50 Shades of Crazy

You know what I’ve found? Once you’ve been crazy, you’re always going to be thought of as crazy. How many people have read the works of Virginia Woolf? I'll bet not as many as the people who know she drowned herself. Van Gogh? Wasn’t that the guy that cut his own ear off? I’m sure Amy Winehouse will be remembered more for her drug fuelled antics and self mutilation than her musical talent. 

No matter how much you try to prove to people that you ARE fine now. No matter how regularly you take your medication. No matter how happy you are, or how stable you feel. You will always be the crazy one. A two month stint in a psychiatric hospital isn’t a life experience. It’s a f***ing life sentence.

Freud Style

I’ve always been fairly dubious about psychotherapy and psychoanalysis. It’s always conjured images of darkened rooms and couches and Freud smoking a cigar implying I have penis envy. I suppose my main objection to psychoanalysis is Freud himself and his relentless preoccupation with sexuality. 

Aside from that I don’t particularly feel talking about oneself, complaining about problems and ultimately blaming misfortunes on others – usually our parent’s (because of course, it is always our parent’s fault) for years could be particularly helpful. I’ve always took a stand that if there is a problem, it is best to face it head on. To do something about it, rather than simply talk about it and how it makes you feel.

The psychoanalytic style also tends to link present problems to past traumas. I have been fortunate enough to escape any significant childhood traumas. I have a lovely family and friends. I have nothing in my life to complain about. So how is this going to work?

Still, upon leaving the hospital my psychiatrist was keen for me to try psychotherapy. And what was I to refuse? Over the last decade I’ve tried it all, group therapy, individual therapy, mindfulness, meditation, CBT, DBT, EMDR (and on one particularly frightening moment in hospital I was offered ECT). Why not add a bit of psychotherapy to the mix. Why not kick it Freud style? At the very worst I’ll have an hour to talk about myself each week!

As it happens, last week during my weekly appointment (where there were no couches or cigars) , I was considering the topic of homosexuality.
“I don’t think I could ever live with a woman...in that way.” I mused, settling back into my chair.
“Why’s that?” my psychologist queried.
“Well. Aside from the obvious benefits...” I said with a wink “men are just terribly useful for some things.”
“Like what?”

“Fixing things? Carrying heavy stuff?” I paused, deep in thought. “Killing spiders?”

My psychologist burst out laughing, causing me to giggle as well. ”I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be laughing...do you feel that a woman wouldn’t be able to kill spiders?”
“well, it’s not that they aren’t able. It’s just probably that they wouldn’t want to, perhaps even less so than I.”

“What about a woman who fit into the classic ‘butch’ role? Would you concede her able to kill spiders?”

“Oh no.” I said decisively. “I’m not attracted to butch women. It just wouldn’t work out.”

My psychologist hid a smile. “You’ve obviously given this a lot of thought.”

“Of course. I think about everything. I’m sure Steven thinks that a lot of the time I’m just laying around staring into space, but I’m actually thinking about all of these things.”  I paused. Then suddenly it hit me.

 “The thing is. I feel I am always the one who cares for other people. Even the work I have chosen - paid and volunteer -  all revolves around looking after others. I’m the one who listens to peoples problems. I’m the one who tries to make it better. I’m the one who puts all the play equipment away because there is a snake living in the shed and the girls I work with are scared of it. It’s sexist, and against all I stand for in terms of woman’s empowerment. But when I come home at night I want someone to be protecting me. I want to be the one looked after. I’m not saying that a woman couldn’t do this, I’m not saying that I don’t look after my husband. But there is some deep part of me that needs to be protected and cared for. And I get that from a man. I get that from Steven.

And perhaps.” I continued. “perhaps that is why I feel such a great need to pursue my femininity. To wear pretty clothes. To cook and bake and provide my for my family within my traditional domesticated feminine role. It’s against all I stand for! I’m writing a thesis on sexism for God’s sake, and yet I’m conforming to my gender stereotype. But perhaps if I showcase my femininity to Steven, he will continue to provide that patriarchal protection I crave.

And then I rebel. I rebel against myself by pursuing academic goals, feeling resentful that he is the breadwinner and not I,  and yes, killing my own spiders and fighting my own battles. Because I don’t want to be the damsel in distress. I want to be the one who saves myself, who provides for myself and my family. I am very proud, I don't like help. But I’m only fighting against myself! Steven has loved me through crazy and he’s loved me through sane. He loves me just the way I am. Whatever that is.”

And there it was. A revelation. A thought, a feeling that I never knew existed. I understood myself. I laughed because it was so silly. And yet so important.  

Every week of psychotherapy that passes, I learn more about myself. Somehow I understand myself and allow myself to let go of the pain. It’s an incredible tool for personal growth, and I would recommend it to anyone. My prejudices towards psychoanalysis have lifted. Despite studying psychotherapy indepth with uni, I wasn’t able to understand it fully until I experienced it for myself. It’s a reminder to withhold judgments. Never judge a Freudian textbook by it’s cover ;) 

Art Therapy

It was in hospital that I first started being creative again. In a previous life I participated in a number of  creative activities; I sung in bands and choirs, wrote music, learned instruments, painted, did scrapbooking and card making, enjoyed sewing and knitting and writing. But somewhere along the way I started to let go of my hobbies. I didn’t have the time, I didn’t have the energy. I had an assignment to write, a newborn to care for. Somehow the little things I enjoyed became less and less important. I became less and less important.

In hospital I started knitting, I found pastels and drew wild colourful pictures, I painted and wrote and brought in my guitar to sing. I don’t profess to be in any way to be any good at these things, it was more a release. I could draw or write how I was feeling far better than I could say it. I loved sketching frantic wild pictures and then blowing the rainbow dust off of my hands. It was about creation and expression rather than production of anything to be proud of. 

I realised recently that I have neglected the creative side of me. That part of me of me that was so important and so therapeutic lay dormant. Looking back I have rarely sung or created any type of artwork for anyone but myself. During my school years I became very involved in singing, so much so that it ended up a chore. Another performance, another exam, another piece to learn. Something I loved started to become an effort. So when I left school I vowed to never succumb to pressure again. If I joined a band it was for me. If I painted or sewed or knitted or scrapbooked, it was for me. Steven has not heard all of the songs I have written, perhaps he never will. Those songs are important, and they are for me, not to showcase.

So I have started unlocking that creativity once more. I sing and write every day. I have started crafts again, and have many little projects that I am undertaking. I’ve moved all of my art materials into a cupboard that is easily accessible.

Suddenly I feel content. If I’m angry, or sad, or happy, or excited I have an outlet. I can write about it, sing about it, paint it. I can get the feeling out and understand it. I can look at it. I can release it

Yesterday I was doing some crafts with my Mum. It was the first time we had done anything like that in years and I was in my element. I got all my materials out, planned my design and then gleefully muttered to myself “I can tell already this is going to be GREAT”. Mum laughed, “you always were so over confident about your work”. I thought about it for a while. I did used to feel fairly optimistic about my creative activities. But I don’t think it was to do with thinking I was especially talented or artistic. I enjoy the process more than the end result. I enjoy he feeling of creating something through words or art or music. But most of all I know that if it turns out to be a disaster I can chuck it away and start again. There’s always another blank canvas.

There’s always room to start again.

Flashbacks and Nightmares

I keep having these flash backs. It’s strange. I’ll be going about my normal business when suddenly it will hit me. I’ll feel like I am *there* again. It’s not entirely unpleasant. But not entirely pleasant either. For the briefest moment I’m propelled back into the past. I feel it again, the blackness, in the pit of my stomach. But at the same time I know that I’m safe now. I’m OK now.

