Grief.

 

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Some people say, that grief washes over you like waves. Those some people, are absolutely right.

When the morning approaches, it hits my body before my mind even has the chance to wake up and acknowledge the day. I feel it; a solid, heavy burning weight, like my heart has been set alight before I even open my eyes. And then I do, and the anchor of reality sinks me.

This is how I have spent each and every once of my mornings for the past 3 months. Most of these days, I have succeeded to bite down hard and talk myself in to getting out of bed and facing the day. Others, I have not.

One day, around three weeks ago, I woke up and realised that I did not want to live. This was not a passive, drifting thought. This was a certified, stubborn fact. I did not want to be here. The weightiness of Bipolar depression, of a spiral hard hitting life events, a year worth of losses, are an unhealthy concoction for the mind and the spirit.

I went to see my GP just before the truth occurred to me, an she suggested that I increased by anti-depressant up by double. I reluctantly took the prescription, paid for the charge regardless of not being able to afford them and started on my higher dose. Then a few days later, I stopped. I stopped taking my meds altogether.

You would have thought, having lived with this for years exactly how dangerous it is to just stop, that I would have accumulated at least some wisdom to keep me alive along the way. The last time I stopped taking them, I ended up attempting to drive to the hospital to seek help but instead had a brain blip and ended up manically driving to another country instead. The time before that, I also had another brain blip, but this time it happened in an Asda Superstore which resulted in me being chaperoned by an ambulance and being left hovering around in A&E with none of the medical staff not knowing what to do with me. But no, I got to the point where everything that had a point did not have a point anymore. Including taking my medication. They were not working, so what was the point in taking them?

And so I fell. I fell further than what I thought could be humanly possible.

One night, out of panic, frustration, anger at the world and with the impulse to kick and scream and do something at least, I ran out of the house, got in the car and put my foot down. I ended up in the hills, in the middle of the night but instead of screaming or doing something stupid, I fumbled around frantically for a pen and ripped a scrap of paper and wrote the first thing my hand would write, without even thinking of what I was writing. I wrote one word and then froze with it.

FRAUD. 

Fraud. Is that what I have been feeling all this time? A fraud? The answer was yes. I did not feel like I belonged. I don’t belong in a room full of people. I don’t belong in society. My thoughts, my beliefs, my morals were all different and it pushed me further and further from this planet until I got pushed so far I could not find my way back in to it.

I took a train one evening. I got out in to town, I tried to enjoy myself, but it was there, ebbing inside my chest. Fraud. I took a train, but the train was cancelled and moved to another platform. It was busy. The whole of the commuters pushed and ran – why were they running? –  they ran like a flock of desperate souls to this other platform, and they all scrambled on to this train, pushing and shoving and elbowing in the battle, each one of them only looking out for themselves in their fight to get on to this train and get a seat at the cost of other people. I did not understand why they were running for this train like their lives depended on it. I did not understand why they were fighting to aggressively to get a seat. Was it really so important? I stood beside the crowd, watching them like rats in their desperate efforts and felt more like an outsider because I couldn’t understand it. They scrambled on to the train like I had been scrambling on to my last reason to stay alive.

I fell further. I stopped sleeping properly. I didn’t tell people. Occasionally, I mentioned it to my partner.

“I feel down.”

“I don’t feel too good today.”

“My anxiety is shocking.”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

Then we would talk, and I would feel comforted for a moment. Then the next day I’d say, “I feel bad today,” and he’d say –

“Why? I thought you was feeling better?”

If a rant, and a cuddle and a cry on ones shoulder was all it took to make it completely disappear, then I would be the healthiest and most happiest girl on this planet. Depression doesn’t care whether you are rich with love and with the strength given by other people.

So I stopped talking as much. Because that, as all, felt pointless too.

I went on autopilot mode. I wrote bullet lists. I wrote LOTS of bullet lists. I checked them off one after another. Trying to pass the time and distract me from ‘I don’t want to be here anymore’ because sitting there with my own thoughts in my own mind was too much. I tried not to think about the present. I tried not to think about Christmas. I tried not to think about the future. I tried not to think about lying there sleepless in the dark, night after night with my mind tormenting me. My heart hurt. Like, physically hurt. I was walking around with a sharp shooting pain which wouldn’t ease.

Why am I getting pains in my heart? Am I going to die?!

No, Megan. You are not going to die. 

Then, few nights ago, to add insult to injury; I lost someone close to me.

This is the first family death to have occurred in my life, as I have been fortunate to have everyone still here up until this week. And it hit me, slowly with the steady pace that realisation sometimes does when it can’t be arsed smacking you cold in the face, but it did, and it came over me wave after wave after wave, just like they said it would.

The pain of losing a loved one is an unbearable ache. It is a burning fire in your chest that sits there uninvited and ever present, and occasionally gets washed over by the deepest waves of sadness whilst memories come flooding up to the surface. Then the waves go, and you carry that unbearable burning in you chest again. Rinse and repeat. With this in mind, I have come to another hard-realisation this week. The realisation that pure pain of depression and anxiety and feelings of ‘doom’ and the so many fragments of the things I have been experiencing over the past months which can no just be summed up in to a one word-diagnosis, felt the same as my grief did.

This is what I have not been well with, all this time. Grief. I am grieving. Not just at the loss of my Nan. I have been grieving these past few months. At the loss of everything this year, at the loss of myself, my home, my dignity, all the other things I have lost this year? I did not know, but I was grieving nonetheless.

And so, the next time someone asks me what it feels like to feel this bad, I can truthfully and most honestly say this. It feels like Grief.

With the push of my partner I ended up filling out another prescription with my meds, and to start taking them again. The doctors surgery wouldn’t release them without another ‘medication review’ (which I had just 5 weeks ago) and so I ended up having to fill up on one the out of hours appointments, thus wasting NHS services again.

“What can I do for you Megan?”

“Um…”

No matter how many times I have been there, said that, admitting that I am not okay and that I need help still fills me with shame, dread and other taunting emotions that, if you look at it from an outsiders point of view, I should not be obliged to feel.

“Have you, or have you feel like hurting yourself?”

“Yes.”

“How have you hurt yourself?”

Please don’t make me say it.

“Have you felt suicidal?”

“Yes.”

“Have you or do you feel like making any plans to act on these feelings?”

“No.”

