Self conscious post

This is a self conscious, “Ooh, I have a few new readers at the moment and it might be a bit depressing round these parts so here’s something silly at the top” post. It’s been a tricky year but 2014 will be better.

In the meantime, you should listen to this song.


So once again, I am attempting to get off Quetiapine.  Oh so many reasons (weight gain, think I might have developed diabetes, flatness, spending ALL my spare time sleeping, not being sure I have manic depression, not being sure I believe in manic depression actually existing), but the biggest one being I don’t think I need it. My psychiatrist agrees with this. (Although recommends keeping an, “In Case of Emergency” stash). It’s been six years on varying doses. I am doing it sensibly this time- i.e titrating. Everyone around me, including my manager, knows what I’m doing. I have gotten down to 100mg and so far:

I feel like I am permanently on the edge of flu

I am itchy as fuck

I am feeling overemotional and tearful and hypersensitive

My brain is racing again and I can’t concentrate

I keep getting electric shocks in my hands

I feel nauseous and my appetite is decreasing (the latter is good, I have gained 5st in a year on the higher dose).

My sleep is fecked- I am waiting up constantly but still feeling drugged when I wake up (I slept well yesterday though, but that was an ills exhaustion-medication combo)

I just don’t feel like myself.

I thought this would get better, as it’s been a few weeks, but some days are worse than at the beginning. I think this is also partly because my immune system is a bit fecked right now so I’m picking up the ills along the way.

I don’t know whether to credit Quetiapine and other medication with my stability these days, or to credit getting older. Was I ever ill in the first place? Or was I just young and someone who had gone through a lot of trauma? As I’ve grown older, I have begun to accept- painfully, often- the trauma I’ve experienced and realising it’s had an impact on me.  I haven’t had a, “(hypo)manic” episode in about 2 years. I had a depressive one a year ago, and it was pretty bad, but in general, I am just an anxious, analytical person.  I am always a little bit hyperactive or a little bit low, it’s what I’m like. I do realise my sustained, “episodes” deviate fairly markedly from my, “baseline”. I do know they come out of nowhere, and I know what that suggests. But either/or, I don’t think any of that is bad enough to warrant taking medication for the rest of my life. For a long time I have thought that, and have begun to think that the medication is keeping me unwell.  Not in an anti-psychiatry way, but that the side effects are outweighing the benefits.

25mg is the dose I am dreading. That’s when total insomnia will come and I’ll have no choice but to power through.  The last time I got there, then 0mg, I had rebound psychosis from insomnia and it was quite scary. The police had to be called because I thought our house was being robbed and barricaded myself in a room. I felt almost instantly okay again when I took 400mg and slept for 2 days and I hated that.  I hate that my normal is being drugged up and exhausted. I hate that my normal is knowing, every day, I’ll probably die 20 years younger than most people I know because of my medication and its effects.  I just don’t want to do it anymore.

I am slightly afraid, though. Afraid of all my emotions pouring back and of not being able to cope with it.  I do think my medication has helped keep me sane over some of last year’s trauma, because they held me in numbness, suspended me in fatigue and flatness.  Maybe all the years. The flood that might be coming terrifies me. But I’d rather be drowning than be alone, forever and forever, on my dry little island.

I’ve gotten off Lamictal and Prozac already- wish me luck.

Panic- fun and games in the back of an ambulance

Hello, been a while since I updated here. I’m pretty knackered!

News for those wondering- I didn’t win the Mind digital award, which I didn’t expect to.  Thank you for your good wishes, though. It was won by the lovely Charlotte, who thoroughly deserved to win. I still had a fun night, and when the winner was announced, I could finally go for a wee I had nervously held in for hours. It was good.

I had a bit of a shite experience last weekend.

Continue reading

Now that’s weird…

…I didn’t actually publish the, “Now I Am Six” blog post from earlier- I have no idea why it did publish.  It’s from May 13th….EXACTLY 6 months ago…

Totally freaked out! Wah! Ghost blog!

Let’s be clear – Tory and Lib Dem MPs have decided terminally ill patients should work or starve

Mentally Interesting:

This government is inhuman beyond parody. There should be riots in the streets about this. What is happening to us?

Originally posted on Pride's Purge:

(not satire – it’s ConDemNation today)

Back in 2011, Conservative and Liberal Democrat MPs joined together to reject an amendment which would have exempted terminally ill cancer patients from benefit cuts.