In one of the flashbacks I have just been admitted to hospital. I’m sitting on the bed, my head resting on my knees. I can’t describe how I feel. Relieved. Finally someone believes me. Finally someone is going to help me. Perhaps I have a chance. Perhaps I can keep going. But I’m so tired. I’ve held myself together for so long. Now that I’m safe, now that there are people looking after me I feel I may simply fall apart. Steven wants me to unpack my suitcase so I feel more at home. But I’m just so tired. I had to tell people today that I was going to hospital. I had to admit that I had a problem. I had to pack a suitcase not knowing when I would be home again. What if the people out there judge me? What if they think I’m weak.  A failure. Hospital is my last chance. My last ditch effort at saving myself. What if it doesn’t work? I’m so incredibly exhausted. I just want to sleep.

In another I am in the art room furiously painting a picture. I’m talking to my doctor who is carefully colouring in a stained glass window. I’m asking her if I am crazy. I had a dream about South Korea and the news article on TV was about South Korea. I walked in at that very moment. Surely that means something. Why would I dream about South Korea if it didn’t mean anything? I must be able to predict events. My dreams must be predictions. My dreams are important. I’m telling my doctor that I must be crazy. I must be crazy because of what I am thinking. I’m telling her how angry I am. She tells me this is the first time I have talked to her. Said something other than ‘I can’t keep going’. She says this is progress.

In another I am waking up from a vivid nightmare. I’m soaked in sweat, my hair sticking to my forehead. I’m hyperventilating. I want help but I remember I am on isolation and can’t leave my room. I can’t breathe. I pace around the room then spy the emergency call button. I’m just about to punch it with my fist when a nurse opens the door. I’m shaking and pacing as the dream haunts me. I trip over my dressing gown and the nurse steadies me. I just can’t breathe. I tell the nurse about my dream, how I need to put pictures of my loved ones on the wall. If I don’t put them on the wall they will die and I will be responsible. I could have prevented it. But I don’t have pictures, and I don’t have blue tack. The nurse doesn’t understand how important this is. She gives me some pills but I’m scared to fall asleep. She holds my hand and stays until I drift away again.

As soon as the flashbacks arrive they leave again, and I’m left with a strange sensation. No matter how I try to push the memories away they bubble up to the surface when I least expect them. Often things, moments, that I thought I had forgotten. A little reminder. A bitter aftertaste. A motivation to keep myself stable.  

Bipolar: The Facts

All this time I’ve been talking about bipolar, mania and depression...but I’ve never actually formally described what these things are. I suppose I have assumed my expression of the experiences I have had have provided a description of the disorder. And I do believe experiences trump a cold clinical description any day. But there is so much misunderstanding and stigma surrounding Bipolar disorder, so today I thought I’d look at the facts. :)

Bipolar disorder is a universal mental illness. It doesn’t discriminate. People of all ages, nationalities and from all walks of life can experience bipolar. Perhaps this is due to the genetic component of the disorder. Scientists have identified several genes, including the Dysbindin, Neuregulin and G72  genes which when damaged contribute to Bipolar disorder. As such, bipolar tends to run in families, although episodes can be triggered by significant stressors, and in women, childbirth. It is estimated that about 1.1% of the population suffer from bipolar disorder

People with bipolar disorder are 50 times more likely to commit suicide than the general population. That is huge. The suicide rate for the average population is around 0.01%, in the Bipolar population it is around 13%. What’s more, nearly half of individuals with Bipolar disorder will attempt suicide at least once. Extreme depression and psychosis resulting from lack of treatment are the usual cause for suicide.

A bipolar depression is nothing less of horrific. Unlike Major Depression, often there is no apparent cause for bipolar depression. A bipolar depression can persist for months and may become so severe that psychosis results. Traditional anti-depressants used alone generally have little effect, and can even trigger manic episodes. Unfortunately, because many individuals affected by bipolar seek help during depression rather than mania (which may be enjoyable), they are often misdiagnosed with Major Depression and treated accordingly. Individuals who present with mania may be misdiagnosed with Schizophrenia. Consequently bipolar is one of the most difficult mental illnesses to correctly diagnose.

Symptoms of mania can include pressured speech (or talking REALLY fast), racing thoughts, needing less sleep and not feeling tired, grandiose beliefs (for example, I started to believe that I was superior to everyone else because I didn’t need sleep to function but they did), and general euphoria. People may become impulsive (e.g. spending lots of money, quitting their job) and promiscuous.  But there is a dark side to mania; during a manic episode people can quickly turn irritable and even aggressive. They may experience hallucinations and delusions.

There are three main types of bipolar disorder; Bipolar Type 1, Bipolar Type 2, and Cyclothymia. Bipolar 1 is often described as your classic manic depression. Individuals experience episodes of depression and ‘classic’ mania. Episodes are generally severe (particularly manic episodes) and often result in hospitalization.

Bipolar 2 is often described as a less severe form of Bipolar. But I’m not sure I agree with that. People with Bipolar 2 spend more time experiencing depression, which can be incredibly severe. While individuals with Bipolar 1 may have months or even years between episodes, those with Bipolar 2 are more likely to rapid cycle between episodes and experience chronic mood swings. People with bipolar 2 are also more likely to take their own life. However people with Bipolar 2 do not experience full manic episodes. They experience hypomania instead. Symptoms of hypomania are similar to mania, but on a lesser scale, and there is rarely any psychosis. As it was described to me once; during a board meeting someone with hypomania may talk excitedly and present many ideas. On the other hand, someone with mania may dance and sing upon the table. Hypomania is difficult to detect because it can be disguised as productivity. Hypomanic individuals often feel creative, complete many tasks and feel exceptionally confident.

Cyclothymia (or ‘Bipolar Lite’ as Stephen Fry once described it), is a milder of form bipolar where individuals experience mood swings from mild depression to emotional highs chronically over many years.

If you are wondering what type I am...I’m not actually sure ;) Out of curiosity I have asked two psychiatrists whether I am a Type 1 or 2 and neither were able to answer. One told me that she didn’t believe in ‘typing’, that if an individual had bipolar, they had bipolar. The other told me that it was very difficult to fit people into a specific box, that everyone experiences their own illness differently. Looking at the symptoms I can’t even decide for myself what I would be, and I’m guessing this may be the case for others too.

So there it is. A description of Bipolar disorder. I promise I will write about something more meaty next time ;)

An accurate representation of Steven and I ;) 

Toxic

I'm fine, but I'm bipolar. I'm on seven medications, and I take medication three times a day. This constantly puts me in touch with the illness I have. I'm never quite allowed to be free of that for a day. It's like being a diabetic.

- Carrie Fisher

Hats off to Carrie Fisher! I couldn’t have said it better. For me, medication is a daily chore. No different from brushing my teeth or making my bed. I’m on four different medications twice daily. I take up to ten pills a day.

I am bipolar in my attitude towards medication. On good days I will dutifully take my pills, thinking how much they have helped me. On bad days I will complain about them, how they make me feel flat, how they shackle my creativity, how they nauseate me.  Perhaps I’ll ‘forget’ to take a dose.  But it’s less of a choice and more a responsibility. A trade off between side effects and stability.  I have a little one to look after now.

After a night of violent vomiting a few weeks ago, I came to the conclusion that I must be suffering from lithium toxicity. It seemed the only logical explanation for my nausea, mood swings, and shakiness. My recent bout of illness and dehydration could have easily resulted in concentrated blood levels. It all made sense. Lithium toxicity can be serious, even fatal. My nurse was at my place to assess me within an hour of my phone call to the hospital.

I was told to stop the Lithium, and because I was worried (and because I was angry at the potential effect that medication had caused) I stopped all other medications as well. That was a mistake. I spent the weekend grumpy, depressed, and dissociating so badly that it was hard to walk.

When the blood results came back I wasn’t toxic at all. In fact, quite the reverse. My level’s were too low. So I restarted all the pills and quickly returned to my ‘normal’ (but really, what is normal? ;)) self.

How did my lithium levels become too low? Partly, I suppose, due to the IV fluids I was given during my recent hospital visit. But mostly, I suspect, due to my careless attitude towards the medication. Skipping a dose here, a dose there. I’m not crazy anymore. I don’t need that stuff.

