One of those posts that is a bit like washing the kitchen floor: too daunting to complete, but the solution begins with starting it:
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.
I will find any excuse not to make ready for bed… there will be a list to write, a plan to make, someone to chat to: the joy of Twitter in particular is that there are friends around the world to pass the time of day with… all the time.
When I put words in quotes – please understand that I mean nothing more than I can’t find the real word which belongs there. I know there is one. A particular one. But it is locked away: it is happening more and more – I find myself talking to professionals half my age (my sons’ teachers, speech therapists, for example) and I lose my vocabulary. If I were working today I would be earning 4x their salary. I would be driving whichever sports car I chose: fully expensed. I would not be shopping on eBay for my clothes (and indeed shoes). I feel reduced – and yet by night, occasionally, full of life, spark, wit, verve: all those things by which I used to be valued.
My twilight world is a remnant, a scrap, a valuable memory which cannot be discarded. I knit egg cosies (truly), I sew patchwork quilts, I read blogs and blogs and more blogs until I feel so enthused with projects and equally sick with inadequacy that I cannot move.
Finally – when the world stands still at about 5am (a time I longed for when working when I was on call from 6.00am until 5.00am) I will stagger into bed and feel the welcome cool sensation of my pillow.
Insomnia – party time it is not.
I have been deluged by the most encouraging comments recently, and these at a time when they could not have been more welcome or helpful.
I cannot thank you all enough: but the thanks I write do come from the bottom of my heart xxx
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.
Oh, he has been back again!
I promised to feed him, but forgot… such was the effect of Orkney. I live in hope of forgiveness.
He has made some lovely changes to the site, which I hope you like. The Twitter one is my fave – then I can do mini chats to you even if I can’t sit down and do proper posts. Sometimes, though, posting is rather like washing the bathroom floor: one spends far longer procrastinating than in just doing the job.Or maybe you don’t… maybe it is just me?
If you do feel inclined it would be lovely if you could bookmark me with Delicious – spread the word…
Blog Elf has also been doing a bit of pimping networking. He has made a site for a bloke down the road, I will write his copy for him (in a very sensible and grown-up way!!) and he will promote Mr Dotty’s new business. I tell you: I used to get paid a wedge for what he is achieving already… watch out Mr Branson.
Blog Elf rocks.
I get quite a lot of spam knocking on my door… for every lovely person who knocks and pops in for a cup of tea (or lately Nespresso) I tend to get a grubby little cold-caller.
Sometimes the spam I get is quite amusing, and if I find it sufficiently funny or just odd, I let it through to share with you all. More often than not, the spam is not very clever, or subtle, or nice. It is usually disguised in Russian, which is silly as some of my best friends on here are Russian (Dobri dien!!). Oh Lord, I hope that wasn’t Polish – I do get them terribly confused these days… Well, hello to you too, anyway. Still, the point is, I can still see what it is…
Most often, the cold-callers are transient beings, who take no for an answer quite calmly and then go on their way to knock on someone else’s door. But of late I have a persistent knocker… almost a stalker. Over the last two days he has knocked nearly 100 times. I have clicked on some of the links he has so thoughtfully provided. They are not pretty, engaging or stimulating.
So, dear, dear bob@gmail.com (who does not exist – how shady to use an alias), please go elsewhere: neither I nor my sweet, kind friends wish to see how an apple can be consumed in an orifice far far away from one’s mouth.
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!
9.30am
Mr Dotty has ‘nipped out’ to B&Q to return a faulty saw. This would be like me ‘nipping out’ to have ‘quick coffee’ with a girlfriend. He has not taken the Wees with him. It is peeing down outside. My washing (most of the childrens’ clothes that I need to pack) is still on the line, now hanging perilously close to the ground (ungrassed mud).
11am
The Wees have seen me place a pair of trousers on the bed – overcome with excitement they have stripped off, placed their clothes in a pile and bounced all over the bed – singing ‘We’re going on holiday!!’ while the piles scatter.
In an attempt to keep them busy, I’ve asked them to bring through some clothes. So far we have: a Spiderman costume, a spider costume, a pirate costume, a Sportacus costume and one pair of pants.
11.20am
Mr Dotty has just called – he isn’t home yet (really?). He has bought a new saw. He has to take it to a friend’s farm, but he’ll be back in 10 minutes. He isn’t at the friend’s farm yet – and it is a 15 minute drive from there to here. He is also going to ‘nip in’ to the butcher to get some ham. I think he may have forgotten that we have quite an old-fashioned high street, and drive-thru shopping is not yet a feature. Hopefully we’ll see him by lunch-time.
11.40am
Wee2 has found the dustbin bag of old outgrown toys hidden at the back of the wardrobe waiting to be delivered to the charity shop. He is delighted. I am not. On a positive note it has drawn his attention away from the packing…
11.45am
Mr Dotty is home. A little spot of ear-chewing may be in order (to those who don’t understand the phrase ‘having one’s ears chewed off’ – it is the opposite of the erotic image you have in your mind).