Which is true – although they might seem like two of the same questions, I have picked up within the last few years that practitioners always ask and separate the following:

1. Do you feel suicidal?

2. Have you made any plans to commit suicide?

Although I made my mind up a while back now that no, I did not want to live – but it didn’t necessarily mean that I wanted to die either.

He gave me two weeks worth of both my medications.

“Two weeks? So does that mean I have to make another appointment in a fortnight to claim my monthly rolling prescription back?”

“I can’t give you more than that just incase you decide to take them all at once.”

Oh. Good point.

And so I started my medication again, and wrote another bullet list.

I don’t know what tomorrow brings. But I do know this. I am depressed. I am grieving. I am not functioning and I am not well. And it has taken me over three months to admit it.

But also,

I am still.

I am.

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Recovering from addiction: A Conversation with Annie.

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A few days ago, I had the pleasure of sitting down with Annie in her home, to have an open discussion with her about her past struggles with drug addiction. Annie, who is a single mum of a little boy, aged 3, lives by herself and has volunteered as a mentor for recovering addicts after she became clean. Here is the conversation we had together.

TMY: “When did it all start?

ANNIE: About two years after I started taking drugs.

When did you start taking drugs, how old was you?

Eighteen.

Do you know why you started taking them?

Why I started taking drugs? Because I wanted to be the cool kid didn’t I?

*Laughs*

Yeah my Brother used to do it all the time so I thought, ‘Oh I want some of that’.

Do you think you was influenced by him?

Probably.

Yeah. I think you are at that age aren’t you?

Yeah, plus – I liked drinking a lot as well, and I could drink whilst I was on drugs.

Did you start out with… well, I know you’ve had a bit of a past with cocaine. Did you start out with anything else?

No, straight in to class A’s.

*nervous laugh*

Gosh. Is that the time when you was at the flat?

No, I started all that when I went in to my first ever house.

Okay…

But, when I was in that flat, I was taking it every single day. So when I first started it was once a week, just partying, then by the time I was 22 I was taking it every single day.

It’s quite a long time to be taking drugs, was it like the 4 year stint of it? You didn’t have a break or anything like that?

No. 6 years all together I was taking drugs.

That’s a long time.

Hmmm.

When did it start to become to the point where you feel like you needed to take them?

Err, probably when I was about 20, and I used to sniff coke in the toilets at work –

Did you?

– Yeah.

What was you working as at the time?

A receptionist. In a gym.

Did you have anything going on? Like, in the background, did anything trigger it?

I don’t think so? Not at that time no. Well – I had a bit of an eating disorder at the same time, so maybe that as well.

I think illnesses like that, eating disorders, depression and other things go quite hand in hand with addiction, it’s that whole idea of self-soothing….

Yeah

It was a similar situation with me when I started self harming, I started taking paracetamol and stuff, sounds really daft because you can’t really  get addicted to a substance thats not addictive – it’s not chemically addictive –

You can get mentally addicted.

 – Mentally you can, yeah. It’s just one of those. When did your eating disorder start?

Probably when I was about 20 – no not 20 – about 18 when I met D.

When you met D?

Yeah.

Do you think she kind of had an influence on you?

Yeah I think she was a bit of a bully really, she used to always call me fat.

Did she?

Yeah

Gosh.

I know. So…

I know there was a lot of stuff going on with her as well. So with this eating disorder, was there anything else? I remember when I was going through the whole diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder…

Oh they tried getting me with that as well. But it’s, completely wrong.

…Yeah. I think it’s one of those disorders that they kind of like label on people when they don’t know whats wrong with them…

Yeah. No, I never told the doctors that I was taking drugs or anything like that so they tried like, diagnosing me with everything. I even saw a psychiatrist once and he even thought that I was Autistic, until I told him that I was actually taking drugs! *Laughs`*

*Laughs* Right… did you go to the doctors for help with it?

No not with that, I just… my life was just falling apart, I thought my life was shit so I was at the doctors every week, telling him I couldn’t cope with my life.

Yeah. It’s intense, to go through something at such a young age.

Hmmm…

So when did you first reach out about the drug addition thing, when did you first admit it?

Erm, probably when I was about 24, after my ex, A, had been in rehab. And then I got homeless because I couldn’t pay my rent, I was buying too many drugs. All my friends fucked me off, and I though ‘Oh I think I’ve got a bit of a problem here…’ And then the doctors as well tried to get me sectioned, and involve social services in my life because I was that off the rails and mental, but instead of having that… because you can never get rid of a section or get rid of social services being on your file or on your life. So I thought I’d better…*laughs*…try and sort something out with my life eh? And I thought I was going to die as well.. But I don’t know if that was paranoia or not…

Did you have any friends at the time who you kind of, spoke up to about?

Not really, I told my mum that I had a problem with drugs…but, she could’t really do anything.

Was she there for you?

Not really. No. My mum’s got problems as well so I don’t think she finds it easy to see other people’s problems.

Yeah. Does mental illness or addiction or anything like that run in the family?

Erm, I don’t know, my mum has mental illness but I don’t think anyone else does. And my grandad was a gambling addict.

It’s… with my family, I see like a long line of it. And it’s all different things as well, it’s not just the bipolar thing, which is meant to be genetic – which is quite a scary thought really – Erm… but it was everything like S.A.D – seasonal affective disorder – addiction, alcoholism, and I didn’t know about all this until I started opening up about it.

Yeah, people don’t talk about it.

No.

I’m well paranoid about turning out like my mum.

Are you?

She’s well bad with it, yeah. Like any time I say something that sounds like my mum, I’ll like, shit myself.

*laughs*

I don’t want to turn out like that, I don’t want it to be genetic.

What’s she got in terms of mental illness?

She’s just got really bad anxiety and depression, like savage depression. But her anxiety, I can’t be around her when she’s like that, it annoys me.

*Seems agitated*

Like I said yesterday, when she was doing my head in because you can feel the nerves coming off her, like it comes off on you doesn’t it, people say that it does?

No, it definitely does.

It’s really irritating. It’s like having a child, it’s like a toddler, she’s like a toddler when she’s like that, I can’t handle her.

Has she always been like that?

No, she was like that since her mum died.

How long ago was that?

About 16 years ago.

Did you pick up on it when you was younger?

Yeah I think that’s where my panic attacks came from. From being around her too much.