I seem to hold a deep distrust in the opinion of the medical profession. Somehow I believe my limited knowledge on psychopathology and pharmacology is superior. Then I get upset when my  medication experiments backfire. Funny that ;) Recently I have been seriously questioning my diagnosis. Am I really bipolar? Was I really that unwell? Perhaps it was all a strange dream. Now, while I am stable, I simply cannot believe I became that unwell.

I talked to both my psychiatrist and psychologist this week about this issue. I remarked to them that I felt like I was making the whole experience up. I can’t imagine feeling that depressed, or that unstable. I felt angry that I couldn’t remember aspects of my experience. But the recollections I had and others provided just didn’t seem like *me*. Rather than telling me to move on, that the past is the past and the present is the present (what I have been telling myself!), they both explained that I had been through a kind of trauma. Not the hospitalization itself, as my experience there was a positive one. But the very fact that I became so unwell and so unstable. I had assumed my inability to remember key parts of my hospitalization was due to being...well...mad ;) I had also assumed my somewhat flattened affect and reduced emotionality now was medication induced. But both are apparently symptomatic of those who have experienced some kind of emotional trauma. 

Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t feel traumatised. Not in the least. But I suppose that is part of what is going on. I don’t really feel any emotional response to what I have been through. It’s just something that has happened, no different to going to the shops for groceries. Apparently this will change, and my experience will become integrated with my sense of self.

Writing, talking to people, and my weekly therapy all help me piece together this puzzle of myself. It’s fascinating. I have learned more about myself in the last three months than I think I ever knew. I say now, and I will say again, that the experiences I have had (however apparently traumatizing they may or may not be) are one of the best things that have ever happened to me. I feel a confidence in myself that I never had before, and I have learned what is important in life. I’m happy being me, something I wasn't for a very long time. 

I assumed I had lithium toxicity when really it was the lithium I needed to become well. I assumed that a diagnosis of bipolar disorder was negative, when it resulted in an area of personal growth I may never have attained otherwise. It’s funny how something so potent, something so seemingly toxic can actually be the remedy.

If It's Hurting Me...It's Hurting You

I realised today that I have written very little on my depression, the very thing that saw me hospitalised in the first place. From a creative perspective I find my depression very difficult to write about. Depression for me was bleak, cold nothingness. How can I begin to describe the pain of nothingness? I usually try to inject a little humour into my writing, in an attempt to make it more ‘readable’. But there is absolutely nothing humouress about this particular depressive episode. Nothing at all.

My depression was, and remains to be a uniquely personal experience. I rarely talk about it to anyone, including my nearest and dearest. I seldom like to think about it. Irrational as it is, I’m frightened that a thought could suck me down into the darkness again. Because this is the darkness that nearly killed me. This darkness was, without a doubt, the most horrific thing I have ever experienced.

I didn’t really cry much when I was depressed. I’m not sure that I even felt sad. I just didn’t feel anything. I was completely numb from my soul outwards. In a way this is what allowed me to carry on untreated for as long as I did. Robotically, I carried out everyday activities. I did the things I needed to do. I created a facade that I was fine.  

Occasionally I would break down, the numbness would melt away and all I felt was pain. Anger. Grief. Sadness. I started having panic attacks regularly and dosed myself on Valium until I had built up such a tolerance that the drug didn’t work anymore.

One day I was in a near car accident that would have been entirely my fault.  I wasn’t concentrating and made a stupid decision. Fortunately all I received was a loud honk and an angry gesture. Afterwards I felt completely calm, I felt no adrenaline rush, no guilt or remorse. It was then I realised how truly ambivalent I was. When faced with what could have been a serious accident, I felt nothing. I didn’t care whether I lived or died.

Eventually I began to give up. I stopped eating, stopped sleeping. Steven frequently had to leave work to care for David and I. I kept experiencing this bizarre sensation where I felt I simply could not keep going. I couldn’t take another breath. I couldn’t take another step. If I was out when it happened I felt I was going to physically collapse and someone would have to come and get me. They would have to come and get me and I would be stiff as a board, carried out on a stretcher, not even able to move my limbs. In a plea for help I started telling the people around me, over and over, “I can’t keep going. I just can’t keep going.” I think they interpreted this as “I don’t want to feel like this anymore.” When really what I was trying to say was “I don’t want to be alive anymore”.

I was consumed by guilt and a pure hatred towards myself. One morning I woke up, listening to the two people I loved more than anything in the world sleeping peacefully. I decided I needed to leave. I couldn’t do this to them anymore. They both deserved so much better than me.

So – out of pure impulse – I grabbed the first article of clothing I could find, a dress, and threw it on over my pajamas. I slipped some shoes on, quietly opened the front door and left.

Halfway down the drive I realised I was wearing odd shoes. So I slipped them off and continued to walk barefoot down to the road. When I got to the road I looked around. Now what? I had no money, no phone, no plan, no SHOES for Christ sake. What on earth did I think I was doing?

Defeated, I dutifully checked the post box and started walking back up the drive. On the way I passed a tree. One of those weepy trees with long concealing branches. Before I knew what I was doing I sat inside the tree, huddled in the dirt. Suddenly I felt safe. I could see people go past, joggers, people walking dogs, women with prams...but they couldn’t see me. I felt like a child once more.  On the off chance that someone may see me I concocted a story where I was doing some weeding. The fact that I was in a dress, with my pajamas visible, barefoot, with no gardening implements in sight didn’t really concern me.

Suddenly our front door burst open and I heard Steven running down the drive. When I saw him he looked absolutely frantic.

“Steven?” I called out. He stopped. Looked around, clearly confused, then spotted me under the tree. He paused for a moment and then parted the long branches.

“What are you doing under there?” He asked calmly.

“Just...sitting” I said nervously. At this point I knew I had screwed up. Big time. Wordlessly he held out his hand. I hesitated and then took it, climbing out from underneath the tree. We walked back up to the house and I tried to explain that I felt safe there, that I wasn’t going to do anything bad.

Steven just turned to me and said “do you have any idea how worried I was?! Don’t ever do that to me again. Ever.” I cried, told him how sorry I was. He just nodded and walked away.

I felt truly terrible. I realised what it must have looked like to him. My phone still at home. My (odd) shoes left in the middle of the drive. I realised that this couldn’t go on.

When I went into the bedroom Steven was laying face down on the bed. I apologised and we held each other. I saw that he had been crying, or at least close to it. “do you think I’m bad if I go in to hospital?” I asked him. He looked at me “Quite frankly, I think you would be selfish if you didn’t go in and continued on like this” he said.

Suddenly I realised the effect that this must be having on him. Working fulltime, constantly on edge that he was going to get a call from me saying that I need him. Coming home and cooking dinner every night, feeding and bathing and putting David to bed. He had come to appointments with me, taken me to hospital, taken days off work to look after David. He had never once lost his patience with me. This man is a saint. I realised that he looked tired. I had been so consumed with my own despair that I hadn’t even considered him.

I realised my problem, my illness, was hurting him just as much as it was hurting me. I vowed to put an end to this. I decided I needed help. I made the decision to go into hospital.

Group Therapy

As a psychology student writing a thesis on group processes I suppose it was only inevitable that I became quite interested in our group in hospital. Eight mothers with serious mental health issues living together must surely result in some friction. But no. In the eight weeks I was there I don’t recall any altercations or even complaints between patients. Remarkable really considering the stressful circumstances. Then again, perhaps we just took it out on the staff.

When I was first admitted I was scared of being out in the public areas. I stayed in my room and avoided other patients (my fearfulness was probably not helped by the community psychiatrist who saw me prior to my admission and told me that the MBU was “not a place he would want to be”, and that it was full of patients who were so far gone that they “would think you were a martian”). At the beginning of my stay there were quite a few younger patients my age, and after a while I began to sit near them. I enjoyed being part of their group, but not necessarily having to contribute to any conversations.