12.15pm
Finding a way to last the day without a nap will have to wait until tomorrow. I do love Mr Dotty and I don’t want to be put into prison for a very long time, so I shall snuggle down for an hour or so and I am sure that after that all will be well.
2pm
I think we are going to have to build ’siesta time’ into Mr Dotty’s new business plan. As I shall be writing it, it shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ll have to think of some code-word to fool the bank manager. As it happens, I really should have stayed in bed, had a lovely cup of tea and read my book. Between 2pm and 7pm everything I did, or attempted to do was undone, subverted or hidden by the Wees. Mr Dotty didn’t help by unloading everything that I had carefully packed into the car on the premise of checking that I had packed everything that I should have. Oh, and did I really mean to pack this particular coat, etc, etc….
7pm
The Wees are bathed and in bed. I set about gathering up all the ‘old’ toys (which have been played more with this afternoon than ever they were before), and hiding them again. Then Wee2 surfaces. ‘What are you doing now, Mummy?’ ‘Nothing, go to sleep.’ ‘It’s too dark in my room, Mummy.‘ ‘You’ve just asked me to turn the light off – go to bed: NOW.’ Wee1 joins in. ‘What did you say, Mummy?‘. ‘Nothing’. ‘But you did say something – I heard you…‘ Wee2: ‘But Mummy. I love you, please can I sleep with you?’ Wee1: ‘What was that?‘ ‘NOTHING!!!!!!!!!!!!!’. Wee1: ‘It was something. I heard. Why can’t Wee2 sleep with you? He usually does…‘ ‘I am still trying to pack.’ Wee1 & Wee2: ‘Why, Mummy?‘.
7.30pm
I send a very eager Mr Dotty to the shop for some beer and chocolate. I devour the chocolate (sadly soft and not quite right, but the need is greater than the time needed to chill it), and steal a beer.
I do not drink. The beer is GOOD.
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!!
I used to be quite adept at packing. As long as it was for a three day business trip with two known evening engagements, I had the whole shebang down to a painless ten-minute fling and fold extravaganza and would arrive in the wilds of whichever country I had been sent to fresh and crease-free.
Life today is quite different – I have little trolls who not only unpack the minute I turn to open a drawer, but open every package to examine the contents and drag in their own ‘essentials’. Today we have had a pirate ship, a rolling pin, a pinny and a collection of GoGos – the latest playground craze (and Mummy-crippling ambush device). I also have a husband who seems to have lost the ability to pack for himself. To be fair, Mr Dotty does not sit there like some ill-bred oaf refusing to pack – he just has a different idea to me on what constitutes a suitable holiday wardrobe. Mr Dotty would happily depart for anywhere with two pairs of pants, two pairs of socks and two shirts bundled into whichever bag came to hand.
In two days time we depart for Orkney, to spend two weeks with my parents. I have to balance the need to pack light (storage) with the need to allow for the vagaries of the Orkney weather (brilliant sunshine, gale-force winds, horizontal rain – within any five minute window) and the need to allow for the two Wees to get filthy and wet. Luckily fashion on Orkney is not something I have to worry about. I do not mean to imply that the Orcadian ladies are not a well-turned out lot: indeed I am amazed that they look as good as they do. It is just that one’s first thought on waking tends to be ‘How can I stay warm and dry?’. So, once we have stuffed the car full of muddypuddles (www.muddypuddles.co.uk), wellies, walking boots and coats (waterproof and washable), there is not too much room for embellished cardigans and the like.
It is my intention to have the car fully packed by tomorrow evening. If I leave it until Tuesday morning (‘oh, it will only take half an hour or so’) we will end up speeding to catch the ferry at Aberdeen, Mr Dotty and I will be staring pointedly out of the front of the window convinced it was the fault of the other, I will overreact at every sharp corner taken and the poor Wees will absorb the bad atmosphere like sponges and be vile to each other in the back of the car.
My task today was to empty the laundry basket (I had just over half a load), demolish the ironing pile and bring in the washing from the line which wasn’t quite dry enough to come in last night. Then life happened. Again.
At 4am this morning Mr Dotty woke with an unpleasant damp feeling about him. Wee2 (the bedhopper) had wet the bed – OUR bed. I stripped the bed, Mr Dotty stripped and washed Wee2 and put him back in his own bed. Ten minutes later I heard ‘Mermeeeeee, I had a a-i-dent’. This translates as ‘Mummy, I’ve had an accident’. Not another, surely? Oh yes. So, I stripped Wee2 down again, stripped his bed and added the whole lot to the mountain of bedclothes on the landing. Wee2, newly pyjama’d climbed into his clean fresh bed.
At 8am I looked out of the window. After 5 days of brilliant sunshine it had rained all night…. my washing!
I will not be beaten by such mundane things. I shall hold my head high, smile and put on my very best pinny.
I will have us packed by tomorrow. It might not be until midnight, I myself may not survive – but as long as Mr Dotty can keep himself and the Wees away from me, it WILL be done!
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