Purple People

“Susanna: I am a crazy girl. Seriously.

Tony: You've been in a hospital?

Susanna: Yes.

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

Susanna: He got better.

Tony: Nah, he still sees 'em”.

-          Girl Interrupted

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clean

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

Me...on an average cleaning day...;) 

So why am I telling you all of this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always Room for Reggae...

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

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

What we weren’t prepared for was his critiques.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s always room for reggae.

Stockholm Syndrome

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

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

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

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

I don’t feel, when I know I should.

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

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

Probably.

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

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

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

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

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

So, this is pressure?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hello, Psychosis!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some Days Are Easier Than Others

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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