*Nervous laughter*

Because you can feel it can’t you? But she would never go shopping on her own, and I went through a phase too where I couldn’t even leave the house, you know, I started getting the same things as she did.

Yeah. What about when you was a teenager? Did you feel like you was going through a lot with her, being the way that she is?

No, I didn’t even bother with my mum when she was a teenager, I rebelled against it all.

Did you?

Yeah. I hated my mum as a teenager. *Laughs*

Well that’s most teenagers really isn’t it? *Laughs*

Yeah, so I didn’t really speak to her, I don’t pick up on it.

You seem quite close now?

Yeah, we are now apart from when she’s like this. But that’s just part of growing up isn’t it?

Yeah I think so. Yeah, I had the same with mine, because my mum’s been ill since my dad left, she was fine before then, absolutely fine, and then I ended up leaving home when I was 13, because I just couldn’t be around her. And it seems daft –

It’s hard.

– It is hard. When you go through something yourself and you know you can justify it, and you know that you need people, but at the same time it’s a hard kind of ‘burden’ – if that’s even the right word – to take.

Yeah, it is. It’s well hard.

So did you tell your mum about the drugs?

Yeah. Erm, I think this was before… when was it? I sat my mum and dad down and said ‘I think I’ve got a problem’ and they was just like ‘Oh, right okay. Stop doing it then.’

*Laughs*

Do you know what I mean?

Did you tell them the full extent of it?

Yeah. I told them I just spent all my money on drugs and that I needed help and they was just like ‘Well just stop doing it then’. Which, didn’t help.

No.

But I think, after all that had happened with my ex, like he said my mum’s mum dying and your dad leaving your mum I think sometimes, it gets worse when something bad happened doesn’t it? So, like after that I started having hallucinations, like proper, and it didn’t get better until I stopped taking drugs.

That’s pretty bad.

Hmm. Yeah.

So was it the doctors decision to send you to rehab?

No, I did that on my own.

Did you? Like a self referral? Where did you go initially?

Erm, I started going to.. Well, my ex D told me about R.A.M.P – Reduction and Motivational Programme – and you went twice a week for two hours, and they just talked and did presentations about coming off drugs.

Did you feel like you fit in there, like –

No! *laughs

– Or was you completely in denial about it?

I was in denial about being in rehab, it took me about… even when I’d graduated from it, I thought I was alright, you know what I mean I just thought I’d got in to a bit of a shit with it. Even though I must have known in my heart that I was an addict, but I’d never admit it.

Yeah

And then obviously I relapsed, I went a bit off the rails again, I relapsed for about 6 months, and then I genuinely thought I was going to die from it, then I just stopped myself.

How long, so your first attempt to get off them. Did you have support there?

Well I was in rehab wasn’t I?

I mean with anyone outside, like family, friends? Did they kind of take it seriously then?

Not really, no I don’t think they did to be honest, at first. But, I think when I graduated, they were all happy for me and glad, but I don’t think they understood. I don’t think many people understood, they were all like ‘There’s nothing wrong with you, you just like partying and having fun’. But, they only see the partying and having fun bit, they don’t see the… –

The aftermath?

– … Yeah.

Behind the scenes.

Exactly. And the only reason I was partying and having fun was because my life was shit all the rest of the time, you know what I mean?

Yes. What do you feel was missing from your life at the time?

Honestly I think self-love. Because, I didn’t hate myself, but I din’t like myself. And I had no self esteem, and I think just knowing and accepting that people care about you, instead of pushing everyone away.

Yeah.

Definitely.

It’s easy to feel like when you are in a situation like that.

Yeah, if you see yourself as a bad person or not good enough, you are going to expect that everyone else thinks that about you.

Yeah.

And in the end they will think that about you because they cant be arsed trying with you, you know.

Tell me a bit more about this eating disorder, how extreme was that?

Oh.

*Thinks back*

I think I got addicted to exercising first, thats how it started, I would do this exercise DVD like twice a day, every single day, and then it started to cutting down food. And at first it was sort of funny, because me and a friend was just licking the flavour off crisps and putting them back in to the bag so we had the flavour but you know, not having the calories. And then I started taking laxatives every single day, so if I did eat anything, I didn’t have to worry about it. It would just go straight through.

Okay…

My lowest weight was about 6 stone 10, erm, I looked like a lollipop, but like I just thought I was fat all the time.

Yeah.

But I though if I was skinny, then I’ll be pretty, then people will like me. But that didn’t happen. *Laughs*

Do you feel like you have recovered from that? Or is there still something there?

Yeah, definitely. I still always see myself as bigger than what I am probably. Like I see people wearing dresses, and they are quite big and I think, ‘Oh they look so lovely, you can’t even see they are a little bit overweight’, but if I have anything on, if I wear something and I can see that theres like an inch sticking out on my belly, I cannot wear it.

Yeah.

Like.. I just cannot wear that outside because I look too fat. Do you know what I mean?

I don’t think anyone can truly be that comfortable, well – comfortable yes, they can be comfortable with themselves – but 100% happy? I don’t, even when they are dieting – ‘Oh, I’ll be happy when I get to 9 stone…’, and then when they get to 9 stone…

Hmm, I think it’s when people compliment you though when you have lost weight, it’s an ego boost. You think if I lose more I will get more compliments.

Yeah.

But yeah, I am happy with myself but at the same time I’m not. I don’t think I ever will be with weight.

No.

This is the fattest I have ever been, and this is because of the pill, but like I always say, I would rather be pregnant than fat – I hate – like I actually hate being chubby. I can’t stand it. I feel disgusting. But what can you do?

It’s just one of those things, I think its a but part of being female as well, it’s media pressures and you know, some men who have these ideas that they need a pretty woman on their arm and not an intelligent woman on they arm… they are very physical aren’t they?

Do you know what though, sticking up for men, I think a lot of men don’t care as much as women do about the woman weight, or women think they care more than what they actually do.

Yeah.

You know. But some of them do, and some men are like proper up their own arses and expect that of women, but I think most normal men don’t really care a bit about belly fat.

I think it’s very magnetised in our eyes isn’t it?

Yeah.

It’s a bigger deal to us.

Yeah, and you want to be perfect when you have got a boyfriend don’t you, you want to be perfect for them? But, that’s never going to happen.

I wonder if men are the same?

I think they are, yes. Men don’t talk about it though do they?

No, no they don’t.

