Content.

For a few days now I have been struggling with what I should write about. There is a lot I could say, and a lot that I want to say, indeed I have started writing about several different topics. But now just didn’t seem like the right time to address the issues I chose, and so I abandoned my work, time and time again. In my experience it is never wise to force creativity and so I waited until inspiration came to find me. And then it did.

Today I want to choose a different path. I don’t want to delve into the darkness today. I don’t want to analyse fragmented memories, I don’t want to open up old wounds. Today I want to talk about the alternative, the light, the sunshine.

Happiness. I think everyone believes in it, strives for it, yearns for it. I know I did. But the funny thing was that the more I wanted to be happy, the less happy I became. Perhaps if you yearn for something, you are admitting to yourself you don’t already possess it.

When I fell into the blackness I would look at other people and wish I had some of their sunshine. I considered them so damn lucky. I would think “maybe if I was prettier, if I had more money, if I owned a house......then I would be happy.” But the grass is generally disappointingly brown on the other side. And maybe those people were looking at me too, wishing for the qualities and the attributes that I possessed yet never appreciated. 

Today I realised that for the first time in at least a decade, I am truly happy. I’m not talking about the energetic, consuming, powerful happiness of mania. I’m not even talking about the intoxicating exuberance that accompanies a love affair, or a personal success. I’m talking about contentment.

Contentment is innocent, it doesn’t want bigger or better. Contentment just is, pure and simple. Six months ago my psychologist asked me what kind of life I wanted. I told her I wanted a simple life, that I didn’t want a huge house or expensive cars and holidays. I just wanted a happy life with my family, appreciating the little things. This week I have played with my little boy, taken the time to bake and cook, been for walks with my boy and my dog. I have dusted off my thesis and started data analysis. I have seen friends and been out, but I’ve also stayed in and read. I feel like I’ve finally achieved a balance, a balance between me and him and us and everyone else. I’ve been crazy enough to have fun, but sane enough to take responsibility.

It took this episode and this hospitalisation for me to finally peel away at the layers that were suffocating me. Finally I am able to recognise what is really important in life. Now I can recognise and discard the things that aren’t important. I find I care less and less about what others think. If there is one thing I have learned, it is that life is too short and too precious to waste.

I know in the future there will be days of grey. Maybe even black. Perhaps multicoloured and overwhelming. But I hope I will be able to reach out for a beam of sunshine and eventually find peace once more. Acceptance. Release. Happiness. Contentment.

This photo always reminds me of being content. Content and happy :)

Bipolar Bear

The first time my doctor told me that she thought I had bipolar disorder I almost choked on my Tim Tam (sneakily purchased from the local supermarket...I can assure you the public health system does not provide such wonderful chocolate snacks). “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I spluttered. “I have been horribly depressed for months...I FINALLY feel good, and I’ve got a disorder?!”

Of course I was in the midst of a manic episode at that moment...but we’ll get to that some other time ;)

The point is, I had a fairly strong and ignorant idea as to what bipolar disorder was, and was of the utmost confidence that I certainly didn’t fit that category, thank you very much. bipolar disorder, to me, conjured images of really crazy people. Take the word ‘manic’ add a letter and you get ‘maniac’. Coincidence? I think not. Postnatal depression, I thought, well that’s one thing.  But bipolar? Woah man...let’s  not get carried away!

What is interesting is that I am by no means  uneducated in terms of clinical psychological knowledge. I have an undergraduate degree in psychology, have volunteered as a telephone counsellor, and have spent time with many individuals who live with what society describes as a ‘mental illness’. Logically, I knew that all psychological distress has a place on a continuum and there are shades of grey. Yet when I was faced with a potential diagnosis all I saw was black or white: crazy or sane. And I didn’t want to be the crazy one.

When my mania started to ease I finally started to think seriously about my potential diagnosis. My doctor took care to take time to describe the symptoms, explain why she suspected I had the disorder, and encouraged me to ask as many questions as I pleased. One day I decided to conduct my own research on the matter. I read website after website, page after page of symptoms and clinical descriptions, determined to find something that didn’t fit. Something I could gleefully take back to my doctor to prove her wrong. But at the end of it all I just sighed and sat back in my chair.

“Oh crap.” I said out loud to myself. “I think I’ve got bipolar”. 

One evening at the hospital I voiced my concerns to Steven. “Do you still love me....even if I’ve got bipolar.”
Steven barely looked up. “Course I do” he said, as sure as if I had asked him if he likes Star Wars.
“But I’m....” I struggled to find a word, “INSANE!” I spluttered.

