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.

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 ;)