I know a lot of men who don’t like certain parts of their body. But they aren’t as bad as women.

No. It all comes back to that self-loving thing I suppose as well.

 

*Silence*

 

Did you get help for the eating disorder? Or did that all kind of dissolve when everything started getting a bit easier with the drugs?

No, that was the main goal in rehab, to learn to love yourself and learn to respect yourself. Because if you learn to love yourself you wouldn’t want to disrespect yourself by fucking your life up and putting drugs in to your body, *Laughs* so because the main reason most people take drugs is to cover up stuff. And it was about uncovering all that, and realising that whatever has happened to you, you are still a good person, you deserve a decent life, so most of the rehab was learning to love yourself. And empowering you and that. So that just came naturally.

So after the programme that you talked about, was there anything else involved in your recovery?

Just meetings.

Like AA meetings? NA? (Narcotics anonymous).

NA, yes, but after rehab, because I got kicked out of rehab for having a relationship with someone, even though I graduated, erm… it was with someone who was in there as well, like all the help was cut off. And the only help that there was the AA/NA meetings, but, because I didn’t have to go to them, I just didn’t. Because I was pissed off that they kicked me out.

Did you fall back in to drugs after that?

Yeah, erm, I got kicked out of that, and then it was like two days later when I started drinking again. And I thought, well I will just drink, I won’t take drugs – because I know that I don’t have a problem with alcohol – and then about a month – probably not even a month after that – I thought ‘I’ll just have one line, just one little line’ and then I was straight back bang on it.

Do you feel like they failed you a bit with your aftercare? Do you feel like they could have done something better?

Erm. I don’t know, looking back maybe because I was really angry but… I did break the rules. There wasn’t much else they could have done. But, I think a lot of the clients, they’ve all got this sort of like, complex, this ‘Oh, I’m clean so I’m better than everybody’ and if you relapse they all look down on you, so none of the other clients spoke to me either. So, all that unity which was apparent, that was there, went.

That’s a big thing isn’t it?

Yeah, going from feeling in a bubble, because I lived in rehab didn’t I?

Yeah.

And I had everyone around me, like, who constantly lived there; went to meetings with them, spent all my time with them, all of a sudden all that to go,  it was not nice.

No.

It was like being booed out of your mums house, you know? But yeah, because it was a bubble, and then when that popped it was back to reality.

Yeah. How long was you back on the drinking and the drugs after that?

About 7 months. But yeah one day, I think I just took too much drugs and I genuinely thought I was going to die. I thought, if I ever manage to sleep tonight, I’m not going to wait up. And then the next day I was like that’s it, I cannot do it any more. I cannot do it.

Where did you go for help after that?

Nowhere, I just did it on my own.

Did you?

Yeah. Because I’d learnt all the stuff when I was in rehab, but because I didn’t really believe it… I think the next couple of days I had a few drinks, and that was it, no drugs and I just thought, why am I doing this as well? So, I just cut it all off.

That’s big. That’s such a huge commitment to just decide by yourself. And in recovery, I think you need so many people to just cheer you on, but for you to actually say and make that decision yourself… it’s huge.

Yeah. I had to do it though. It’s jails, institution or death isn’t it?

*Laughs*

Well, I would have ended up being sectioned if I didn’t die.

Yeah. Have you, do you still talk to the people from rehab? Anyone?

I still speak to my counsellor a couple of times per week. After I got kicked out, he rang me a few months after, just to see how I was and I lied to him and told him I wasn’t drinking and that. But then when I got clean, I spoke to him a few times, went to see him, had a few meetings with him and then obviously I started volunteering there myself, and I saw him every single day. But we still met for counselling like a couple of times a week. He’s not my counsellor now I’d say we are more friends, but if I ever do need help I will say to him ‘Can we just go and sit down togged and sort my head out?’

 

 *Giggles*

So.. I was well angry at him though for kicking me out, but like, I understand now.

Yeah. It’s good that you have someone there, and after so long as well, how long is it that you have been clean?

4 and a half years now.

Wow.

Yeah. But I went in rehab nearly 6 years ago, but I’m 4 and a half years clean.

Do you ever think you will be tempted, or have you been tempted in the past four years?

Erm, no not by drugs. Only because it scares me so much, I’m scared of drugs. So… I remember once, speaking to my old counsellor on the phone, and I was saying – ‘Do you know what, Im really struggling with my life blah blah blah’-  and he said, ‘Well what would you do if you ever went back to it all?’ and I said ‘Well I would have my son would I?’ I wouldn’t have him any more. And he said to me ‘No, your son wouldn’t have you.’ And I just thought, no I can’t do it, the fact that my child wouldn’t have me in his life? It scares the shit out of me.

He is very lucky.

What my son?

Yeah.

You think?

*Laughs*

Oh I’m not sure about that!

No, he is. He is lucky.

I’m glad I got clean before I had kids. Because a lot of people when they are using and they already have kids, the kids don’t matter.

Yeah.

Because of the drugs, not because they are horrible people.

Do you feel like your mental health has improved since?

Yeah, well loads.

Do you feel like you have still got anything there at all?

Yeah I have some days where I don’t want to get out of bed. I have panic attacks still. I’m still on medication for it. I tried coming off my medication, I tried lowering it a bit but I just couldn’t cope with my life again.

What medication?

Paroxitine. But erm, I know it’s really hard to come off. Like, when I come off that, when I lowered it I just, I just couldn’t… I just got depressed again. The medication is helping. But I started having panic attacks again. Some days I’m alright, most days, 6 out of 7 days I’m alright, but even with like my child, sometimes I just want to give him away to someone who can look after him better. But then a few days later I’m like ‘I can’t believe I was thinking that!’

Yeah.

But sometimes when I’m like that, I just want everyone to leave me alone, and I don’t want any responsibility, I just want to, you know…. I just want to have nothing.

*Silence*

Yeah, I erm, I think thats hit home that for me. Because I think exactly the same thing sometimes. Because I just love my daughter so much, but when it gets hard, it erm…. I just want to look after myself.

Yeah. Sometimes its hard enough just to look after yourself.

Yeah.

*Silence*

Do you worry about your son going through anything like this?

Yeah I think when my mum, and sometimes my dad can be quite anxious as well, and when they are being like that I say to they you know, can you stop around my child because I don’t want you picking up on anything. I want him to be happy all the time and not like, worry about things, because they sort of pick up on little things and you know, express them, which is probably fine, but when my son is running around and my dad is like – ‘Be careful with this, watch you head, don’t do this! He’s going to fall, he’s going to do this!’ – Because I don’t want him to have all this anxiety around him.

