Dotty

This post is uncomfortable to write. It will doubtless be uncomfortable to read. If you are one of the people who object to the fact that I write (and heaven forbid publish), then please click on the little red x button. That is what it is for.

The night before last, Wednesday 10 February, my life reached such a nadir that I could not continue with the pain of living. I had run the gauntlet, directly and indirectly, of family telling me that I was a disgusting person for even thinking to leave my husband. I was told that the reason my family forgave my husband his affair of 10 years ago (with a woman I entertained at a party we threw, who stayed overnight in my home), because I was the one responsible: I drove him to it.

Yes, I have children. They are never out of my thoughts. Suicide seemed to me a way of protecting them from me repeating the mistakes my parents made with me. I felt they were young enough to be able to recover and carry on with their lives. On that point I couldn’t have been more wrong, and I will always live with the guilt and regret of that lapse of judgment.

The ambulance was called (and the police via a very kind friend on Twitter to whom I shall be forever indebted – I don’t even know how to begin to thank her: all she knew was my name and my home town). I spent the night in hospital attached to a drip and I slept – I had a month’s worth of Diazepam to thank for that. In the morning the Crisis Team of two nurses came and pronounced me of sound mind and that there was nothing more hospital – either general or the nuthouse – could do for me. I went back to my cubicle, ripped out the cannula, put on my coat and shoes and began the slow cold 2 mile walk home.

I was met with silence from my husband – he has yet to speak to me other than telling me he is going to the pub, I have had messages of vilification from my family, but more importantly I have had messages of real support, real concern and real love from these so-called non-existent invisible friends deep in the mists of the internet.

Life is no less easy, in fact it seems a lonelier place than ever, but to those real and true friends I can never be grateful enough. Thank you just doesn’t do it – even though it is from the bottom of my heart.

Bookmark It

Hide Sites

I have pronounced my self fit and well enough to recommence my domestic duties.

I am fit and well. I have read and enjoyed an entire book from beginning to end (the first in 4 months); I am neither weaning off nor becoming accustomed to medication; my vocabulary has returned to me more or less intact; I can cuddle my children and I can even cook a meal and have everything ready at about the right time. My mood is as stable as the next woman’s. So why is it that at 00.45 on Monday morning, I am awake, tearful, with heart racing and breath so short I feel I might suffocate?

I am dreading the school run. I am dreading 30minutes of my morning – 25 of which will consist of nothing more arduous than the searching for more answers to an inquisitive 4-year-old’s “Why?”s and the occasional “Come on or we’ll be late” remonstration. So I am left with 5 ghastly minutes (if I time it right).

Those 5 minutes leave me utterly perplexed. I am a woman, who, in my previous corporate life could survive and engineer any social interaction, no matter how sticky or awkward to advantage. But in the playground the rules change, the gloves are off – there is no code of conduct (written or unwritten) that I understand.

Just how do I greet those people whom, once I have braved the enclave of the stares and whispers of the known gossip-mongers, I have not seen for weeks or months? The people who know I have been too ill to face the outdoors? The people who have been told to their kind “She knows my number” that I simply can’t call anyone? The people I have seen and who have said “We must do coffee” 6 weeks ago – and had the reply “I’d love to. Please let me know when would suit you: my diary is empty” and from whom I have heard nothing since?

How do I answer these people, these so called real-life friends, when they ask how I am and look at me meaningfully?

There are those who question my wisdom in putting my words to virtual paper – for all the world to see – but who else do I ask?

I just don’t know.

Bookmark It

Hide Sites

A meme from Careyannie’s Mumma Said

Family

Aunty Mim is 9 years older than me. She lent me her Jackie and gave me the non-David Cassidy posters to put up on my wall. She told me that the henna she put on her hair was cow poo and for years I believed her. I followed her diet fads with fascination (someone could choose what to eat!) and her life outside 9-5 conformity with awe.

Aunty Mim has, since I have been aware of her presence in my life, become a mother and a granny. Both roles she fulfils with a gusto I can only marvel at. She is also a mother-figure to me as well as being a big sister and an aunt – she is so much more than the sum of those parts. Aunty Mim is outspoken, opinionated and feisty and has a heart as big as a hippo. Sometimes we fall out – she doesn’t mince her words, and I retreat quickly when confronted with disapproval and possible rejection – but we make up and are the stronger for it. We even had a heated discussion last week – and parted company closer than before.

Aunty Mim keeps my feet on the ground and lets me have my head in the clouds. She is nobody’s yes-girl, but she rarely utters the word “no”.

I wish the world could have the pleasure of knowing my Aunty Mim.

