(I bought the 42p rolls. Despite what the Daily Mail would lead you believe, most people on benefits cannot afford to wipe their arses with 3ply, let alone have a flat screen telly in every room).
I mentioned lamotrogine to my social worker. I have taken it before, but I don’t think I did so with much diligence. As far as I remember, I didn’t have many side effects from it- certainly not the crippling ones I had with Lithium and Depakote. Either way, if I’m going to take medication I just want something that will even me out so I can be discharged and bugger off from the mental health system. That, and this, helps me focus too much on mentalism, when I don’t really want to anymore. I think it’s becoming counterproductive. I find mental health fascinating in general, but it’s not healthy. As long as I’m in the mental health system, I’ll end up writing here because my appointments are too dull to bore the cats with.
Either way, la! I’m okay with continuing without medication, if I can learn to live better. My feeling is that the doctor won’t discuss it anyway, since they are understaffed and overworked, and he doesn’t think I need medication. If only hypomania didn’t turn to rage then depression, I’d be a happy, probably imprisoned, little bunny.
Anyway, back to the subject- I like Robert. He is nice.
Edit: apologies that I keep editing posts and deleting details. I’m feeling uncomfortable here at the moment so prefer to post the minimum of what I’m thinking, if I post at all.
EDIT: Worst written post ever!
I do indeed have shingles, so a shiny pustule to everybody who said so!
I went to the walk-in clinic on Saturday in Soho. People kept wandering in and out, asking to use the toilet, returning with the suspiciously glazed eyes of someone who was smacking up. The two hour wait was almost like sport. There were two nurses there, one who seemed stressed and grumpy, the other who seemed to carry the sun in her pocket. Luckily, I saw the sun nurse.
She examined me, confirmed it was shingles then explained to me what that was. She took me temperature too, which hasn’t been done to me for years. Little bit of a fever, unsurprising because I’ve generally felt a bit fluey and shite. She asked for any conditions I have- only two, manic depression (I think, who knows) and asthma- and then asked what medication I was taking. I told her none, and she put down her pen. She then told me that she had noticed I was shaking very badly. I do this sometimes, as I’ve explained before. I have confetti days where excess energy just kind of shivers me down. In the waiting room I couldn’t hold the pen properly to fill in the forms so Robert offered to do it. I did it, just in very arch, careful handwriting. The shaking and occasional problems with my speech are two little tics that sometimes give me away.
Anyway, I was quite embarrassed by this and she reassured me nobody else was going to notice and jump to any conclusions, she just did because she was a nurse. She went back to saying that because the rash had been there for more than three days, there was no point in taking any antiviral medication, but I did need to take better care of myself because I’m too young to be getting shingles. I am always run down. I haven’t been in good physical condition for quite a while now.
Before I left, she made me promise I would speak to someone about taking medication.
I left feeling a bit exposed. That morning, I’d been woken up by a paramedic shining a torch in my face. Thank fuck I wasn’t having one of my North Korea dreams or else I would have died of heart failure. Or summary execution. This was because I had sent a depressive text to Robert (it wasn’t anything particularly scary, and it was partly due to feeling manky because I’m all shingley), then promptly fallen asleep due to the antihistimines I’d taken for scratching. Oh, and my phone is broken. So I didn’t hear his calls, he assumed I’d topped myself or hurt myself, and panicked.
Nothing did happen, but there is something Not Right when someone close to you worries about you like that. Someone’s first reaction to not answering the phone at 2am should be, “Oh, she’s asleep”. Not that. I am not terrible at the moment, but there are some things in the past two months (that I don’t feel like talking about) that remind me of me back in 2006. And not in a good way. I’m aware I’m Not Quite Right at the moment. Not in any profound way, but it’s there. And also that I’m better at hiding it these days. I’m sleeping well enough, so it’s not just that.
Anyway, I’m going to start taking medication again. Maybe I just needed more time to adjust to life without it and develop better ways of living without it, but if I’m being honest, the whole experiment has been a failure, and I need some extra help for my moods. Because I want to get somewhere in my life. I want to write, consistently, I want to earn enough money to live somewhere with Robert and the cats, to study and to travel, I want to have a baby one day and have a spare room for a crib, I want to learn stuff and talk to people, and just live my bloody life. Not spend it on a constant balancing act. I don’t get anything done. I don’t get anywhere. I want a fucking life. A proper, full one where I can forget that I have a mental illness.
It doesn’t have to be forever, just until I get more stable. I am more stable than I was four years ago, but slipping, a bit. I don’t want to slip a lot. So, it might not even help, but it’s worth a go. I don’t just owe it to myself to try harder. It’s not just me that this affects. I sometimes forget that.
Anyway, it’ll just be Seroquel, so.