Simple.

Sometimes I feel like the world has gone mad and I'm being swept away with it. Everything these days runs at such a fast pace. I find myself frustrated when it takes more than a millisecond for a web page to load. I rush around, for no particular reason other than the fact that I feel I need to.

But at the same time, I currently have an obsession with living simply. I want to slow down, appreciate the little things and take my time. I have a great respect for the Amish. If it wasn't for the lack of broadband I'd be over there like a shot.

I kid, I kid!

But in all seriousness I have been trying to simplify my life a little. I try and spend at least half an hour with my son outside or at the park everyday. Whenever possible I make things instead of buying things. I try to grow my own herbs. .

I have also decided to learn how to sew. I can't believe I have gotten to my late 20's without knowing how to operate a sewing machine. I have borrowed my mums sewing machine and plan to devour the instruction booklet and then get my housewife on. (I sound all confident now, but I can suspect in a few hours when I am being buried in a tangled mess of bobbins I shall be feeling far less cocky!)

Anyway back to the matter at hand. One thing I truly believe in is op shops. Oh op shops. I love them. You can get some crazy bargains at op shops, AND the money goes to a good cause. You can take your old clothes hanging around your wardrobe and come back with a new set. What is there not to love? A few months ago I paid $5 for a designer dress that still had the $200 price tag on it. I also got my son the very kids couch I wanted for $6 rather than the $25 in Kmart. I love how the clothes are worn in already, and I LOVE how you can get clothes you wouldn't necessarily find in retail outlets. I don't know if shopping at op shops is exactly simple, but its certainly something I recommend.

But living simple is more than just recycled clothes and home made items. Every day, no matter how busy the day, I make myself a cup of tea or milo and just.....be.

In hospital, according to the nurses, a hot drink could cure anything. Sad? Make yourself a cuppa. Angry? A cuppa will sort it out. Headache? Go and grab yourself a nice cuppa. And that old wives adage is true...a cup of something soothing does calm you down, does make you feel better.

So as I'm sipping my drink I don't stress about all the things I have to do. I look away from the towering washing pile. I ignore the dishes in the sink. And I just breathe, and drink, and savour those 15 minutes.

It's my time. It's simple.

NEW BLOG!!!!!!!!!!!

I have now officially moved this blog to the new location:

http://findingmysunshine.net/

Please come along and check it out :)

Being Mummy

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

you make me happy, when sky's are grey

you'll never know dear, how much I love you

so please don't take my sunshine away

From the moment I saw those two pink lines on a pregnancy test my life became about someone else. Was I eating the right things? Was I doing the right things? Should I rest more? Should I exercise more? And it doesn't stop there. I still worry about whether I am doing the best for him and I expect I will his whole life

Yet this parental worry is probably the reason I am still here today. On my darkest of dark days I would look down at the beautiful baby we had created and pushed and forced myself to get up, feed him, change him and hold him.  I told myself that the blackness was my problem, and David didn't deserve to suffer the consequences of it. He held me together more than any medication or doctor could.

Each time I felt like ending it all I would think of my beautiful baby, of him growing up without a mother and how that would affect him later in life. I would take a deep breath, and give my little boy a huge cuddle.

When it became clear that I needed hospital assistance I refused to go anywhere I couldn't take my little boy. I was so frightened of being absent during such an important stage of bonding. Whether that is admirable or foolish i can't say, but thankfully for me there was a mother and baby unit where I was able to take him.

One of the major things I worry about is that he will inherit my illness. Bipolar disorder has a large genetic component and often runs in families. We probably won't find out until he is in his teens...but on the small chance he does develop bipolar disorder I hope I will be able to guide him through it. Sun, storms, rain or shine, I'll always be there for you my darling David. My sunshine.

This just in!

Exciting news! Well...I think so anyway ;)

I have been doing some work on this blog...and you can now register to receive posts by email! Just scroll down....yep...waaaay down there and you'll see the email subscription button.