Friends

I am very lucky to have some fabulous friends. Not very many of them live on my doorstep, and those that do I try not to bother. This can look as though I am not particularly friendly… as much as I am always the one there to lend a shoulder, a hanky, a cup of tea or a gallon of wine:I can rarely be the one to accept the same. So I battle on for the most part behind closed doors, coming out only when the going is good. But to Tom, Fred, Russ, Hilary, Rachel, Annie, Jez, Angela, Wendy, Mona, Jacqui, Emily, Andy, Dawn, Pam, Penny and Joanne – I am profoundly grateful for the fact that I could, if I could, knock on any of your doors and be welcomed in.

The White Coats

The last 4 years have been difficult. I am not quite sure why many of the people I have met in white coats choose to pursue their profession in the mental health field. It doesn’t seem to have been through empathy of either patients or disability. Some are, quite frankly, insulting. However, I do have two bright shining stars: my Community Psychiatric Nurse “K” and my GP, Dr W. Both not only accept that my IQ has not nosedived to double figures with the diagnosis of a disorder, but seem to appreciate the fact that they have an intelligent and articulate patient – and that they too might have something to learn. I respect and applaud them.

Bookmark It

Hide Sites

Is a strange ‘thing’ which hits without warning. I have had ‘real’ (as in recognised medically) problems with sleep for the last year or more, but the actual fervent desire to do anything but sleep strikes intermittently. At 9pm, I am as any other person: winding down, tidying up, making ready for the next day, flicking TV channels, chatting on Twitter… and then at around at 10.30pm I know it (sleep) is just not going to happen.

Bookmark It

Hide Sites

Manic depression is unique, as unique to me as my fingerprint or my ear-shape only not as predictable. What was there yesterday may not be there tomorrow. The pattern established in the last cycle may not be repeated in the next. It is a phantom of an illness which lulls one into a cruel and false sense of security.

I have been unable so far to write confidently with raw honesty or lack of guile on this subject, from the fear of appearing self-indulgent or all-knowing? I can’t be sure. It may just have been that the words weren’t there.

Depression is a cold, damp, lonely place. It smells: of musty old scarves, turning milk and cat pee (but not necessarily at the same time!). It is deathly quiet and yet ear-shatteringly noisome – like walking past drunk revellers on Christmas Eve night, when you know you will be waking up the next morning alone. It is rarely pathetic: I may wish to crawl under the duvet, indeed I probably should, but I don’t. I am angry, tearful, resentful, bitter, irritable and cross. I will my friends to tire of me and I goad my husband to despair of me. And then, of course, the spectre of suicide hovers on the sidelines, tempting me with the ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card. I hate being depressed. It goes against my whole nature – the nature I believe truly belongs to me.

Mania, it seems to me, is the single most misunderstood aspect of Bi-Polar Disorder. It is not the happy flip-side to depression’s sadness. At its worst, mania robs me of reason, reasonableness, perspective, sleep, sense, empathy and sympathy… it is a selfish and aggressive beast. At its best the feeling is addictive: I soar like an eagle with golden gem-encrusted wings, the world is mine to land where I will. The problem is that I have no idea how to slip out of the thermals which take me further and further away from my world; I have no idea how to steer; I accelerate faster than I can begin to cope with and my screams for help are silent.

I never know how, practically, the mania will strike: it may have me knitting egg cosies until 4am; or it may have me jetting from Warsaw to London to buy a pair of shoes and staying in Claridges because I really can’t be bothered to drive to my UK home an hour away. Above all, the fear of the inevitable, impending crash into an ever-deeper depression (for this is the only pattern which can be relied upon) makes me reluctant to bother anyone – friends or professionals – to admit that I am in trouble, take early steps to avoid the plunge or take responsibility for myself. Once again – I am not that person.

Somewhere in the middle is calm and normality. I am not sure whether the longer stretches of ‘wellness’ are given to make up for the increasing devastation of the highs and lows, or if it is the other way around and I am punished for my attempts to blend in. I don’t want to know in case it is the latter – and that would be too cruel a knowledge to live with.

What Bi-Polar Disorder is not is the normal highs and lows of everyday life; nor is it being a genius like Stephen Fry (if only!). It is not being a gifted artist like Van Gogh and it is not an excuse for willful antisocial behaviour. It is a crappy mental illness that I hate with a passion – and yet I would not give up for the world. I would be more afraid to see the me that is left without it than manage the me that is.

Bookmark It

Hide Sites

I am in a reflective mood…

I should mention that today was Wee2’s 4th birthday. We had a quiet day with just the right ingredients to make it a happy day for the little one. His requests for presents included a Transformer (Wee1 likes them), swimming goggles, a shelf and a torch. Cleverly Mr Dotty found a wind-up torch in the camping section of the supermarket, so there is at least one toy which won’t eat batteries. Big Smartie point to Mr Dotty xxx!