“You’re not insane” Steven said, stroking my hair. “You’re going through a hard time. And I’m here...for better or worse, in sickness or in health, remember?”. I breathed a sigh of relief. “There is one thing though...” Steven said “I can’t call you my Chi Bear anymore.”

I looked at him, startled. Chi Bear was his nickname for me.
“Why not?!” I asked.

“Because I will have to call you my Bipolar Bear now!” We both collapsed into giggles. It was the first time we had joked about my illness. Now, of course, we’ve graduated to fully fledged piss taking where any mention of maniacs or arctic dwelling bears is sure to set us off.

It was then that I realised that I was still me, I hadn’t changed. Bipolar had been with me all along but it just didn’t have a name. A diagnosis is simply a word. A term to describe a collection of symptoms that I happened to have. A tool for categorizing individuals such to predict their likely response to various treatment protocols.  “We diagnose” my doctor had told me, “not to label, but because it’s easier to treat someone if we know what we are dealing with, and what usually works for people with similar symptoms”.

Now I feel that bipolar disorder is merely an aspect of my life. I no longer feel shame in what I have experienced, and feel comfortable to talk about my story to those who ask. I feel relief that there is an explanation for the experiences I have had, and that I have access to a treatment which is currently working. I feel grateful for the lessons I have learned throughout this experience, and for the strength I now feel I posses. But I won't ever let it define me. I'm not bipolar. I'm Rachael, and I have bipolar disorder. 

Lithium

I was against Lithium for a long time. I suppose I was tired of being pumped full of medications that never worked. Maybe I was scared of the side effects, and the risk of lithium toxicity. Perhaps refusing the medication was the last source of control that I had.  Whatever the reason, each time the doctors wrote it up for me, I would refuse to take it.

Lithium, to me, was a commitment that I wasn’t sure I wanted. Everything about Lithium seemed to revolve around ‘Do’s’ and ‘Don’ts. Do: have regular blood tests, drink enough water, monitor for symptoms of lithium toxicity, take the medication with food. Don’t: stop taking the medication suddenly, take the medication if you have gastro, take other medications without checking to see if they interact, get pregnant.  And even if I did do all of this there was no guarantee it would work anyway. As it was, every single mood altering medication I had been prescribed during the past decade had been a dismal failure. I had lost a great deal of faith in the psychiatric profession and in psychoactive medication.

But more than this, I think  Lithium represented my last chance, a lifeline that I was scared of giving up. Every time things got bad, a part of me would think “well...there’s always the lithium..”. But if I used it up, if I took it and it didn’t work, then what?

But one day, of course, things did get really bad. I fell to the ground in front of the other patients and howled from the core of my being. I was quickly escorted outside and medicated. “I can’t do it”. I whispered to my nurse as she held my hand. “I just can’t do it. I’ve tried. I can’t keep going anymore”. I howled again, clutching my stomach in physical pain.

The nurse gently steered me into the doctors office. Emotional pain became physical paralysis.  They helped me sit down. I stared blankly into the distance. They asked me: “What is the doctors name? What is the day of the week?  What is the prime ministers name?” The first question I knew. The second I had to think about – every day is the same in hospital. The final question I struggled with. Was the prime minister still that woman? Who cares.

That night my nurse came to give me my night medication. Two lithium tablets were sitting in the little plastic cup. “I don’t know if I can do it” I said. She sat down next to me “Look Rachael, I saw you this morning and it was absolutely horrible. It was awful to see someone in that amount of pain. It must be awful to feel like that, and yes – all medications have their risks, but surely anything....anything... is better than feeling that way”. I knew she was right. I knew I needed to take a leap of faith and trust the people who were trying to help me.

So I took the pills. I think I was expecting some kind of revelation to occur as soon as the white tablets touched my tongue. The heavens to open. The stars to collide.  But no. It was just like taking any other tablet, and life went on as normal.

The thing about Lithium is that you feel like crap when you first start taking it. Even worse, my first blood test revealed that my blood level was below the therapeutic dose, so much to my annoyance my dosage was increased. I was prescribed Maxalon for the nausea, but it didn’t help much. Another girl at the unit had just started her Lithium too. We bonded over shared side effects, and fantasized together about refusing our doses (Anarchy in the MBU!) I honestly didn’t ever believe it work. Nothing ever had.