They are very intuitive aren’t they kids?

Yeah. So yeah, I don’t want him to… because he’s a natural worrier anyway, you know, he’s a really sensitive boy, and I was like that as a child, I was so sensitive. So I am worried he is going to turn out like me. But, at the same time every night I will sit down and I’ll tell him at least 5 things that I love about him, you know to try and bring out the positives. Because I never had that as a child. And I think this is where the self esteem issues have come from, it’s just trying to prevent it you know, because if you are happy with yourself, not much can get to you can it? Even though I know mental health can’t be stopped, but it’s just trying to not let him see it, because it can rub off on people.

Yeah, of course it can. Course it can. I feel quite grateful sometimes when I think about some of the things I have be through, because I know I have got the tools to share with her, like she will always have someone. Like, when I was younger, I couldn’t talk to anyone, I didn’t feel like I could talk to anyone. It’s not going to be the same with her.

I know what you mean.

And it’s erm, it makes me feel quite safe. I was the same with my mum, my mum was ill when I was growing up as well, and the only thing I didn’t want was to turn out like her. And I, well, I kind of did a little bit too much, and I ended up going crazy in my own way I suppose. *Laughs*

Yeah. Whatever is going to happen with your kids is going to happen anyway really, whatever happens, happens, but you can try an give them tools like you say. To be happy. That’s all it’s about really isn’t it? You just want them to be happy.

Have you ever thought about when he grows up, and when he starts going out drinking and partying for the first time, does that ever like, scare you?

Yeah! Because, I know what it’s like. Even though he’s a boy and it’s meant to be more different for boys isn’t it, you know, like ‘Boys can look after themselves..’ And you know, I know what it’s like. Because everyone does drugs, you know, everyone does them. I don’t know one person that hasn’t took drugs in their life. And obviously, because he’s not coming from me, got that genetic as well. That he might pick up on. But, I never want to really drink around him, or do anything like that around him. Because my mum and dad used to drink every night so I thought it was normal.

Yeah.

So.. I mean you can prevent it, you can try an prevent it as much as you wan’t cant you?

It’s that question of nature or nurture.

Yeah. I think he’s got the nature of the personality side. Definitely. Because I was so sensitive everything just got to me a lot, and when I was upset thats when I wanted to use or drink.

Yeah. So with your career you have volunteered and done the same thing, talking to people who are recovering addicts. When did you decide to go down that route?

I don’t know, I just noticed that they were opening a Women’s Only housing, and I thought I might as well give it a go, because it’s only women and I sort of know what I’m talking about. So I give it a go, I did the training and that, and I’d not been around recovery for years, like I don’t do this anymore, I don’t do that, and just being around it – I felt safe again. And I liked it, so it was good for me as well.

Yeah. A bit of a reminder about what you have done, and how far you have come.

Yeah, erm… it was like being back in that bubble again but not as… well, I was smarter about it this time, it’s not actually a ‘bubble’ it just feels like one. But erm, and then seeing other people happy as well, it makes you happy. Because I know now that I have a good life now, you know, I’ve got my child, I have everything I need in life, I’ve got my friends, and its just showing other people that they can have all that as well.

That’s really good. It’s really nice. I bet it feel liberating as well because it feels like – it sounds like – you are quite open about what you have been through, where as once before you may have been quit closed about it.

Yeah, I feel like I probably wanted to talk about it but I never did.

How open are you about it now? Like, new people in your life who are quite new and don’t really know what you have been through, do you ever say….

Yeah, I’ll always say it, I will always get it out of the way. When I met ‘him’ a few weeks ago, he was asking me why I didn’t drink hardly, and I said ‘To be honest, I had a bit of a problem a few years ago, I took too many drugs and ended up in rehab!’ And that, you either like it or you don’t.

That’s good.

I think it would be better telling someone at the beginning, than waiting 6 months and then saying ‘Oh by the way…’, because they would be like, why did you hide it?

Yeah. Do you feel more ashamed or do you feel proud that you can say that?

I’m proud that I have turned my life around yeah, I’m not ashamed of it because it made me who I am. I’m probably ashamed of some of the things that I did…

*nervous laughter*

…You know, but I don’t need to tell anybody that because the people who need to know, and the people I have had to apologise to know, but not everybody needs to know what I got up to. To be honest when you say that you seem quite open, this has felt quite awkward at times for me.

Has it?

Yeah.

It’s putting it out there I think as well isn’t it.

Yeah.

How do you feel now you have talked about it?

I feel alright yeah, because it’s not anything that most people don’t know.

Yeah. It’s a nice sorry to hear, I know there was a lot of bad things at the beginning, and how it all started off but… it’s a long way to come….”

RAMP (Reduction and Motivation programme) is a 12 week motivational programme aiming to help people recover from drug and alcohol addiction. The programme is held by ACORN Treatment and Housing, a community recovery treatment centre in the North West, UK. Their contact details can be found at;

Web: https://acorntreatment.org

Tel: 0161 622 1577

Narcotics Anonymous (N.A) is a global organisation which aims to offer recovery through a 12-step programme and group meetings. They focus on recovery from the addition of both drugs and alcohol. To find more information of N.A or A.A. (alcoholics anonymous) in you area, this can be found the link below;

Web: https://www.na.org

Talk to Frank is a great resource for information and support on drug and alcohol addiction. They also offer a confidential support helpline, email/text and live chat support. Information can be found at;

Web: http://www.talktofrank.com

Helpline: 0300 123 6600

To take part in The Conversations, please drop me an email on themanicyears@gmail.com.

Megan x

The psych medication change – here come the unwanted side effects!

Writing has always soothed me in times of distress.

 

With long term psychiatric conditions, there is always the risk of your medication taking you along for a bumpy ride, particularly during med changes. This one for me is tuning out to be a miniature hell.

The switch from quetiapine to abilify ended up going in the wrong direction; So back on the quetiapine I went (only 25mg, but the abilify made me unable to switch off at night – when I say unable – I mean two hours of disturbed ‘sleep’) and I broke down the abilify to one every other day; as well as not sleeping, my irritability levels were through the roof.