Oh you can subscribe to my posts too! You'll find a subscription button at the bottom of the page too :)

I looked at my stats today and am pretty astounded as to how many people from all over the world have taken a look at my ramblings. So, to my readers...thank you! xx

Pity the only polar bear saying thank you is wearing a christmas hat....but you get the general picture :)

A cup of courtesy

Recently I have had a spate of incidents that have restored my faith in humanity. Everyone seems so busy nowadays. We are all too rush rush rush and go go go. We stare straight ahead and often don't notice, or don't want to notice what is going on in our peripheries. We're all guilty of it.

But one day I went to the beach, had an ice cream, took some pictures and came home again. About half an hour after I arrived home there was a knock at the door and two girls were standing on my doorstep. "Are you Rachael" they asked.
 "Ummm, yes...." I responded, completely confused.
"You left your wallet at the beach, we thought we would return it to you".
I was amazed, I didn't even notice I had lost the wallet, and these two girls had driven personally to return it to me (they explained they would have taken it to the police station had I not been home). I felt like I needed to give them some sort of prize I was so grateful. But in the end I just thanked them profusely and thanked my lucky stars after they left.

A few weeks ago my car broke down in the turn off lane on a major road. Of course, this caused complete chaos. But what I wasn't prepared for was the level of abuse I copped for being in a situation I had no control over. People honked, swore, rolled down their window to scream at me. Seriously? Like I chose to be in this situation. I was alone and there was nothing I could do. Half of me wanted to dissolve into tears and the other half wanted to get out of the car and hurl abuse back.

But suddenly a man appeared at my window. "Need a push?" he asked.
"Thank you!" I cried with gratitude "everyone is getting so mad!"
"They are idiots, this isn't your fault." he gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder "it'll be ok".
So he gave me a push onto the grass and left when he knew someone was on their way to help with the car. I must have thanked him a million times.

So these things happen, and I firmly believe in passing the kindness on. Kicking the crowd mentality. Stopping when everyone else walks by.

So one day I was walking around in my city centre, having just had a rather nice satisfying lunch with my husband and son. As we got to the car park there was a homeless man sitting on the curb, his head in his hands, a sign next to him saying he was homeless and hungry. Every single person walked past, including myself.

Suddenly I stopped, told Steven I would be back in a sec and I marched back to the homeless man. It had gotten to me. I had just spent a good $50 on a nice lunch, and this guy hadn't eaten for days.  He looked incredibly young, he looked like he could be my friend or my brother. I know lots of people say not to give homeless people money because "they will just buy drugs". Perhaps they are right, but something inside of me that day couldn't take the chance they are wrong.

So I marched up to him, emptied my coins into his hands and then gave him every item of food I had in my bag (as a mother I tend to have all sorts of random foods ready for any emergency). He looked absolutely dumbfounded  then gave me the most heartfelt "thank you." I have ever heard. I wasn't prepared for what a few muesli bars and a handful of coins mean to some people.

"Good luck" was all I really thought to say before racing off to catch up with my family. I thought about him a lot that day.

I'm not perfect, I'm no saint, I have walked by a hundred homeless people before and stared straight ahead. But on those busy busy busy days I try to remember the ones who need help. On the baddest blackest of days I try to think of those who are in a far worse situation. And I do the best I can, when I am able, to be a good citizen, to consider those less fortunate than I, and to not forget just how lucky I am.


So thank you to the girls who returned my wallet, to the guy who helped with my car and the man who helped us with our flat packs. And as for the homeless man, I know it wasn't much but I hope you went a little less hungry that day, I hope you find yourself a warm bed sometime soon.

All mixed up and no place to go...

Another mixed state. That's what my medical team are diagnosing my last episode. Partly psychotic, partly hypomanic, partly irritable. But I'm emerging now and that's the main thing.