But that’s the thing about bipolar. Standard SSRI anti-depressants don’t work, not alone anyway. Best case scenario you have wasted your money. Worst case scenario they make you a whole lot worse – or even trigger a manic episode. I had been a worst case scenario.

To my utter astonishment only a few days after taking the lithium at the therapeutic dose I started to feel better. A whole lot better actually. At first I thought it was a fluke. But my depression fell away, my mood lifted, my agitation lessened, my anxiety disappeared. I stopped crying. I started laughing.

And then I had to sheepishly inform my doctor that she had been right all along. To her credit she never said ‘I told you so!’ ;)

The major lesson I learned from this experience is to never give up. I had come to the conclusion that nothing would ever work to help me. That I was unsalvageable. I had given up on myself, and I had lost all sense of hope. Yet the thing that helped me was staring me in the face all along. I’m not going to proclaim that Lithium was a magic cure. It’s far complicated than that. But it did help stabilize me to the point where I could begin to use the psychological strategies that I had been taught. And for now I take those little white pills each morning and evening. But only for now :)

April 10th, 2012

Today I thought that I would share one of my more coherent diary entries from when I was in hospital. This was written on the 10th of April, 2012.

3:30am and I’m wondering, yet again, if I can do this.

You don’t know what it’s like to be a psychiatric patient until it happens. Here everything has the facade of being a friendly family oriented institution. But if you look past the queen size beds, comfy couches and children’s play equipment, it is still a psychiatric institution where they have control, and you do not. 

You have ask to shave your legs here, so eventually you stop bothering. You have to ask to dry your hair here, so eventually you stop caring. Every time you go out you have to complete a ‘risk assessment’ form, where the person accompanying you is referred to as your carer and has to take full responsibility for your actions (because you are not deemed responsible enough to take care of your own actions). Your room has a low water temperature, a peephole on the bathroom door, and a window on the door. And don’t forget the locks.

In two days I will have been here for four long weeks. Four weeks of waking up alone, without Steven there. Four weeks of crying every single day. Four weeks of strong medications...yet not being able to sleep. Four weeks of being cocooned from the outside world.

I felt ‘stoned’ yesterday. That’s the only way I could describe it. My pupils are huge. Everything is overwhelming. The colours. The brightness. Sometimes I look around and feel I will physically collapse because there is just SO much. Doctor said it’s a medication hangover. Bloody Zopiclone. I refused it tonight....which is why I’m awake. It’s a no win situation. I don’t sleep, I get worse. I get worse, I don’t sleep. I take sleeping pills, I don’t sleep. I take Zopiclone, I sleep but feel awful the next day.

Diazapam, Lorazepam, Olanzapine, Quetiapine, Phernagen, Lexapro, Desvenlafaxine....this is my language now.

 Steven keeps telling me to take my time. That he would rather I stay another week than come home prematurely and be re-admitted a month down the track for another three weeks. I know how hard it must be for him. He goes from home to work to the hospital then home every single day. Some days he doesn’t even have dinner. But he never ever complains.

The thing is, I have been trying hard, I really have. I WANT to get better. I’ve done the meditation, the CBT, the medication. Yet something is just.....not right.

God, I’m so sorry.

Early Warning Signs

What has scared me most about this whole experience is the potential for ‘it’ to come back again. I’ve discussed this at length with many of the medical staff managing my care. At the moment I have so many people checking up on me that I’m confident someone would hear the alarm bells even if couldn’t. But what about in a year? What about in 10 years?

It was then that I realised that I need to be the one who monitors my own wellbeing. I need to be the one who hears the alarm bells. I can’t rely on other people to babysit me. I need to take responsibility for my own mental health.

But this is easier said than done. Depression, I feel, is easy enough to recognise. The lethargy, the low mood, the apathy. I know when I’m depressed. But the apathy that fuels my depression may prevent me from doing anything about it. Mania. Another problem. Mania, particularly in the early stages feels fantastic. I’m not going to go and seek help when I am manic. I may not even believe I am manic. Then what?

So when my lovely nurse from the Mother and Baby unit came for her weekly visit yesterday she was armed with papers and materials. She explained to me that the trick is to identify a mood change before it becomes a full blown depressive or manic episode. The first tool she gave me was a mood diary. She showed me how I could mark my mood every day and keep a track of my high’s and low’s. This way, if my mood started to dramatically change I would be able to see it and take action. I like graphs and charts so a mood chart appealed to me.