One day I found some knitting needles and a ball of wool. I found knitting really helped with my agitation level. I was knitting away, eavesdropping as usual, when one of the girls asked me where I found the wool. It was one of the first times I actually conversed with another patient. Before I knew what was happening I was teaching her how to knit, and the other patients wanted knitting needles as well. For a few weeks we would spend the evenings knitting and chatting and watching TV. Sometimes nurses would ask us what we were knitting.
“I’m knitting my baby a hat!” said one patient.
“I’m knitting a scarf.” Said another.
“I’m knitting something which shows that we are not perfect because nobody’s perfect, and you can see this has holes so it’s not perfect, because none of us is perfect and that way it’s not a lie....” said another girl.
“I don’t know.” I said.

But all in all we were comfortable with each other and any eccentricities we may or may not have. We were readily accepting of each other.

Then one day one of the girls had a meltdown. I can’t remember the specifics of the situation but there was lots of shouting and crying going on. Eventually two burly security guards were called to control the situation. Predictably, in my delusional and ever egocentric state I dissolved into tears as soon as I saw the guards. “They’ve come for me!” I cried.

There was chaos after that. Everyone was upset. Afterwards most of us went to our rooms and stayed there. The whole weekend was horrible. Nobody talked to each other. Everyone was in a bad mood. I suppose the incident with security reminded us about where we were, and how easily our control could be taken away.

Later on in my stay I was part of a different group of women. But these women were very depressed and rarely talked. As a group we sat silently at the dinner table eating. No knitting here. One day a younger girl arrived. Despite her problems she had the most remarkable sunny personality. People couldn’t help but open up to her. No matter how you presented, or what you looked like, she would come over and have a chat with you. She asked us to join her when she walked to the shops, or baked a cake. We started taking an interest and talking to each other. All it took was one person to make us a group again, rather than eight individuals.

Perhaps, though, it was the stress of the situation that brought us together. Ever been to an exam and suddenly people you haven’t talked to all semester start conversations? Or witnessed a shocking incident in public, and suddenly you are talking to all the strangers around you? It’s cohesion. It’s solidarity. It’s “us” against the exam, the bank robber, the system, the “them”. It’s only natural really. 

And you don’t mess with the people who are on your side. You don’t fight with your own team. I felt both joy and sorrow with every discharge from the hospital. Happy that they were feeling better, sad that I wouldn’t see them again (and that I wasn’t the one going home!). I felt apprehension and curiosity with each new admission. Would they be nice? What will they be like? But most of all I felt a sense of comfort that there were others who were going through this too. That I wasn’t alone. And maybe, just maybe, if they had been able to get to a point where they were doing well – perhaps I would be able to as well.

Cabin Fever

Around the seven week mark I came down with a little cabin fever. One morning when the familiar bell sounded for meditation, I literally groaned out loud. I had been there so long I knew every single meditation tape off by heart. Plus, my baby had just gone down for a nap. I didn’t want to spend my baby’s precious nap time meditating!

So I hid. And believe me, hiding in a psychiatric ward is a remarkably difficult thing to achieve. I heard the nurses calling for me and looking for me but I stayed hidden until the coast was clear. Later on, a nurse found me in the art room and asked what I was doing. “writing.” I told her nonchalantly. She wasn’t impressed. I found out later that the nursing staff got into trouble over my antics that day. Something I still feel bad about!

That evening in the living room I whispered to Steven; “you have got to get me out of here! I can’t stand this anymore! This whole place is bullshit!”

“You know I can’t do that,” he told me.
“Yes you can! Just sign me out. I’m better and I just can’t stand this!”

“No. I can’t do that. You will be discharged when you are ready.” He told me again. I pouted.

“I could run away, you know.”

“Oh yeah. And how would you do that?”

“I could jump the fence. Go for a walk and just .... not come back?”
Steven snorted. “You? Jump a fence? Besides, you know what will happen if you try anything stupid.”

Boy, did I. After prowling the perimeter, searching for any weak points and coming to the disappointing conclusion that the unit was unequivocally escape-proof, I had asked a nurse what would happen should I try to run away. Her face grew very grave and she assured me that police would be sent to find me, and that I would be transferred to a more secure facility without my baby. As much as I wanted to be back in the outside world I knew an escape would be stupid. I have never felt so trapped in all my life.

Steven tried another tactic. “What is it exactly that you don’t like?” he asked.

“The food! The beds!  Night checks! Stupid meditation. How I can’t go out for a walk without signing a million documents. My room, God, I hate my room. The fact that every time I want to shave my legs, or charge my phone, or dry my hair, or wear my shoes I have to go and collect them from the nurses station. It’s ridiculous!”

“Why don’t you just ask for that stuff back?” Steven suggested. I was stunned, that thought hadn’t even occurred to me. So I marched to the nurses station and asked. To my amazement, after a quick call to my doctor, my possessions were returned to me. I squealed,  it felt like Christmas.

The next day I decided to ask my doctor if I could move rooms.
“What is it about the room you don’t like?” She asked.
“Just everything. This is a ‘special’ room and I’m not on ‘special’ anymore. It just has horrible memories.” I replied. My doctor looked thoughtful.

“You’re right. You’ve been in here a while and I think a change would do you good. How about we leave this room for another ‘special’ person?” She said with a wink.

And so I was moved to room number five. The medical team interpreted my restlessness and eagerness  as a positive sign that I was on the mend. As such, after another week of tentative home visits and discharge planning I was finally released. Ironically I only spent 5 nights in my new room before I fell asleep in my own bed. Ready for the next chapter in my life. :) 

Three

 

Over the past few months many people have asked me whether I will have another baby. My answer? “Of course!”

There is a reasonable chance, I suppose, that I will succumb to another ‘episode’ post partum. I also have a higher than average chance of developing post natal psychosis. But as cliché as it sounds, it’s worth it. He is worth it all, and I would do it all again in a heartbeat. Many mothers who undergo even the most traumatic of births choose to do it all again. This is no different to that.

If you had asked me a few months ago, my answer would have been “Hell, no!” I remember my doctor talking about future pregnancies while I was in hospital. I shut her down and told her I didn’t want another. I simply couldn’t go through this again.

But now.... I honestly don’t think I would go through it all again. The difference between now and then is that we know what we are dealing with. I have a diagnosis, I know which medication works for me. I have also been informed that any future pregnancies will be classified as “high risk”, so I will be taken care of by a clinic at the state’s main maternity hospital who specialises in mothers with severe mental illness. I have also been told I may be transferred back to the MBU following childbirth for a week or two so doctors can keep a careful eye on me.

 In other words, there is a huge amount of support out there. If I showed any signs of instability I would have access to help. The people closest to me are aware and supportive. I'm certainly not alone.  

The other week I asked my doctor, out of interest, about future pregnancies and the medication I am on. She looked vaguely horrified and encouraged me not to rush into things, and to just concentrate on maintaining my stability for now.

But I’m not rushing into things. I’m not ready for another baby now. There are things I want to achieve before being a mum of two. I also want to savour this time with David. I missed out so much of his first year through being so unwell. I want to enjoy now and him and us for a little while.  

One day we will be a family of four, I have no doubt in that. But right now I’m enjoying the three of us. Me, you, and toddler too.

Feeling Good

It's a new day, it's a new dawn, it's a new life
For me.
And I'm feeling good. 

- Nina Simone

I knew something was going to happen because my eye kept twitching. Twitch, twitch, twitch for four days, like a ticking bomb. When I was in hospital the exact same symptom preceded my manic episode.

I didn’t even realise I was immersed in it until it was over. But let’s get the facts straight, this certainly wasn’t a full manic episode. I never lost touch with reality, I never believed to have magical powers. I didn’t put myself in danger.  To the best of my knowledge I didn’t irritate the people around me.  Infact, I don’t think even the people closest to me realised anything was any different to normal. Maybe it was the more discreet ‘hypomania’, which literally means ‘below mania’. Perhaps my symptoms were prodromal of mania. Perhaps it was just one of those things.