Today is the first day I have taken only one Lorazapam to dull my constant restlessness. I simply couldn't sit still, my thoughts were racing a million miles a minute, but unlike my previous hypomanic episodes I felt irritable and annoyed. It was an intensely unpleasant experience.

So my meds have been changed, my Lithium increased, and I feel SO much better. I have switched seroquel for olanzapine. Both antipsychotics, but the olanzapine doesn't zombify me. I wake up and feel like I've actually slept. I dont think I realised how tired I was until I came off the seroquel.

But there is still a part of me that hates the drug regime. Lithium, desvenlafaxine, olanzapine, lorazapam, seroquel, tamazapam...all for me? The pharmacists know me by name, and dole me out my plethora of pills in weekly supplies. I feel like a drug addict. When people ask if I have ever done drugs I just tell them I don't need to. I get natural high's and I get my pills for free at the pharmacy ;)

I will start cutting it down again, once I am full recovered. I'm grateful I have found drugs that work. It's just sometimes I wish I could walk around without pills rattling inside me ;)

A recent photo of myself ;) 

They say the episode was brought on by stress. Your body reacts to stress through chemical changes which can skew the happy chemicals in people like me. I don't really care. I'm enjoying being able to sit down and actually write. To read a little. To not feel like running a marathon 24 hours a day.

And I'm ok. I truly am. I feel somehow that I had a negative energy that needed to be purged through this mixed state. And now the tears have dried, and I have room for positivity again. That black feeling in my chest has gone...and oh how wonderful it is to breathe.

How wonderful it is to be me again.


p.s. Did I tell you I finished my thesis draft? :)

Cake, anyone?

Thought I would share a journal entry from when I was manic in hospital. It makes me laugh...

3/5/2012

To be honest, what the docs call my 'mania' is pretty damn fun. Well mostly. There are some unpleasant aspects to it. But after enduring months of that monstrous depression 'mania' feels good! I want to make a cake. I want to DO stuff.

I didn't realise what was happening until I was immersed in it. And once I was in it there was no way I wanted it to stop.

It started with lots of ideas. I couldn't


Yep. That's it. Couldn't even finish a sentence, never mind a journal entry ;)

Purple People

“Susanna: I am a crazy girl. Seriously.

Tony: You've been in a hospital?

Susanna: Yes.

Tony: Do you see purple people? My friend, he saw purple people. And so the state came and took him away. He didn't like that. Some time went by and, and he told 'em he didn't see purple people no more.

Susanna: He got better.

Tony: Nah, he still sees 'em”.

-          Girl Interrupted

So apparently I am psychotic. My own clinical knowledge says the doctors are right. But my own intuition convinces me they are wrong. Honestly, I feel fine. This so called ‘delusion’ of mine has been going on for a good decade or so. And although it isn’t terribly pleasant at times, I’m coping fine. It doesn’t affect anyone but me. I’m functioning. I’m a good mother. I’m not socially inept (well not completely anyway ;)). I don’t feel that I have lost touch with reality. It’s not like I am running around town in a bed sheet proclaiming to be Jesus.

But that’s what they always say about crazy people. They always think they are sane.

I had an emergency meeting with my new psychiatrist; Dr. Very Long Name, and my psychologist on Monday after the revelation that I could be mad. I sighed heavily during the interview “Oh I knew I shouldn’t have told anyone about this...now you all think that I am crazy!”. “I don’t think you are crazy”, Dr. Very Long Name replied “I think you are psychotic”. Well. That’s comforting ;)

Interestingly they have now assigned me to this “Hospital in the Home” program. I don’t know the details, but apparently nurses will be visiting me daily. Now this is interesting because as I said before. I feel fine. I have lived with this ‘delusion’ for a very long time. Truly, I’m ok.

Yet when I wasn’t ok, when I was desperate for help I didn’t receive it. It’s a strange world.