Next she asked me if I could identify my early warning signs. I thought for a moment then told her that I couldn’t. The memories I have of the past year are so convoluted and confused, I can’t really describe what came first. This is, in fact, the reason why I am writing this blog episodically rather than chronologically.

  My nurse then pulled out a pack of flash cards and lay them out on the table. Each card had a symptom on it:“not eating”, “feeling sad or low”, “not being able to sit still”. When I saw the symptoms I was surprised at how easily I could remember if they were relevant to me or not. For about an hour we categorized the cards, moved them around, and talked about what the symptoms meant to me. Asides from being a cathartic exercise I ended up with personal symptom lists for depression, psychosis and mania. Furthermore, we were able to identify my personal early warning signs for each. My nurse left, promising to create a personalised early warning sign booklet for me over the next week.

I lost control before I was admitted to hospital, and the little control I had left was taken away from me when I was inside. But now, on the road to recovery, I choose when to eat, what to do and where to go. I take responsibility for myself. I look after myself. And now, with a few tricks up my sleeve, I feel empowered. Instead of feeling at the mercy of dangerous mood swings, I feel like I have control. But most of all... I feel like me again.

Isolation

Unfortunately, around 4 weeks into my stay in the hospital David and I both got a mild case of gastro. I casually let one of the nurses know what was happening and suddenly there was an almighty commotion. A decontamination station was set up outside my room, nurses practically donned hazmat suits to come and talk to me. I was highly amused by the bright yellow “Clinical Waste” bag I was supplied for David’s offensive nappies. It’s not often you put your baby’s nappies into a bag with what looked to be the radioactive symbol on it!

But my amusement quickly faded when the doctor  broke the cheery news that David and I were to be isolated to my room and the adjoining living room for the next 48 hours. At least.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I complained, watching my child rampage across my room, shrieking with delight. I begged to be sent home instead but was deemed too unstable for leave. I spent the rest of the afternoon racing between my toilet and my baby, whose main symptoms seemed to include an adamant refusal to nap and despicable nappies which filled my room with the most noxious odour.

Now forced isolation for a few days may sound somewhat pleasant to some people. I mean, I had a bed, books, a TV and my own private outside area. Someone brought me my meals every day. But I can assure you that forced isolation trying to entertain a bored sick roommate who continually cries, grizzles, and attempts to destroy your belongings must surely be a new level in hell. On my third day out of pure desperation I flagged down a nurse and said “You have got to take him for a little bit before I...” (I had been about to say “before I kill myself” but then realised that was probably not the wisest thing to say given my situation) “before I lose my temper”. She took pity on me and with a sigh of relief I turned on the TV.

About half an hour later the nurse came back and accused of watching pornography.  I  assured her that I had only been watching an episode of ‘How I Met Your Mother’ and that pornography was, quite frankly, the very last thing I felt like watching at this current point in time. But I didn’t have a good feeling about watching the TV after that incident.  

Finally on the late afternoon of my third day my psychologist came to release us. David and I flew out the door joyously. Even better I had a psychological testing session so I was taken for a walk next door while David was cared for by the nurses. Usually these testing sessions bored me, but today it was positively luxurious. Freedom!

It was heavenly going to make myself a cup of tea, watching David happily crawl around outside, actually having adult conversations. As I went to bed that night I vowed that I would never ever complain that I felt restricted in the unit again. Who cares if other women were allowed to go for walks and I wasn’t. At least I could walk to the kitchen! Who cares if the food is crap. At least I could choose it! With a newfound appreciation for what I did have, I stopped complaining.

Well...for a few weeks anyway ;)

My Ray of Sunshine

The most important character in this story is my little boy, David.

I have always maintained that my depression, my illness, was never anything to do with David. The blackness hit me like a ton of bricks only a few days after his birth, but deep inside I knew my despondency wasn’t to do with him. David was the catalyst but not the cause.

People gave me all sorts of advice. They told me I should go back to uni, get a job, find a hobby, go on vacation, take time out for myself, or (my personal favourite) give myself a footbath. I know these people meant well, and they were only trying to help, but I felt like screaming. I knew that even if I were to put David into full time childcare, get a fantastic job, go on a holiday, and give myself a footbath every evening the blackness would still be there waiting for me. It wasn’t circumstantial.