We have recently returned from a less than successful trip to Orkney. Orkney itself was beautiful – in the rather bleak and raw way that Orkney is. The deserted clean beaches were lovely – but we missed other children for the Wees to play with. Granny and Grandpa spent little time with the Wees, our parenting skills seemed under scrutiny and found lacking, and it was all rather a shame.

To compound the lethargy which accompanies a dissatisfaction which cannot easily be overcome, I have gained weight and girth. I am convex where I should be concave (OK should be flat, but would really really like to be concave). I am spilling over where I should be filling out. I have decided to try running: but it is to be our secret. I am telling no-one. I have found a free podcast called “Couch to 5K” and I intend to try it out tomorrow morning. There are a few obstacles I can see along the road: the only time I can do this activity is first thing in the morning. Since I gave up work and being given large sums of dosh to catch flights at crazy hours, I am incapable of getting out of bed before I am kicked out. I have never been a successful fitness runner. Since having the Wees I have unfeasibly large breasts (what they tell you about breast-feeding is not true): there is no sports bra which can hope to constrain the darlings – maybe I shall steal some of Mr Dotty’s duct tape.

I have started drinking alcohol again. I say this, not as an alcoholic confession, but that I have found it (particularly during the holiday!) to be a useful relaxant, which also tastes quite yummy. This will also have contributed to the weight gain I am sure….

I am worried that I will not be able to maintain my new-re-found vegetarianism. I am yearning flesh. I stare at it in the fridge and it winks at me, wriggles suggestively, and promises to elevate my mood. Chorizo is the worst. Thank goodness we have no Parma ham in. I am cooking roast chicken tomorrow. God help me…

My last ‘gripe’ is that I have to (PLEASE excuse the phrase) sort my life out. I mean that quite literally. I am spurred on to do more than merely exist as a housewife and mother only to collapse at the end of the day. I know that I can be the mother I want to be, but also be ME too. To do that means organisation. I really loathe housework: the day-in-day-out kind, and the only way I can manage it is to have a list that I have to stick to. I need to clear shelves ready for my OU books. I need to find time for a new project (Melrose Community Cooperative is the working title) and I need to help Mr Dotty set up his new business. I also have to keep me healthy and happy – so that means time for tapping here.

As you see – lots to reflect upon!

Bookmark It

Hide Sites

This wonderful state of rejuvenating unconsciousness continues to elude me. After my success with tapping I thought that all was well. Every now and again I slipped down the slippery slope of insomnia and then I retapped and snuggled back down again.

Lately, however, a new goblin is invading the sanctuary of my bedroom (other than the bed-hopping Wee). This one waits until 2am, then keeps me awake me until 5am, and of course then wills me back to sleep way past getting up time. Not only that, but it compounds my long-term problem of a need for a siesta. Lovely in Spain, impractical and antisocial in Scotland!

Last night I tried a new approach to my previous tapping mantra of ‘Although I cannot sleep, my body deserves to rest’ by changing it to ‘Although I will wake during the night, I will be able to go back to sleep’. That seemed to work. I shall have to think about this need for an afternoon nap and how to tap  that away. I have one day: my parents will not be sympathetic to me sneaking off to my bed!

I might also try iron tablets… but I’d rather not: the side effects are SO uncomfortable!!

Bookmark It

Hide Sites

I am bipolar. When I was first diagnosed 4 years ago I would say that I suffered from bipolar disorder – no wonder I spent most of the time depressed. I actually prefer the old non-PC term of manic depressive: it conjures up a much more accurate image of the torrent of energy surging in and around me at the upper end of the scale, and as for depressive: well, there is little to say … too depressing. I’ve been MD for years – since I can remember: from deciding one day (6 weeks before my A-level exams) to leave school, to walking into an Audi dealership 16 years later, standing by the new TT convertible and saying to the assistant ‘I’ll have this one, please’. In between were years of overspending (40 shift dresses, anyone?), overconsumption of alcohol, hiding in bed for whole weekends before being forced out to function ‘normally’ at work and a general rollercoaster of a life. It was the most fun – nothing was impossible, but it was heart-wrenchingly miserable: sometimes all within the course of one day. The diagnosis came initially as a relief, then as a millstone. I was clever, bright, had never taken drugs but was now tarred with the mental illness brush. It didn’t seem fair… and of course it isn’t fair – but what is? Today I accept the label as something required to treat the chemical imbalance in my brain – it does not remould me. In fact, I have met some truly remarkable people through this imbalance: friends and professionals (my GP and Community Psychiatric Nurse are heaven-sent). I have found out who my true friends are (isn’t that always the way?!), but I also think that I have become a better, less judgemental person.

Bookmark It

Hide Sites