They have got me on a new drug. An anti-psychotic. Abilify. Worst drug ever! Imagine being so tired you can barely stand up. Then imagine being so restless you can barely keep still. Then chuck a few achy joints into the mix. That is Abilify. I took it for two days then gave up. I have a toddler to look after, a thesis to write, and a goddamn life to lead. I’d had enough of that bullshit.

I don’t believe medication will stop this ‘delusion’. Mostly because I don’t believe I am deluded. I’m wondering if the only way to get out of this is to claim recovery. Perhaps I will have to pretend that I can’t see purple people anymore.

Clean

I am a fanatically clean person. Seriously, it's bordering on ridiculous. From an incredibly young age I would get up early to clean the family home (not that it needed cleaning!). I actually enjoyed...yes..enjoyed..boxing up everything in my room, vacuuming and cleaning the furniture and putting everything back. During my first couple of years of uni I used cleaning as a sort of reward system for studying. I would not allow myself to clean the house until after I had finished my allotted study for the day. The torture of having to study in an 'untidy' house propelled me into getting my work done in a productive fashion. It's actually amazing that I have been formally diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder as opposed to something like OCD ;)

Me...on an average cleaning day...;) 

So why am I telling you all of this?

Before I went into hospital my cleaning standards started to slide. Now don't get me wrong, our house never turned into something out of Hoarders...but it was untidy, for my standards anyway. I cleaned everything I needed to for my baby; his bottles, his clothes, his change table, his bowls. But I gave up on things that weren't directly related to him. What's even stranger than the fact that I stopped cleaning was the fact that I didn't care.

I started paying little attention to my personal grooming. Sometimes I didn't shower or wash my hair...I lived in tracksuits and slippers unless I had to go out. Now this isn't anything unusual for anyone who has just had a baby, but it was unusual for me. Even in the darkest most horriblest sicknesses I have always showered. God forbid I shouldn't wash my hair every day! So this was unusual behaviour for me.

So I wasn't cleaning, wasn't washing my hair regularly, wasn't eating and wasn''t sleeping. A few times a social worker came to visit me and I would tear around the house tidying before she came. I was convinced that if she saw the 'mess' I was living in she would take my baby away.

I think I collapsed once I was admitted to hospital. Tracksuits and slippers it was. Sometimes nurses had to remind me to shower. I was hospitalised, convinced the nurses were plotting against me, exhausted as all hell and frightened. My usual cleanliness just wasn't a priority.

But one day I walked into the hospital kitchen for a drink. There were no glasses in cupboard. At that moment I heard the dishwasher beep and I went to go and retireve a glass from there. I walked away and then turned around. The dishwasher was irking me. So even though it wasn't technically my job, even though they had an employee to do it, I started to unload the dishwasher. Then for good measure I reloaded it again and wiped the surfaces down. Satisfaction!

Later I went into my room. I HATED the particular bed sheets that I had that week. They looked disgusting, felt disgusting and were disgusting. Fed up, I went to get a nurse and asked if I could change my sheets. Astonished, the nurse went to the locked linin cupboard and I choose pretty new sheets. Bliss!

And so it went from there. As I healed I began to ease back into my former life. I cooked for the patients and staff. I started using my own cloth nappies and washing them at the hospital rather than using disposables. I cleaned my room every Sunday and changed my sheets. I started to feel like I was *doing* something once more. Like I had a very small purpose.

And somewhere a long the line I went from someone who was looked after in every sense of the word to a person who could look after another. I went from someone who couldn't be trusted to be left alone with a pair of nailclippers to someone who used knives, unsupervised, daily. I showered, I even shopped for new clothes, wore makeup and the nurses commented on how different I looked. But I didn't look different at all. I looked like me again. The way I was supposed to be.

Always Room for Reggae...

For most of my life I have sung in various bands and choirs. When I was about 15 I sung in a band for about three years. We had a great time, did a few gigs and began to write our own songs before things inevitably turned pear shaped, as they so often do.

