Being Mummy

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

you make me happy, when sky's are grey

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

so please don't take my sunshine away

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

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

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

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

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

This just in!

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

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

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

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

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

A cup of courtesy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

All mixed up and no place to go...

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

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

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

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

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

A recent photo of myself ;) 

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

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

How wonderful it is to be me again.


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

Cake, anyone?

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

3/5/2012

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

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

It started with lots of ideas. I couldn't


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

Purple People

“Susanna: I am a crazy girl. Seriously.

Tony: You've been in a hospital?

Susanna: Yes.

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

Susanna: He got better.

Tony: Nah, he still sees 'em”.

-          Girl Interrupted

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clean

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

Me...on an average cleaning day...;) 

So why am I telling you all of this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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