What I did experience was euphoria, and ideas, projects. Despite the fact that I was physically very unwell, I couldn’t sit still. I had to start these projects. The only thing was, while I was in the middle of one project, I would spy something else that needed to be done and would move onto that. My ordinarily organised life was becoming somewhat chaotic. Highly productive, but chaotic. I absolutely loved playing with my little boy, we laughed and laughed together. I felt confident in myself. I felt in control. I felt good.

Of course there were some down sides. I  started experiencing psychomotor agitation again. All the pacing, twitching, jogging that I remember from before. I had amazing problems sleeping. When I went to bed my body suddenly felt like it wanted to run a marathon. I would get so angry at this that I would leap out of bed at 2am, storm into the kitchen and take two or three times my normal dose of medication just to try and get some shut eye. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. My thoughts raced, or sometimes I would just have one thought that would repeat over and over again in my head. I seemed to get bored easily, even when doing things I usually enjoy.

But all in all, it wasn’t an unpleasant experience at all. I think I enjoyed it. Nobody was hurt in any manner, and I did get an awful lot of things done. Does that make it ‘disordered’? Is it ‘symptomatic’? Or is it just pleasurable?

Why? I would say it was something to do with the fact that I was physically unwell. Lithium will only work if a certain level of the drug is maintained in the bloodstream. Too much will result in toxicity, too little will result in very little at all. This is why if you are dehydrated, such as during gastro, you need to stop taking the medication. I had fevers for a week, and became very dehydrated. I also took medication which interferes with Lithium. I suspect that my blood lithium level went a little awry and precipitated this experience. The lack of sleep would have further exacerbated the symptoms.

My ‘high’ ended rather abruptly one night in a rather humorous manner. I woke up in the night, sure that something had bitten my rear end. Envisioning all sorts of poisonous critters, I leapt out of bed, turned on the light and thrashed around trying to see what had bitten me. At 4am, Steven was less than impressed, but still agreed to perform a thorough examination of the bed and my bum (have I mentioned that I love this man?). After, I lay in bed fuming. Now I had probably been bitten by something hideous, I’d have to go to the doctor AGAIN. Probably add another prescription to my collection. It was such a trivial thing, but I’d had enough!

Since then I’ve felt....flat. Certainly not depressed. But, it’s true, I miss the excitement and the euphoria and the energy. I miss being ‘high’.  The colours just seem to have faded. And as if for illustrative purposes, the sunshine outside has bleakened into rain. Steven calls this ‘the crash’. And in a day or so I will be fine.

I still feel like I am learning so much from this experience. I still don’t feel like I know the first thing about bipolar disorder, and my bipolar disorder in particular. I’m trying to chronicle and examine and evaluate what I feel. I’m trying to make sense of everything. Is it ok to enjoy the ‘highs’? Isn’t the high part of the problem? How can something that feels nice be a bad thing?

The mind, and the mind-body relationship fascinates me. Perhaps one day I’ll be a step closer to understanding it all J

Just a little patience...

I’m not a patient person. I’m really not. I’ve tried – believe me! But patience really seems to be a virtue that I don’t have.

Don’t get me wrong. I can be patient with people. Or with animals. But when it comes down to tasks, work, ideas and such, I just can’t seem to wait. I want things done now. No, I want things done yesterday.

I’m the type of person who, mid lunch, decides a yellow wall would look good in the dining area. I’m the type of person who leaves her lunch, goes out, buys gallons of yellow paint, and sloshes it onto the wall before her husband even comes home from work. “Surprise!” I’ll say, before telling him to stay out of the way because “I will do a better job”.

Steven calls me impulsive at best, occasionally silly, and always impatient. You see, Steven is the opposite of me. He’s methodological. Calculated. Careful. He spends months researching things before buying them. I can’t be bothered with doing all of that!

Anyway, where am I going with this?

If there is one thing that I have learned over the past 12 months, it’s that when you are a patient in hospital, you have to be exactly that. Patient. You wait to be seen, wait to be admitted, wait for a diagnosis, wait for a treatment plan. The waiting is seemingly endless.

When I was in the MBU I remember complaining to Steven one afternoon that I wanted to go home. I was so homesick it hurt. I’d had enough. “You need to be patient!” Steven told me. “you can’t expect things to change overnight.”

“But I’m not a patient patient!” I complained. “In fact. I’m an impatient inpatient!”

A few nights ago I ended up in hospital.  It was a combination of a nasty virus and severe dehydration – probably not helped by the fact that I had unknowingly taken medication which interacts with lithium. It was a long night for both Steven and I, longer for him though, it would seem.  I was surprised when I did the math. We were in hospital for around 12 hours. 4 of those hours were spent waiting in the emergency room. Add on perhaps another 1 hour for seeing the doctor and getting hooked up to an IV. That leaves SEVEN hours unaccounted for.

I asked Steven what I was doing, and he said that I was asleep.  Not surprising after a combination of narcotics, sedatives and anti-psychotics. The point of this is that my poor Steven waited for seven hours in an uncomfortable plastic chair by my bedside, without a single complaint.

You see, patience isn’t the ability to wait. It’s the ability to wait without complaint. And boy, this man has patience.  Through depression, through mania, through sickness, through hospitalisations, through psychosis and everything in between he has never complained. I wish I had the patience that he possesses.

It never ceases to amaze me the love and support that this man offers me. He lights my way through the darkest of days. He holds me down lest I fly away. He is always, always there for me. My best advocate, my greatest support. 

So Steven, I hope you understand that words are inadequate in describing the length and the breadth and the depth of the love and adoration I have for you. I know sometimes I am infuriating. I know that sometimes it may not seem like I appreciate you. But please, please know that I always love and adore you. I hope you know that I can never understand what you have been through – for in some ways I believe this can be harder for the supporter than the patient  - but I appreciate it more than I can ever describe. Every day I wake up, thankful that I have you standing by my side. Thank you for everything, my love. You are my world.

Traces of Nuts

The first time I was hospitalised, when I was about 17, I started hearing voices. Well, to be more specific I started hearing a robot voice.

I tried to ignore it at first. Get on with things. Go about my business. But this robot voice was every where I went. In my room, in the dining area, in the halls. This voice was starting to (if you’ll excuse the irony) drive me completely insane. I began to feel more and more dejected. Here I was. In a psychiatric institution. Hearing voices.

Then I became angry. I couldn’t even understand what the damn thing was saying.  I couldn’t even be a normal crazy person.  Someone who could actually understand their stupid voices. This is ridiculous!

One day I was waiting for a group session to start when I heard the robot talking again. I decided I had to settle this matter once and for all. I turned to the guy next to me and asked him:

 “Did you just hear that robot voice?!”

He looked vaguely startled and looked around. “Robot voice?”

“There it is again!” I exclaimed. “See! That robot voice! Please tell me you can hear it! I’m being driven insane. I know I shouldn’t say that here...but seriously....can you hear it?”.  

It was then that he burst out laughing. “That’s Harold!” he told me, in between snorts. “He’s had a tracheotomy, he speaks through a tube. I guess he does sound a bit like a robot.”

We were both silent for a moment. “Well that’s a relief,” I finally said. “For the last week I have been convinced I was hearing robot voices”.

Oh we laughed and laughed after that. I felt a huge range of things. Guilty for starters (poor Harold!), embarrassed, but most of all relieved. THANK GOD! I wasn’t crazy. Well, at least not in that way.

But this experience got me thinking. What is crazy anyway? Do you know if you are crazy? I’ve heard that the craziest people often believe they are sane. But sane people can think they are crazy too. Are you crazy if you are sane but think you’re crazy? Who defines it? Where is the line between crazy and sane?

One day, in the MBU, I was trying to make some lunch for David. Another patient was experiencing a manic episode and was pestering me, talking a mile a minute, following me around the kitchen. In between peals of laughter she managed to say “wow! You must really think I’m crazy!”
“Yes,” I responded rather grumpily. To my surprise she just burst out laughing again.
“That’s because I am!” she sung, before waltzing outside to the garden.