They decided that if you are diagnosed with a terminal illness such as cancer – but have been given more than 6 months to live – you will have to work or starve.

Here’s a previous blogpost about that:

The government has finally done something so outrageous even I can’t be bothered to satirise it

This decision by coalition MPs was so outrageous that after intense lobbying, there were some concessions made by the government.

However, in a bizarre piece of upside-down DWP logic, it now seems that if you have less than 6 months to live – you will be refused benefits.

This is from the Chester and Ellesmere Port Foodbank blog:


Jenny came to the…

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Sponsor Me for the Bupa 10k in May!

Hello everyone!

A quick and cheeky post.  I am running the BUPA 10k in May 2014.  I am legendarily unfit and have never even run for a bus, but I want to raise money for the addictions charity Addaction, in memory of my dad, Paul Molloy, who died from alcoholic liver failure on May 17th, 2006.

It’s going to be a HUGE challenge for me so I’d appreciate anything you could donate. You can sponsor me here:

My Justgiving Page

Please share if you can and thank you!

I miss my dad.

My dad had a camera attached to him for the first 10 years of our lives.  He documented every mundane moment.   He painstakingly developed them, and kept almost every photo he took.  They live in a box in my mum’s house and have been vanishing over the multiples moves she’s undertaken since he died. I have a few of them.  The photos begin to tail off when my baby sister was a toddler.  My dad was too lost to drink then to keep taking photos. I hate that there’s scant evidence of her childhood.

There was a photo of me that he loved so much he had it blown up into A4 in dramatic black and white.  I’m about four, face on, staring fiercely into the lens. I don’t know if I’d just woken up and was grumpy, I don’t remember the photo being taken. But he loved that photo and was proud of it, and proud of the person in it. It was one he showed me often.  Even I could shyly admit I looked beautiful in it, looked, probably for one of the first times, like a child who was becoming their own person.

I tore it up one day, in a fit of teenage pique, when I was learning how to hate myself.  He was hurt. And I regretted it instantly, and I still regret it, to this day.

I think the look was a little like this one.

My dad hurt us a lot with his drinking. But sometimes I’m floored at all the little things I did to hurt him, too.  I remember, always remember, how his eyes looked when he was hurt. When he was drunk, dewy. Sometimes, they were dewy when he was happy, too.  I remember that less.

I miss my dad.  When you think of what a life is- that there is one- it brings me to my knees that his life was so brief and so desperately unhappy.  Despite us, five children. Sometimes, I think, was it because of us? Other deaths and lives don’t have that burden on their children.  People who die of natural causes and not things like alcoholism can have that gift, of a, “life well lived”. To know how cherished and loved they were, and how much they cherished and loved in return.  I don’t have that. Either way, I don’t have that and I regret it utterly. My dad was often infuriating, abusive and hurtful and in rages, I would be the same. Always his reflection, even now.

I didn’t even mention him in my wedding speech. I regret that, too.  It wasn’t a conscious omission. I wore his photo in a locket around my neck. I worried that if I talked about him, I would never stop. I didn’t want to cry, not that day, but cried later anyway, for different reasons. I wish I had let myself cry for those ones. Why, why have I spent the seven years since his death trying not to cry?  I only cry over my dad when I’m drunk. Why did I spend the years of his life trying not to? It is so hard to watch someone you love destroy themselves. Despite pleading with them, begging them, screaming at them.  Doors torn off the hinges and kicked through in premature grief, from all of us. Like I tore up my photo, he tore up the letter I wrote him when he was in a psychiatric hospital. We were asked to tell him what effect his alcoholism was having on us. And for a while, it seemed like we’d gotten somewhere. But they all went to pieces, in spite and because of. Even now I wonder if I had chosen my words too carefully.  From the back of a CD, some pretentious teenage book I was reading. Using it as a writing assignment to hide from the reality of what was happening to him and to us. Of that squalid little hellhole hospital and its yellowing rooms, and his rancid bedsheets and yellowing skin. Too blamefully, too artfully, instead of writing it from me.

The photos help. We were happy, sometimes. He was happy, sometimes. When he stopped picking up his camera, that’s when I started. He left us some money- not a lot at all- when he died. I bought a camera with mine, his last gift to me.

This picture wasn’t taken with that camera, but on his last Christmas with us, in 2005.

He wasn’t a great dad. But he was our dad.

The tattoos me and my siblings have. “Remember to live”.

He was someone who didn’t realise how much he was loved. And if he didn’t realise, then who else doesn’t?

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