It’s very hard for anyone to understand a non circumstantial depression. People understand the depression of someone who has lost a family member or a job, or their health. But how can someone be depressed when they appear to have everything going for them? I certainly didn’t understand my depression. I felt I had no right to be depressed. A psychiatrist at the emergency department of a hospital put it into words once. She asked me “You have a healthy baby, a loving husband, a roof over your head? Why would you feel depressed?”. Why indeed.

I was so ashamed of how I felt that I began to try and hide it. I got up every morning and showered, cleaned my house, returned phone calls, all the while giving David the utmost care and attention. Depressed people didn’t get up, didn’t clean their house, and certainly didn’t return phone calls – I had been there before. Therefore I couldn’t possibly be depressed. Yet at night I soaked my pillow with tears, and every morning I woke up wondering how I would make it through the day. 

But there comes a point when you can’t fake it anymore. I stopped cooking, cleaning, doing anything other than the absolute necessary. I took care of David’s basic needs, he was well fed and always clean, but afterwards I would stare at him, wondering what I should do, wondering if – in fact – he was still my baby. At the end, just before my admission, as the psychosis began, I became convinced that the police were looking for me for being a bad mother.

But David, my darling David, remained a ray of sunshine in a dark situation. He warmed my heart with each smile and cuddle he gave me. He taught me how precious life is, and gave me something to be strong for. David, ultimately, is the reason why I never attempted to hurt myself.

When I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder things started to click into place. I was told that women with the disorder are at high risk of experiencing manic or depressive episodes in the postnatal period due to the immense hormonal and biological changes. Usually these women are treated promptly, but since I was unaware I had the disorder and was therefore treated for postnatal depression (which requires an entirely different treatment protocol) things got to the stage they did.

Sometimes I feel guilty that David endured what he did. Even though he is too young to understand. I feel sad that he spent two months of his little life in a psychiatric institution, and I have virtually no photos of him between 7 and 9 months old. But then I look at the positives. David and I have an incredibly strong bond now, and I treasure the time we spend together. I have a WHOLE lot of photos of David from 10 months onward! David is used to being handled by strangers and is happy to be passed to new people. But most importantly David has a very happy mum.

There's always a ray of sunshine. My son. My sun.  

A Mixed State

I just couldn’t stop moving. I tossed, I turned, I paced, I jittered. I got up in the night to pace. I wrung my hands and jogged my legs and drove everyone around me up the wall.

“Stop! Tell me what’s bothering you.” Steven would say. “I don’t know!” I would reply. 

“Stop! Take some deep breaths and try to keep still” My doctor would say. “I can’t!” I would say, before pacing around the room again.

It had begun about a week before I was admitted to hospital, and it was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. In my experience, depression is accompanied by lethargy. A complete inertia and apathy towards life itself. You don’t want to *do* anything when you are depressed. Merely getting up in the morning is a mammoth task. 

But this wasn’t like that. I was acutely depressed. Suicidal. Hopeless. Yet, for the life of me, and despite the plethora of psychoactive medications I was offered, I just couldn’t stop moving.

I was moved to the most secure room on the ward. The bathroom door had a peep hole. This disturbed me. Though looking back the peep hole should have been the least of my concerns. Under ‘special’ supervision a nurse was required to be present every time I used the bathroom anyway. Although I was admitted to hospital as a voluntary patient, I was informed in no uncertain terms that if I were to attempt to leave the premises I would be sectioned under the Mental Health Act. 

One morning I woke up to find three nurses conducting what appeared to be a sweep of my room. “We’re just giving your room a bit of a clean” they told me. “Umm, okay then” I said. I didn’t really think much about it until I had my shower and wanted to dry my hair. My hairdryer was gone, and when I questioned the nurse about it she told me it was for my own protection. On closer inspection I noticed that all my power cords were missing as well as my shaver, scissors and nail clippers (ok fair enough), dressing gown cord (lethal weapon there...) and my shoes (seriously?!). Steven later told me that women’s bra’s are often removed in institutions. How he knows this I’m not entirely sure. Thankfully my underwear was left safely in my drawer. Small mercies! 

Although I understood that the hospital was taking my safety into their own hands, I wasn’t entirely sure why. I mean, I knew I was suicidal. I knew I was severely depressed. But most of the other women in the ward were depressed. Yet they didn’t need a special room, or 24 hour supervision. They were allowed to go for walks alone, and wear dressing gowns with a cord. On a few occasions I felt angry about this perceived inequality, sometimes I felt upset. But mostly I was so depressed that I just didn’t care. I didn’t care that my rights, dignity and privacy had been taken from me. It just gave me one less thing to think about.