She certainly thought she was. Did I think I was crazy? I’m not sure. Do I now? I don’t know. What I do know, is that the deterioration of mental health results in a need for intervention. Some people resist it, but I was open to it. Perhaps that was the sanest part of my condition. I believe that everyone has their own eccentricities, some are just more obvious than others. I believe eccentricities need only be a negative thing should they threaten the wellbeing or reputations of themselves or the people around them.

Although I can’t define what I was before, at this point in time I’ll conclude that for now I’m swinging around the ‘normal’ end of the continuum. Normal. With traces of nuts ;)

Girls, Interrupted.

Having spent a fair amount of time at the MBU, I was able to see many different women come and go. As much as I was happy for the women that were discharged, I was hit by unexpected jealousy as well. Jealousy and then self incrimination. “What is wrong with me?! What can’t I get my act together and get better like everyone else?!”.

But aside from that, what struck me was just how different we all were. I began to see that postnatal mental illness spared no one. No cohort, no demographic group, nobody. There were older women, first time mums, black women, white women, Catholics, Muslims, professionals, teenagers, city women, country women, single parents, smokers, vegetarians and everyone in between. This is why I feel it is so important for EVERYONE to be aware of mental illness, particularly in the postnatal period. You never think it’s going to be you. Your partner. Your daughter. Your mother.

Anyway, although I was in the MBU for a significant amount of time, there was one woman, let’s call her Sophie, who had been there longer. We didn’t really speak much, but we were always kind of aware of each other. Every time I had a meltdown I’d glance around and see her in the background, pretending to ignore me. But that’s ok I pretended to ignore a few of her outbursts too.

One night, increasingly frustrated by my lack of sleep, I stormed out to the nurses station to try and get some sleeping pills. Sophie was waiting there too and we awkwardly stood next to each other for a few minutes.

Finally Sophie asked: “can’t sleep?”.

“What’s sleep?” I replied with a wry smile. Sophie laughed and then gestured to our dressing gowns.

“We should swap” she said. I looked down and noticed we were both wearing purple gowns. She was short in stature and wearing a long gown trailing the ground, I’m tall and was wearing a short gown cropped below the knee. I laughed and then saw the nurses arriving back at the station.

“You should take this,” she said, thrusting a magazine into my hands. “If you can’t sleep. It always helps me sleep.”  I thanked her. I was willing to do anything to get some sleep, and read whatever this magazine may be.

Later back in my room, having been denied medication, I took out the magazine and started to read. And would you believe it? I actually fell asleep! I kept it in my room for emergencies. Nightmares. Insomnia. It was a first aid kit for the weary. When I left the MBU I made sure to leave my magazine on the nightstand, just in case someone else should need it.

Sophie and I were both discharged within days of each other. I still think about her a lot, and I hope that she is doing well.

The magazine? It turned out to be a Coles advertising booklet. Perhaps it was the boredom of reading it that worked so well for us. Or perhaps it was just the comfort of knowing someone else was going through the same thing. Either way, I do remember having a fair few dreams about cooking... ;)

What's your status?

Yesterday, during an appointment with my psychologist at the hospital, it came to light that I was apparently an involuntary patient under the Mental Health Act for a period of time during my hospital stay. To say I was surprised is an understatement. I assured my psychologist she was mistaken, until she read out my file notes from my doctor at the MBU.

“Rachael was an inpatient at the MBU for two months, much of the time under one to one supervision and under the Mental Health Act”.

The thing is, I don’t remember that at all. I remember being threatened with the Mental Health Act should I worsen, resist treatment or abscond. But that’s about it. Other patients who were of involuntary status seemed to be aware of it. I certainly wasn’t. 

But then again, I wasn’t aware of much. I wasn’t aware that I was on one to one supervision until one day another patient asked my nurse for something. My nurse declined and the patient glanced at me and asked “oh, are you still on one to one supervision?”. It was only then I looked around and realised that I was the only patient with a nurse chained to my side all day. For most of my time in the MBU, the unit was in 'lockdown'. I didn't even realize that the unit could be unlocked until the end of my stay. It was only at then that I realized that the  lockdown  everyone complained about was initiated because of me (along with another patient). Sorry guys! 

The fact that I had psychosis adds another layer of complexity to the whole issue. Trying to piece together fragmented memories is difficult enough, but trying to remember when you are not even sure what was real and what wasn’t is nearly impossible.

I spent a few hours yesterday afternoon researching the matter. Trawling through pages and pages of government documents, searching through the endless 1996 Mental Health Act, trying to find anything that would give me some answers. Surely I would need to fill out a form? Or Steven would need to be aware?

My search was inconclusive. The complexities of the system are really beyond my patience. Is written evidence from my doctor enough for me to believe what happened? It should be, but somehow it’s not. A written report should stand firm against the unreliable memory of a psychotic patient. But this is me, not just anyone. Surely I should remember something.

I know that most people reading this will think ‘well what does it matter?’ I went into hospital, I came out of hospital, I’m feeling better, are the specific details of my stay really that important?

But to me they are. To me there is a big difference between seeking help voluntarily, and being treated as an involuntary patient. The legalities of my treatment matter. What happened to me matters. But most of all it matters that I can’t seem to trust my own memories and recollections.

Who do I believe? Me or them? Who do you believe?

New

This week was one of those annoying weeks where everything seemed to go wrong. Broken plates, broken appliances, broken sleep, missed appointments, sick printers, forgotten forms, lost pieces of priceless jewelery. You name it, it happened. 

I wouldn’t say it was a ‘bad’ week as such. Just an incredibly annoying one.

I had one of those familiar “fuck it all” moments the other day. Skidding around the kitchen, trying to mop up chocolate covered water from the dishwasher with a freshly laundered towel on a freshly mopped kitchen floor, listening to a screaming baby. Fuck. It. All.

But today is a new start. It’s been a cracker of a week, and a hell of a year, but I’m ready to leave that behind and start fresh. It’s my birthday next week, and for my present my mum has bought me a haircut. For the first time in a long time I’m going to chop it off. Not *really* short, but shorter than it is now. I like my long hair, but the truth is, I don’t have the time or energy to spend styling it each morning. It generally gets clipped back, tied back and otherwise neglected. I’m looking forward to something a little less high maintenance! I also splurged on some new dresses and jewellery. Something I very rarely do.  I’m generally a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl, but with summer coming up I figured it would be nice to have some pretty dresses.

  I have also spring cleaned the house, weeded the garden, changed the layout of the living room and bought a new rug. I’ve planted my favorite herbs outside, and I’ve started buying my fruit and vegetables from local farmers at the markets. I’ve gotten myself into a household routine that works.

This all probably seems fairly insignificant. But you see, more than anything I need a CHANGE. I want to physically separate the ‘old’ me from the ‘new’ me. I’m happy, I’m in control, and I want that to be represented in the way I present myself, and in the environment I live in. I want a fresh start.

Now let’s just pray that the hairdresser doesn’t destroy my hair today ;)

No Such Thing as a Free Lunch...

Today marks the end of my journey with the Mother and Baby Unit. My doctor saw me as an outpatient for a number of months following my discharge as she wanted to make sure I was doing ok at home. But David is now one, and I have been stable, and it was time to be referred back to my local mental health team.

Today was the day I was to have an appointment with the new Psychiatrist that was going to be taking over my care. I wasn’t looking forward to it. Due to the experiences I had before my hospitalisation I am wary of medical professionals – particularly those in mental health. Would they take me seriously? Would they screw around with my medication? Would they be nice?