If you can call it irritability at all, there must be some label for what I have been constantly feeling (I have been using the work ‘antsy” a lot)…

Imagine that feeling you get when someone scraped their nails down a blackboard. That horrible and unbearable energy which makes you clench your jaw. It’s like someone scraped their nails and then paused time – I am carrying around my antsy in my body all day with me.

I am drowsy, yet I cannot bare to sit still and have the constant pressure from my brain to move around to escape from it.

I am paranoid again. To say they are antipsychotics they are not doing a very good job at the moment, and with paranoia comes anxiety.

 

I am very tempted to just sack the new meds off all together, Lord help me.

“Sharing Stories” – So it Begins and will Begin Again (and Again and Again and Again), by Jennifer.

Why do they put leather couches in Shrink offices? Leather isn’t comfortable. It’s stiff, squeaky; no give in the cushion. My legs both jiggle up and down and the couch squeaks like a rat trapped by a big, fat cat.

The big, fat cat is sitting at her desk, her smartphone is in one hand, her laptop open on the desk in front of her, and her glasses have slid down her nose. How many quacks does she see a day? How do I rank on her list of nutsos? I pick at my cuticles for a few moments, then proceed to bite my red, calloused knuckle. I often alternate between these two nervous habits, along with the leg shaking. I must look insane. Well, that’s why I’m here, anyways.

“So how has the anxiety been lately?” The big, fat cat asks; her words make me jump and shrink back into the stiff leather. I pick my cuticles again; my legs shake quicker. I’m always shocked to hear someone speak of my weaknesses so frankly, like she’s asking how the weather is outside or something. It’s only a dark demon that’s gnawed at my insides for as long as I can remember.

“Um, okay…I haven’t had any panic attacks in a month…there was some stress at work, and I think I handled it okay. I’m still…picking…excessively.” My face flushes at such an obvious fact, as the big, fat cat has been looking down her nose at me this whole time and could clearly hear the couch squeaking with my fear. She just nods her head.

“That’s partly from your OCD. But your Panic Disorder seems to be doing much better. Now if we can just help you with your General Anxiety Disorder. And have you been dealing with much Depression lately?”

“Mmm,” I respond, trying to gather the thoughts that swirl through my head like a flushing toilet. “My depression…comes and goes…I’ll be happy, I’ll be calm, then it hits me…random.”

“Are you sure it’s random? Can you think of some times when it’s happened?”

“Mmm…driving in the car…watching tv…laying in bed…umm…I guess when I have nothing else to do but think.” She smiles like I reached some great conclusion and I want to bite her nose, bite her nose off and watch those glasses fall down onto her desk in a clatter of plastic and blood and cartilage.

“Are you still doing your relaxation techniques?” She asks. She’s tapping the keys of her laptop now; my cuticle has started to bleed. I let a frustrated sigh escape from my mouth.

“Meditation every night before bed…progressive muscle relaxation, guided imagery, deep breathing, mindfulness…yoga twice a week… half hour of cardio the rest of the days…I drink my tea when I feel like I need to relax, or take a hot bath, or watch one of my musicals, or read a book. I’m the most diligent relaxer who can’t relax….” My voice shakes the more I speak, and I’m fighting back tears.

Professional athletes work on their sport every day religiously, and are supported by a sponsor. My professional sport is trying to relax, and my sponsor is my big, fat cat shrink. She pays me in pills. We’ve decided to up my Klonopin to 3 times a day and increase my Cymbalta by 10mg. She pays me well — the lousier you are at this sport, the better you’re paid.

The appointment lasted 15 minutes and with my insurance costs me a $70 copay. I make another appointment for four weeks later and drive home. I feel defeated and the depression starts to set in. I pop in my relaxation music CD that you’re not supposed to listen to while driving because some people are stupid and fall asleep. I can’t sleep unless I’m in my own bed and have taken my meds. I start to take shaky breaths, as slow as I could, remembering to pause at the bottom of each breath because there have been times where I’ve hyperventilated and had to pull over to the side of the road.

My dark demon gnaws and gnaws at my stomach as I try to focus on the road and my breath.

 

***

 

For the first 20 years of my life, I was simply labeled a “worrywart,” and “sensitive.” I was considered “normal.” And I really believed I was normal. I mean, I had friends, boyfriends, went out and had fun with them, got great grades. There were times I really was happy. But that nagging, unexplained fear was always in the back of my head. But after a lifetime of feeling that way, and finding no relief in sharing my feelings with others, I simply learned to hide the worry, which turned out to be pretty easy.

Most of the time I had no reason for my worries. I felt like I was about to go up on stage before a large crowd, but I’d be sitting on the couch watching television. Other times I had a laundry list of problems with teachers, friends, family…things that most people would simply be stressed about became a life and death conflict to me, and I’d constantly obsess over them.

Before, when I was worried or nervous, my Ma’d do everything in her power to reassure me. Mostly she relied on childish whimsy and magic to try and comfort me. I had “magic” everything that my mother swore would make me feel better. Magic stones, little magic chicks and doggies, magic leaves, and other little trinkets…she’d teach me magical sayings I was supposed to repeat over and over to protect myself from harm: “I’m surrounded by the White Light. Nothing can harm me physically, mentally, or spiritually.” She had other sayings she’d repeat over and over for comfort, like, “it’s always darkest before dawn,” or, “good things come to those who wait.” I took the darkest before dawn thing literally, since I was usually already awake worrying by then. I’d sit in the dark and wait to see how dark it’d get before dawn, and I was kinda confused that it never seemed to get that dark.

 

Nothing ever helped though.

 

She tried to get me to believe in the magic of religion, but even as small as I was then I never really bought into it. Ma always told me to pray — that God would fulfill my wishes and make me feel better. But the worry never went away. God apparently never listened to me.

I feared death since an early age; my grandmother became very sick with kidney disease when I was 5. She was dead by the time I turned 7. It was the first time I’d seen my mother cry. She was never the same after that. After grandma died I heard a lot of, “pray to grandma, say ‘grandma help me.’ She’ll help you.” But Grandma never seemed to listen to me, either.