One Thursday night the four of us rocked up to our rehearsal room. A very hip looking, dreadlocked sporting, guy was already in there, packing up his drums. We set up and began to play. Dreadlocks was taking an inordinately long time to pack up and he eventually sat down properly to have a listen to us.

What we weren’t prepared for was his critiques.

He was very knowledgable and very experienced, and before we knew it every one of us had been given some helpful hints on how to improve our game. Our drummer wasn’t quite so sure about it all.

“We’re a rock band”. He said, “That’s a reggae beat...I’m just not sure that it will work...” he said uncertainly.

“Nah this beat is the bomb man! Just flow with it, trust me.” Dreadlocks persisted.

“Dude. I just don’t think reggae is going to work for us.” Our drummer shook his head.

“Dude.” Dreadlocks said. “There is always room for... reggae!”

Of course, at the time, the bassist and I were killing ourselves trying to suppress laughter. The sight of our stubborn AC/DC loving drummer trying to be persuaded to rock a reggae beat. To his credit he did rock the reggae. At least, until Dreadlocks left the room. ;)

Where am I going with this? That phrase “there is always room for reggae” has stuck with me over the years. He was such a happy go lucky cheerful guy. I’m smiling now just remembering him. And I think he is right. There is always room for that smooth, chill, “don’t worry, be happy” beat, as the background to all of our lives. There’s always room for that relaxing on the beach listening to Bob Marley feeling. So the next time I am stressed, running around, and exhausted I will remember those words of advice.

There’s always room for reggae.

Stockholm Syndrome

Some of you say, 'Joy is greater than sorrow,' and
others say, 'Nay, sorrow is the greater.'
I say to you, they are unseperable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with
you at your board, remember that the other is
asleep upon your bed. Kahlil Girbran

The world is full of peculiar paradoxes. Have you ever touched something so cold that it burned your skin? Or laughed so hard you cried? Have you ever felt so much pain it’s pleasurable?

I think I have a touch of Stockholm Syndrome. I’m in love with my captor. I hate mania, I hate it, I hate it, I hate. But oh how I love it too. Flat as a pancake I find myself yearning for the high’s. Knowing full well the consequences of doing so.

For me the high brings such revelation, I suddenly understand my life and the world around me, everything makes perfect sense. But now nothing makes sense. I don’t understand how I am supposed to feel. I don’t understand how I got here. I don’t understand why bad things seem to happen to good people.

I don’t feel, when I know I should.

I just want to feel that manic/hypomanic energy. I want to be productive. I want to feel the unabashed joy and love. I want to dance because the music means something to me. I want to understand the universe again.

But will that come with a price of irresponsibility, risk taking, and psychosis?

Probably.

When I was about 18 I went through a period that I can retrospectively diagnose as mania...or perhaps hypomania. For about six months I didn’t sleep, I wasn’t tired, I became loud and argumentative in classes, I completely changed in personality,  I drunk too much, I got myself involved in all sorts of risky situations. I cared about very little.

And that is the crux of it really. I want to care. I want to feel those high’s but I want to care for my family and for myself. I want to be the best mother I can for my son, and the best wife I can for my husband. I want to be the best I can be, and I can’t do that when I am high.

So I keep taking the medication. If I were young, if I were single I would probably experiment with skipping doses. See if I could find a happy medium. But as a mother I can’t possibly risk that.

So I stay here, flat and stable. I’m in love with something I shouldn’t be. I’m in love with something that isn’t real. I’m in love with something that could potentially destroy my life.

But more than that I’m in love with what I have, my beautiful boy and husband. And so I will never succumb to the infatuation. For the pleasure, and the pain, are inseparable.  

So, this is pressure?

I just cried. And yes, I hardly ever cry. But I cried that awful raggedy gut wrenching sob that has no place in front of others. So I cried it alone. And now, here, with swollen eyes and mascara over my hands I start to wonder why.

