A cup of courtesy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

All mixed up and no place to go...

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

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

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

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

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

A recent photo of myself ;) 

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

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

How wonderful it is to be me again.


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

Cake, anyone?

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

3/5/2012

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

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

It started with lots of ideas. I couldn't


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

Purple People

“Susanna: I am a crazy girl. Seriously.

Tony: You've been in a hospital?

Susanna: Yes.

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

Susanna: He got better.

Tony: Nah, he still sees 'em”.

-          Girl Interrupted

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clean

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

Me...on an average cleaning day...;) 

So why am I telling you all of this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always Room for Reggae...

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

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

What we weren’t prepared for was his critiques.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s always room for reggae.

Stockholm Syndrome

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

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

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

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

I don’t feel, when I know I should.

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

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

Probably.

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

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

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

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

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