When I was 12 I started getting piercing headaches, and a combination of Motrin and Sudafed seemed to be the only cure. Ma would say I’d wait too long to take the meds and that’s why my headaches would become so debilitating. So the moment I felt the symptoms begin – a tightness in my shoulders and temples – I’d pop the pills. I didn’t realize until years later that these were tension headaches from my constant stress. Before I knew it, I was self-medicating my anxiety with Motrin and Sudafed, taking the maximum daily dose most days. I don’t think Ma really noticed. After my grandmother’s death, it was as if her perfect, shiny veneer that I’d gaze into for solace had cracked, and through the years the crack spread more and more. She was able to help me less and less, because by then she could barely help herself.

During high school, I began skipping meals because my nerves always made me feel nauseous, and began to work out for hours every day to try and distract myself from the worry. Even when I dropped 35 pounds the summer I turned 14 and was skin and bones, nobody seemed to notice my downward spiral. I was still “normal.” Even when I would sit in the kitchen at 3AM staring at a bottle of Motrin, thinking what would happen if I would just swallow the whole bottle. I’ve always feared death. I could never have the guts to kill myself. But I’d feel so overwhelmed that I’d wish for it.

By college I had my first stomach ulcer. I went away to college and found myself feeling more alone than ever. I had run away from my hometown, thinking that if I left then my problems would stay behind. I learned quickly that you can’t run away from your problems. My stomach ulcer made it even harder for me to eat. It seemed the demon had finally gnawed through my stomach lining, and I noticed It began to move throughout my body.

The panic attacks began around this time. The nerves would simply grow and grow to the point where I began to tremble, and the gnawing demon began to eat at my heart; I felt like I was having a heart attack. My heart was pounding in a desperate attempt to fight off this demon, and my panic grew by leaps and bounds. Each breath came faster and faster, like feet trying to run away as fast as they could from this demon inside me. The demon would move up to my brain, with the debilitating headaches leaving me paralyzed in my bed.

It got to the point where I laid in bed day and night. I would call into work and skip classes. My friends began to notice the change in me. When I visited my parents, I’m pretty sure they decided to ignore the change.

More and more family members, and even some childhood friends, began to die; more and more my Ma assured me at night over the phone that if I prayed to them then they’d help me. To Ma, there was this army of the dead just biding their time until they could be of service to any of us. By this time I was an Atheist and only humored her.

I was starting to notice that she was using on herself the same old reassurances that she used on me. I noticed she started to get more headaches, to withdraw more into herself, eat less, exercise more. It was like looking into a mirror. I couldn’t remember when she’d started to act this way or think this way. I couldn’t figure out if she had been copying my actions, or vice versa. She also started to seem to resent me. She looked to me for the same consolations she used to give me, and I found it impossible to help her in the way that she wanted me to.

One day while we were driving back to my college after a home visit my whole body went numb. My vision was blurry. I could feel the demon start to gnaw at me. The air in the car was stifling. I felt like throwing up, and could tell I would start to hyperventilate soon.

“Ma, dad, I have something to tell you.” My voice was barely above a whisper as I picked and picked at my cuticles. My shaking legs were uncontrollable at this point. “I think there’s something seriously wrong with me.” I wasn’t prepared for Ma’s reaction.

 

“I’ll say there’s something wrong with you! Are you on drugs!? Or are you pregnant!?

 

I couldn’t even register the bitter words she had hurled at me so cruelly. I was at the apex of my disease, standing at the precipice of a cliff, fighting so hard with myself not to fall off, and here it seemed my mom was trying to push me straight into the valley of jagged rocks below.

 

“No! No! There’s something wrong with…my body…I’m always…feeling worried…I’ve been having…these feelings…my body…is acting…weird…I can’t think…I can’t think straight…I can’t eat…sleep…there’s something…something wrong.”

 

Then my dad, who had been virtually silent on this matter my entire life, saved me:

 

“We’ll make an appointment with the doctor as soon as possible,” he said. “We’ll get you help.”

 

At that point my tears were uninhibited and my body began to tingle with sensation for the first time in forever. Was this the feeling of relief?

The doctor diagnosed me immediately. I was flabberghasted that my lifelong ailment was so simply decided. I was referred to a counselor and a psychiatrist and then began the long, long years of behavioral therapy, and the terror that is the trial and error of different kinds of meds.

Everyone’s body is different and reacts to medications different. The “wrong” med can make you feel the following: suicidal, extreme versions of your original symptoms, unbearable pain all over your body, fatigue so extreme you can barely move, unabated energy where you spend your nights cleaning your entire house twice over until dawn, etc., etc. As I switched from med to med, I cycled through all these issues to the point where I began to wonder if it was even worth it.

However, when I finally found the right combo of meds, it was like putting on prescription glasses for the first time. The whole world becomes sharp and clear, and you’re shocked to realize that you’d been living in a blur this whole time.

My counselor taught me all of my “coping” mechanisms, the relaxation techniques that I’d have to use daily, sometimes several times a day, sometimes all throughout the day, in order to survive my life. She was the one who told me for the first time that the way I’d felt my entire life was never normal. I was shocked. Apparently, since I’d always felt that way, it was impossible to realize it wasn’t normal.

After 3 years of counseling, it was decided I had learned all I could from her. I cried on my last day. “I feel like I’ll be fighting this all my life, no matter what I do,” I lamented, and she leaned over and rested a cool hand on my forearm.

“I hate to admit it, but you may be right. Sometimes things balance themselves out eventually and you don’t have to stay on the meds, but sometimes you have to struggle your whole life.”

I stared down at my jiggling thighs and bit at my knuckle.

“Deep breaths,” my counselor quietly commanded, and I started yet another mini-battle with my breath. My whole life would be a war full of both mini-battles such as simply controlling my breath, and large battles such as the mental health crisis I suffered in college.

For many years, I went on and off the meds. I’d start to feel better, think to myself, “I’m cured!”, get off the meds, and feel ok for maybe 6 months, a year…then it’d happen again. The demon would return and start to gnaw deep inside me again. I would always feign ignorance until I got into crisis mode, where I knew I had no choice but to get back on the meds. Once none of my relaxation techniques worked, but actually made me feel worse, that’s when I knew I was in trouble and would book an appointment with the doctor.

I’ve been seeing the big, fat cat psychiatrist for about a year now. Yet another crisis last year, after about a year off my meds, made me finally come to terms with the fact that this would probably be a life-time struggle. We found to my dismay that the previous meds I was on were no longer effective. I hadn’t expected that. My magical pills wouldn’t work? I had to suffer through the trial and error again? Fear wracked my body.