I spend so much time at the moment devoid of feeling. The highs and lows have levelled out and I like it that way. I never feel anxious anymore, I rarely feel upset. Others on mood stabilizers complain of the flatness, but I enjoy it. After the trauma of my last episode flatness is relief. The flatness is freedom for me.

But that doesn’t mean I am not affected by experiences anymore. I seem to breeze through a particularly stressful time and then suddenly become briefly incapacitated. I suddenly feel all of the pain “It HURTS!!” I recognise, quite angry at this realization. Then I cry, or I dissociate, or I hear voices, or I dip my foot into hypomania. But it always passes. And then I sail away on the Lucky Lithium once more, feeling no sea sickness even in the fiercest of storms.

I realised the moment I dried my last tear what this was about. For some time I have felt like I am being pushed into a box that is too small to cage me. I feel as though I am constantly running through time trying to get everything done yet always arriving late. I feel as though my internal resources are being sucked from me and I’m left running on empty.

Pressure. That’s the word of the day. Most of the pressure I feel is self inflicted, some of it isn’t. I believe all mothers will relate to what I am saying. It’s the daily grind, the balancing of work with family. It’s making sure there is food on the table and laundrey in the cupboards. All normal, everyday pressures.

But having a mental illness affects people in funny ways. I suddenly realise that I feel intense pressure to perform as a parent. As an individual with bipolar disorder I assume I my parenting skills will be scrutinized and I feel I must prove to everyone that I am a good mother. I thought many strange things when I had psychosis, but one of the scariest was that the police were after me and they were going to take my baby away. I know I was psychotic and this was a delusion but I will never forget that terror of losing my child. I feel I must prove to everyone around me that I am capable. What pressure to put on yourself!

Clearly David hasn’t received my memo, as he has chosen this particular shaky time in my self development to become a perfectly normal naughty toddler. I have left social events with David, almost in tears, after a typical toddler tantrum (his, not mine ;)). But instead of thinking “he was so NAUGHTY!” I think “Everyone must think I’m a terrible mother!”

But I forget I am not the only mother of an almost two year old. I forget all mothers go through this experience. Last week as I ‘ignored’ Davids terrible tantrum on the floor another mother came up to me. She gave me a grin and gestured to David “You’re doing the right thing” she said. I wanted to hug her.

But I know I’m doing the right thing. I know I’m a good mother, and that my illness has never had any impact on my ability to parent. I know I have nothing to prove. But just like I can still feel the fear of a previous delusion, I still feel pressure to prove what I already know I am.

Hello, Psychosis!

I have been waging a war for the past three months or so with my Seroquel. God I hate that stuff. It's an antipsychotic whose main effect seems to be what I like to call "zombification".  

I have been on the stuff for almost a year now, and I suppose I have built up a tolerance to it. But I still seem to feel completely exhausted on it.

Don't get me wrong, it's GREAT for getting to sleep. The problem comes when the next day arrives and you feel as though you are positively wading through the day, counting the hours until bedtime.

So I’ve gotten into this completely stupid routine (not advised by my doctors either - when will I learn?). I will stop the Seroquel for a few days in the vague hope that I *will* get to sleep without it. I don't. After three days or so I reach my limit, reach for the pillbox and reach for my pillow. And then I continue to reach for my pillow the following day. And so the cycle continues.

 Anyway the other day Steven and David went out for a few hours. My plan was to get some quality work on my thesis done without David rampaging around the house. I sat down at the computer but started to feel a little funny. Funny strange, not funny "ha ha" - although I suppose it depends on how you look it. I started to tired. Normal. Dissociate. Normal. Hear voices chattering in my head....so not normal.

Yep that's right. I started to hear voices. Chattering. Grinding their horrible teeth on metal. It was horrible, and peculiar, and horrible. Now I have experienced a lot of crazy things in the last decade or so, but I have never heard voices in my head. I started to feel alarmed, the voices were so noisy that I actually couldn't listen to my own thoughts. Somehow I made it to my mums house, where according to her I staggered in shaking from head to foot, barely able to walk.  