All of this happened well over a month before the manic episode that confirmed my diagnosis of bipolar disorder. But at this point in time the doctors were already suspicious that I had bipolar. You see, somewhere in between mania and depression there is a strange phenomenon clinically termed a ‘mixed state’. You have symptoms of depression and of mania at the same time. The agitation of mania without the euphoria. The chronic low mood of depression without the apathy. A mixed state is one of the most dangerous psychological states to be in, and many suicides associated with bipolar disorder occur during a mixed state. Somewhat ironically, the lethargy that accompanies depression acts as a  kind of safety net. A depressed individual may simply not have the energy to execute a suicide attempt. During a mixed state individuals are seriously depressed, but fuelled with energy – a deadly combination.

What I know now is that I was experiencing a mixed state, and this went on for many painful weeks. No amount of anti-psychotic or anti-anxiety medication dampened my agitation. No amount of anti-depressants lessened my depression. I barely slept, despite the copious sleeping pills I was offered.  My son was almost exclusively cared for by the nurses and my husband. To this day I have very few memories of this point in time and rely on my doctor’s and husbands recollections of how I was.

A mixed state is such an appropriate term. Because I really was mixed up, and I really was in a state. I was experiencing symptoms of depression, mania and psychosis all at the same time. I couldn’t explain my past and I couldn’t think about the future. I wanted to live, but I wanted to die. I wasn’t sane but I wasn’t crazy.

While I was in hospital I marvelled at my baby boy’s development. I watched him pull himself along on the floor, start to crawl, and finally pull himself up to stand. And as is the way of things, the mixed state passed, and transformed into something else completely. I was taken off ‘special’ supervision and onto 15 minute checks, and then half hour checks, then hourly. Soon I even got to go for walks, and was moved to a different room (without a peephole!).  Then finally, like my son, and with the encouragement of Steven and the medical staff, I reached up and stood on my own two feet. 

Home. At last.

Today I came home after spending close to eight weeks in a Mother and Baby Unit where I was diagnosed with Bipolar Affective Disorder. Interestingly, the acronym for this particular disorder is “BAD”, which is actually quite appropriate because boy, it was BAD.

Now that I am actually home, actually unpacked, and actually lying on my own bed, I can’t help but think about the journey that I’ve been on. Where I’ve come from and where I plan to go. I can’t help but compare how I feel now to how I felt two months ago.

Now...I feel fantastic! I feel like a completely different person to the lost individual that I was eight weeks ago. I feel stronger, more hardy, and more equipped to deal with stressors. I don’t worry the way I used to. I’m not consumed with guilt. I very rarely feel anxious. Of course it is early days, and I know that any recovery is rarely smooth. I know, and I expect to have good days and bad days. The difference is that now I feel able to deal with the bad days.

Then...well that’s a different story. At my final doctor's appointment this morning, my doctor reminded me just how unwell I had been. “You were just so damn sick Rachael”, she said to me “You were one of the most unwell patients we have had in this unit in the last 5 years. Most people who present with postnatal depression or anxiety are easy to deal with....but your depression was absolutely monstrous. It is so good to see you looking so well again, with a sparkle in your eyes!”

After I packed up my belongings it was time to say good-bye. I waved farewell to the other girls in the unit, the women who had become my friends. I said good bye to the nurses who had become such a big part of my life. I can’t begin to describe the gratitude I feel towards these individuals who sat with me, listened to me, and protected me. All the nurses came out of their station to wave us off, and my doctor came out of her office to give me a hug. As I walked out to the car with my bag, I looked behind me at the unit that had become my second home.

“The end of an era”, I remarked to Steven, my husband. And it really is.

 Eight weeks seems such a long time while you are in the thick of it. But looking back now, it really isn’t. In eight weeks I have managed to get my life back together. In eight weeks I have managed to rebuild what had been broken down. Going into the unit was one of the hardest...but one of the BEST things I have ever done for myself.

  Today I told someone my story and they told me I should write a book. Lord knows I tried while in hospital, walking around with my little blue notebook and pen. But words don’t come easily when you are depressed, and you don’t have the patience to sit and write when you are manic. But now I am stable, ideas are flowing, and I’m itching to do what I haven’t been able to for so long: write. 

So this is my story, as honest and as true as I can recall. This is the story of finding my sunshine.