Furthermore, my appointment was at my local hospital whose service has not impressed me over the past 18 months. This is the hospital where I was told (in the midst of a mixed psychotic episode) that I didn’t need hospitalisation, only a good night sleep. Indeed it is the very same hospital that I called during my labour with David, only to be told to take a Panadol and have a bath. It’s a good thing that we ignored that advice, because when I arrived we found out I was half way to having a baby, and the contractions were coming quick and strong. Naturally the birth suites were full, and I needed to be transferred to a different hospital, but the doctor was then concerned that I wouldn’t make the ambulance ride. I was told I may have to deliver in the waiting room, with no epidural (“this was not in my birth plan!!!” I couldn’t help thinking ;)). Fortunately for everyone my labour stalled, I was successfully transferred to a different hospital and I even got an epidural. No thanks to my local hospital though. Do I sound resentful? Perhaps a tad ;)

  Anyway. Back to today. I went to the appointment feeling rather stand offish and cross about things. I was on the offense and I wasn’t afraid to let ‘them’ know about it. The doctor called me up by my middle name, which wasn’t a great start. But there was something profoundly kind about this woman, and for the life of me I couldn’t stop myself from telling her everything. To open up to someone so quickly is very unusual for me. I talked and talked so much that when Steven came to pick me up my voice was hoarse. Ok, so admittedly I am still recovering from laryngitis...but you get the idea ;))

At the end of it she asked me how it had been. I was honest with her and told her that I had had deep reservations about coming, I told her about my experience with the other doctor. I explained to her that when I am depressed I don’t tend to show the emotion that other people seem to. I don’t tend to cry or even talk much. I will just state that I feel depressed, and because actions speak louder than words, I didn’t seem to receive the help I needed.

To my surprise she told me that she had dealt with many individuals that show little emotion, and that ‘Depression’ is about far more than feeling sad. She told me it was about an inability to sleep, to concentrate, to make decisions, to engage in life. She assured me that she was taking me seriously, and from her notes from the mother and baby unit and from what I had talked about she felt that I had been to hell and back. She told me how sorry she was that I had been through this, and how sorry she was that their service had let me down.

I think that’s what I really wanted. To tell someone at the hospital what had happened and for them to acknowledge it. I hope that by telling someone, perhaps someone else out there won’t slip through the cracks. Not everyone who needs help wears their heart on their sleeve.

All in all I feel good about the appointment. My new doctor is lovely, and I’m confident that with time I will trust her in the way I trusted my old doctor. To my surprise I was also given a medication voucher for the pharmacy, so I can get all my medications for free! This was a huge relief since we were paying almost $100 a month on pills.

 To be honest with you, although I have had some bad experiences with our mental health service, I’ve had some really good ones too. The hospital and all of my doctor and psychologist appointments have been free of charge. I received free childcare and now free medications. People say there is no such thing as a free lunch...but I guess sometimes there is. And I know I’m grateful for it! :)

Hospital Visit

 I think that when you’re a mum, you just KNOW when your child isn’t well. When there is something more serious than the average cough or cold going on. I think as a parent you have an instinct.

This week I had a suspicion something wasn’t right with David. On Monday I worried when I dropped him off at daycare, and called from the uni to see how he was. When we took him home that night he was frantic. Screaming, writhing, thrashing. Painkillers didn’t seem to work and nothing seemed to settle him. First thing the next morning I took him to my local GP.

My GP was concerned, David was still screeching in pain, and basically inconsolable. Yet at this stage he had no fever, no sore throat, no ear infection, no runny nose, nothing obvious to explain his pain. We spent an hour at the surgery for observation, then were advised to take him to hospital for further investigation.

My mum came with me to the emergency department, where David screamed and thrashed. He was assessed by doctor after doctor. Through tears I watched as my little boy was wrapped in a sheet and pinned down by three nurses, while a consultant unsuccessfully attempted to administer a line and take bloods. Dripping in sweat, writhing in pain, David didn’t take his eyes off me as they pricked him again and again.

The doctors were concerned he had a bowel twist and directed us to go to the city’s specialist children’s hospital to meet with the GI surgical team for a review. We were offered an ambulance transfer but I refused as I didn’t want to be without my mum. Instead we drove home, picked up my husband and went straight to the emergency department.

 At the hospital we were seen by doctor after doctor after doctor. But nobody could tell us what was going on. David was obviously in tremendous pain, but had no other symptoms. An ultrasound ruled out a bowel twist, and suddenly doctors were talking about real nasty pasties. Bone infections, meningitis, lumbar punctures. Of course we were terrified – although David was unwell we hadn’t expected anything like this. For a while, Steven and I couldn’t even say the word. ‘Meningitis’ became ‘that other thing the doctors mentioned...’ 

 Luckily for us David started to improve after taking some painkillers. Although he still had periods of intense crying, he also started having longer periods of calm. Doctors were more relaxed, telling us he had no suspicious symptoms. After a long night where David developed a hoarse voice, cough and wheeze, he was diagnosed with Croup, an ear infection and constipation.

Croup! What a relief! Somehow I couldn’t believe our luck. You see, for the entirety of our stay at the children’s hospital I had seen such dreadfully sick children. I had heard stories that made my heart break. And I had been praying that we were not about to embark on a similar journey. Taking my sad, hoarse little boy home felt like such a gift. My heart goes out to the families who have to leave their children at the hospital. The families that have to deal with heart break every day. We had a scare with a happy ending. Some other families are not so lucky.

I’m not religious but tonight I’ll thank God for my healthy child, and I’ll pray for those who need it.

It's So Much Friendlier With Two

While I was in hospital, my dearest friend Leanne was undergoing chemotherapy for Ovarian Cancer. A horrendous journey that she and her family went through, and although she has finished her chemotherapy (and is now cancer free!!) she still walks the tough road every day while she recovers physically and emotionally from the cancer.

 For the best part of three months Leanne and I were unable to see each other (the longest time we have ever been separated), and although we had conversations on the phone and by text, we weren't able to physically be there for each other. The funny thing is, our friendship and our bond has grown stronger by our experiences. As Leanne put it today “no one out there understands what it was like for us to go through hell this year”. And she’s right – they don’t.

I may not understand what it is like to go through chemotherapy, but I do understand what it is like for no one out there to understand what you are going through. She may not understand what it is like to be bipolar, but she knows how it feels to be depressed and alone. We understand each other in a way that others may not.

  And now, although the fire has been fought, there is still work to be done for both of us. This is something I think a lot of people tend to forget. Just because you have finished chemotherapy does not automatically mean you are cured. Far from it. The body needs time – a lot of time – to recover from the hell it has endured. The mind needs time to process all that it has been through. Likewise, just because you have been discharged from hospital does not mean that everything is suddenly ok. At the moment I feel I am in a constant juggling act, trying to keep on top of my emotional wellbeing.

  But despite the past year, when I get together with Leanne I laugh more than I do with anyone else out there. We have the exact same warped sense of humour that I’m fairly sure nobody out there understands. We bake and we laugh and we watch TV, and yeah we talk about the hard stuff, but we talk about the fun stuff too.

Friends are the family you choose, and I think I have chosen well. Bipolar, and many forms of mental illness, carry such a social stigma. As much as I should be honest and comfortable with what I have been through, when I am faced with someone I’m not sure I trust I find myself telling them that I suffered post natal depression, and conveniently skip over the psychotic, neurotic, manic bits. I don't want to be remembered as 'the crazy one'. But with Leanne and her family (who I trust wholeheartedly), I’m not the one who went crazy, I’m just Rachael. Just like Leanne to me is just Leanne – not the girl with Cancer.

What I am trying to say is that one thing that has helped me on this journey is my friendship with Leanne. The road is much less lonely when you have someone to laugh with, talk with and cry with. Life is so much more enjoyable when you are sent amusing texts and facebook posts (or voicemails that merely say “we’re doomed!” ;)) And as Pooh Bear once proclaimed “it’s so much more friendlier with two!”  

So thank you Leanne for everything you have done for me, and for all the ways you have helped me. I appreciate it more than I can express. Love you lots my sister from another mister :) 

I just wanna feel....