She was alarmed too. She had never seen me like that. Somehow I have managed to hide the nasty sides of my illness from the people closest to me (aside from Steven of course). I'm lucky in that I dip in and out of psychosis the way others dip in and out of shops. I'm never completely psychotic. I'll have an episode, then recover. When my psychosis was out of control in hospital I refused visitors except for Steven. 

Anyway she was alarmed and immediately called Steven to come home. She started saying she thought I needed to go to hospital which upset me. There was no way I wanted to go, and heaven forbid, get admitted again. How would I look after David?!

 Steven came home and calmed me down, he coaxed me into taking some Seroquel and within about half an hour I was feeling much better. Yes, Seroquel is both my villian and my saviour. Friend and enemy. It makes me feel tired but brings me back to sanity.

I saw a psychiatrist who wasn't sure whether sleep deprivation or the missed doses of medication were responsible for my momentary freak out. Either way I am back on the seroquel. Full time. Bleurgh. I figured as much as I hate feelings washed out, it's sure as hell better than being immersed in a world of chattering people chomping on metal.

 It’s been a while since I’ve had any *incident’s* and I was hoping I was completely stable. I guess I just need to come to terms with the fact that these sort of things may happen occasionally, but they are controllable, and I AM okay. 

Some Days Are Easier Than Others

I have to say I am struggling at the moment. Not in terms of depression or mania. Not in anxiety or stress. But from pure exhaustion.

I’m struggling to understand whether the exhaustion is mental or physical. Medication induced or cumulative from the hell last year was. All I know is that I crave my bed at times of the day when I shouldn’t. The early morning enthusiasm I have always possessed has deflated into a bleary eyed being going through the motions. Sometimes, and I know this is bad, I choose not to eat because the very thought of preparing lunch exhausts me.

I’ve tried experimenting with my medications. The anti-psychotics are my biggest suspect. Naturally, though, when I skip my dose I end up awake all night. My insomniac ways back again. This I could put up with, but the symptoms of dissociation the following day I can’t. So I take the pills again, and continue wading through my days.

This just wont do though. Despite the fact that I have an active toddler to care for and a house to run, I also have a thesis to write. Yet I stare at the page, immersed in a cloudy brain fog, wondering if I will ever possess the mental strength to finish it. It annoys me. All that time spent researching, waddling into uni eight months pregnant to meet participants, meetings, leaving behind my eight week old baby to run classes and collect data at uni, hours fighting with my statistical software, ....all that goddamn dedication, and now I can’t find it in me to do the best, easiest, most rewarding part!

“You” my supervisor said a few months ago, “have worked so hard on this. You have put much more work into this than the average student. Now you just need to get your act together, write the darn thing and get the mark that you deserve”.

Ok, so she didn’t tell me to get my act together, but I’m sure she was thinking it. ;)

I’ve made a start I suppose. I sat down today, reread the 19 pages I have already written. I read a few key journal articles. Corrected a few mistakes. Forced myself to sit at my desk, put on my glasses (because that surely means business!) and just get on with it. I haven’t achieved much, but it’s more than yesterday, and I suppose that is what counts. I’ll chip away at it. A bit here, a bit there, and hopefully one day I will be surprised to find a finished product.

Over the last few years I think I have tortured those around me enough with my thesis. “It’s hideous! I actually think it may kill me”, punctuated with a dramatic flop onto the floor (much to the alarm of the family dog). An epiphany three hours later where I talk with great excitement about “the most interesting thing I have learned all week. Potentially all year. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves yet.” Yes, it’s a love hate relationship. A bipolar state within itself. I’m not the first and won’t be the last to feel this way. Enough is enough, and I must get it done.

As for the exhaustion, it’s still here. I’m hoping it’s merely a medication glitch that can be dealt with at my next appointment. If it’s a psychological thing – I guess I just have to keep riding this wave.