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 ;) 

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.