If there is one thing that my GP, child health nurse, psychiatrist and psychologist all seem to agree on, it's that I really didn't express much emotion during my last depressive episode. They all cite this fact as one of the reasons why I slipped through the cracks for so long, and things got as bad as I did before receiving adequate help.

They are probably right. When David was only a few weeks old I visited the child health nurse, talked about David for the majority of the session, only asking for some resources for post natal depression at the very end. "Are you feeling depressed?" the nurse asked, clearly surprised. I told her yes and filled out the Edingburgh scale for her. It was only after seeing my score that she became concerned, urging me to see a GP that very day. I remember her telling me that I didn't look or act like someone who was depressed. I wondered what a depressed person was supposed to look or act like.

Months later, in the midst of a mixed state, I poured my heart out to a community psychiatrist. Telling him how I thought the police were after me, that I was considering drinking toilet cleaner, that I simply couldn't go on. But actions do speak louder than words. It wasn't until I broke down and screamed at him that he believed I had a problem.

My weeks in hospital were a baseline of emotional detachment with occasional blips of insanity which invariably resulted in me being medicated and escorted to my room. I was off or on. I was quiet, off in my own little world. Or I was falling back to earth with a thud, and screaming with the pain of it all.

The thing is, it wasn't that I didn't feel pain, I just didn't know how to express it. How can you express a deep intangible pain? Where do you even begin? "I feel depressed" just doesn't seem to cut it. Because of my attitude, and the way I described how I was feeling, people didn't seem to take me seriously. The more my attempts at asking for help were unsuccessful, the less inclined I became to talk about it. It just seemed like a no-win situation.

At some point in hospital my medication was adjusted so that my pain went away. It was incredible! I didn't feel anxious anymore, I no longer felt depressed. There is so much that you can achieve when you aren't weighed down by depression and insecurities. The best thing was that although my negative emotions were dulled, my positive emotions soared. I feel happy and excited so much more than I used to. I don't know whether that is due to the medication, or simply because there is more room for positivity now my negativity has been dealt with.

But in the recent weeks I became a little concerned. While at first the absence of negativity was freeing, now it felt a little...odd. I never felt upset - even when I had a good reason to be. I never felt stressed - even when I should. On one occasion, shamefully, I even picked an enormous fight with Steven. Just to see if I could feel upset. We fought and shouted he stormed off, and I sat there screwing my face up trying to cry. Nope. Nothing! While Steven fumed in the bedroom, I went back to my book.

This week I talked to my psychiatrist about this, and she reccomended that I reduce some of my medication, particularly since I haven't had any problem with depression. So I cut down my dose and forgot about it. Until last night.

Last night Steven and I had a little argument. Nothing too upsetting. But as he stood outside, talking on the phone I suddenly burst into tears. Now I'm not talking a little sniffle, I'm talking loud, messy, gut wrenching sobs. Alarmed, Steven raced inside and tried to calm me down. But I was unstoppable. I cried about all the things that I never had a chance to deal with while I was on the medication and couldn't feel. I mourned the lost time I felt I had, I cried for what I had been through. I cried for purely selfish reasons. I sobbed and bawled, and GOD it felt good.

What's more, I slept better than I have done in weeks.

Like a storm after a drought the air is clearer now. Although I'm scared I will feel to much again, I'm relieved I can feel something. I guess it's a balancing act, trying to find a steady point between the two poles. And I'll get there. I know I will.

Admission

My admission was precisely that. A public admission that something was horribly wrong. But it took me a long time to get to that stage. I denied it, faked it, hoped that it would just go away on its own. Three medical professionals on five separate occasions recommended hospitalisation. But I shrugged it off, wiped away my tears and convinced them that I was ok. I wasn’t.

They call it a mental illness. But I believe in an inextricable link between the mental and the physical. Just as a physical illness may spawn mental distress, a mental illness can have profoundly physical side effects. In fact, to call it a mental illness surely denies how physical the mental can become. Before my hospitalisation I had shook, vomited, hyperventilated, lost weight and bled. But nothing like what was about to happen.

One day, a few weeks before I was admitted to the mother and baby unit, I was suddenly struck down with the most unbelievable abdominal pain. I managed to stumble into the living room where Steven sat, and cry out ‘something is not right!’ before collapsing. The pain was intense, comparable only to childbirth. I screamed at the top of my lungs. I lost all feeling in my limbs.

I spent four days in hospital in a narcotic haze. Eventually I underwent an investigative surgery, and the usual post operative pain was a blessed relief after the horror of the previous pain. The surgery showed nothing except some pre-existing endometriosis. Nothing ‘physical’ to explain my phantom pain.

I know now that that hospitalisation was the pivotal point in my journey. It was the moment where my body simply shut down, the mental strain having been too much for too long. It was the moment where I realized something was very wrong. I screamed out of physical pain, but also out of mental torment.  What was mental had finally become physical. Becoming physical was the only way I was spurred to seek help.

The problem was that just because I was ready to accept help, didn’t mean I would be offered it. I paid a visit to my GP and psychologist, and they both agreed that I needed urgent assistance. However, despite popular belief, unless you are outwardly behaving in an extreme manner, psychiatric hospitalisation in the public sector is remarkably difficult to achieve. To obtain a referral to the MBU it seemed I had to be first referred to my local mental health service. From there I would be assessed by a community officer, who would determine whether I needed a psychiatric assessment. The psychiatrist, who would be meeting me for the first time, and would only talk to me for an hour, would have complete power over my treatment plan.

I was frustrated by the seemed bureaucracy of it all, but I comforted myself by believing I would be receiving help within days. Instead I was offered an appointment for a weeks time. Now a week may seem like nothing, but by this point I was deep within a mixed state, and I was desperate.

Psychosis had set in and I peered out the windows, sure that the police were after me. I searched Steven’s desk, his belongings for evidence. Evidence of what? I’m not sure. I paced around the house, unable to keep still, forgetting to eat, forgetting to sleep. Steven had locked away anything I could use to hurt myself, so I sat on the bathroom floor staring at the toilet cleaner, wondering if it would do the job. I kept crying to Steven “I can’t do this, I can’t wait a week, I can’t keep going”.  Looking back, I don’t know how I did.

But I didn’t have much of a choice. I could present to the emergency department, but I knew I would be hospitalised in a general psychiatric ward without David. My best option was to wait it out, to get through the days, and to get a referral to the MBU.

Finally the day of my appointment arrived and I sat down in the psychiatrists office prepared to be as open and honest as I could. Calmly, I told him everything that had been happening, all the symptoms I had. I didn’t mince my words, and I didn’t leave anything out. At the end of it all he looked at me and said “I don’t think you need to be hospitalised, Rachael. I think your problems are to do with sleep deprivation, I can prescribe some pills to help you sleep”

  I was stunned. Had he not read the referral from my GP and psychologist, which clearly stated “it is in my opinion that Rachael be hospitalised”. ? Had he not just listened to all the symptoms I had described? I tried to tell him that I didn’t think my problems were to do with sleep, he told me that I was “overriding his professional opinion”. At that moment I realised that if I wanted help for being ‘crazy’, I’d have to stop acting sane. So I let the psychiatrist have it. I raised my voice and argued and cried. Soon enough he was printing out referrals and calling up the hospital. Funny that. Before I left he told me that he thought I would only be in the MBU for a few days, a week tops. Of course ;). 

Finally a few torturous days later I walked into the MBU for an assessment, wondering if they were going to turn me away. I can’t remember what I said, or what my doctor said, or how I acted. All I remember is my doctor standing up and saying “You clearly need to be hospitalised Rachael, we have a bed ready for you down the hall”. After the appointment with the psychiatrist I was so doubtful that I would be admitted to the MBU that I hadn’t even packed a bag. So we needed to go home first and collect some things.

Finally I lay down on the hospital bed. It was the end, or was it the beginning? I had done it, I was safe. I was relieved, scared, and everything in between. But most of all I was exhausted. I went to sleep – for the best part of three days I’m told.

And that’s all I can remember – for the first 3 weeks anyway.