However, the big, fat cat was good at her job, and we found a pretty good combination fairly fast. We have to adjust the dosages a lot, and I still may have to end up switching meds eventually, but I’m at least out of my crisis mode.

 

***

 

I park my car outside my house and slowly haul myself out, my work bag dragging behind me. “Another day I escaped death,” I sarcastically sigh to myself. There’s a bridge on my way home from work and I struggle every day not to drive off of it. I once heard an old man say that phrase once — “Another day I escaped death” — and I thought it befitting to my own situation, so I say it now every day when I make it home from work. I trudge up the stairs, my dog prancing with happiness behind me until I feed him dinner and he takes his typical after-dinner nap. My husband works evenings; I’ll be alone again tonight.

I flop onto the couch and kick off my heels. I try to focus on the feelings resounding through my body — my feet feeling freed from the confines of the heels, the feel of the soft microfiber cushions of the couch supporting my body. I scan each of limbs, my neck, my torso, my hips, my face, focusing on which part of me is tense, and working hard to relax each section of me. It’s like turning a hard, plastic doll into a soft, stuffed one.

By the time I feel loose enough and my breath is under control I shimmy out of my work clothes and change into my workout clothes to get in my 30 minutes on the elliptical while I watch TV. I run the bathtub with my aromatherapy bath soap and slip into the tub, a towel cushioning the back of my neck, and turn on my tablet to read the news.

Another day I didn’t give in. Another day I didn’t die. Tomorrow a new day, and a new battle, will begin.

So it begins, and will begin again (and again and again and again).

-By Jennifer.

 

Jennifer suffers with Generalised Anxiety Disorder, Panic Disorder and OCD, and is married to a partner who has Bipolar Disorder. Her own personal journey can be found here, on her blog Vicious Butterflies.

 

 

Please drop me an email on themanicyears@gmail.com if you want to take part and be featured in “Sharing Stories”, if you have a story to tell or you just want to share your thoughts about your experiences with mental health. I am so proud of everyone who has contributed and who has joined me in this journey so far, and I do hope our army gets stronger. A bigger voice. A fight to speak louder. – M

Perspective.

pers

And so it appears, the last decision my brain made today was just to give up and stop functioning altogether.

I am in that oddly awkward, surreal fog that comes around during med changes. I am now two months (?) off my antidepressants, and after a long awaited pdoc appointment have reduced my quetiapine from 300mg down to 200mg xr.

My life is slowly crumbling.

Between having so much time off work I have lost the spirit for the job itself, i am attempting to keep the mojo for job hunting as my contract expires in 6 weeks (and battling the handful of rejections that have been recently fired my way), trying to be a fully functioning mother, paying bills, handling debts, getting cuts in tax credits, trying to diet and lose this medication induced THREE STONE my body has acquired over the years, maintaining a long distance (ish) relationship with my sex drive no where to be seen (if found, please return to Megan), and trying to eliminate the thousands of fleas my cats delightfully presented my home with whilst I was away over the summer… I can safely say I am losing my mind (probably in the same place as libido).

I am torturing myself with comparatively remembering the former Megan I was 12 months ago. Loved her job. Independant lady. Committed to only herself and her daughter. Clean house. No fleas.

Apart from the physical changes, mentally I cannot decide whether I am the same person and have just shifted my perspective of my life/myself with the shift in meds, or whether reality is totally different now and I am just an ACTUAL loser who sucks at this life thing.

One thing I do know, my anxiety is back.

I want happy carefree back. I need to change my mentality somehow. Then Super Megan can handle the stressy stuff. Maybe i’m just falling apart because of all the changes that are happening financially and job wise at the minute. But last year I had changes in all areas of my life and I became said Superhero? How does that work out then?

Some wise words would be honored.

Image from whsartonebblock.blogspot.com

Howl.

wolf eye

This afternoon, I casually walked in to my next counselling session honestly believing that the whole hour was going to be a complete waste of time. Again, I was proved wrong.

This Friday, I went out and got wasted. Not just for no reason at all, it was the night of my daughter’s 3rd birthday (and she was sleeping at her Dad’s that night), so I thought a glass of wine or two was appropriate. But somewhere amongst the mist of my rather innocent celebratory tipple was that little guy I couldn’t ignore raising it’s ugly voice at me appearing out of no where saying “FUCK IT.”

As a result of the concequences, I skipped a med yet again (and so close to the huge crash I had two week back), and spent the day half paralysed and throwing up on a day in which I knew I had to take my little girl out to enjoy for her birthday. Serious parenting fail right there.

I then spent Sunday on the couch all teary eyed and tired, and moody with The Boy the following evening as a mini crash had hit as a result of the med skip.

It’s been quite a while since the irresponsible, spontaneous and downright innapropriate little part of me made an appearance and I was confused as to why. I was supposed to be the steady headed independant lady now, what had happened to me?

Jan asked me today if there was something in me that made me want to jepordise my hard work on purpose – i know i’m not supposed to go out drinking as it is (as my ‘pledge’ to Narcotics Anonymous), and the last time i skipped meds i spent a week and a half suffering for it – i was so desperate i’d never do it again.

Then, as I suspected she would, she brought up the topic that had weaved it’s way in to my life again quite recently…

“Are you still taking Codeine?”

Fuuuuccccckkkk, she caught me out. I had to be honest.

“Yes, but only now and again..”

“How often? Once a week?”

Shit. Once a night.

“Maybe one every few days…” (Denial, hmm I wonder what that’s a sure sign of?)

I explained to her that the only reason I could think of why I took it was because it comforted me. Like a big warm hug. I didn’t need to take it, I just ‘allowed’ myself to because I’m not back in that place anymore and there is a bit of give… besides. I have been ignoring that little voice of responsibility and resoning and not even letting her have a word in. The stronger voice in my head is going “TAKE IT.”

Fast forward to the second part of the session.

My weight has been a huge issue for me the past month and it is all down to the evil that is Quetiapine. I have pile a huge 2 stone on to my skinny frame over the summer – half of it being when I increased my med dose from 200-400mg. So when Jan asked me how my meds were going, I totally had forgotten up until that moment to mention something quite important.

“I’ve reduced them.”

“Reduced them by what amount?”

“I’ve reduced them to 200mg. I feel fine.”

“I see.”

Then she sat down with me and totally flipped my whole messy perception of the past two weeks. She made me draw a timeline of events that have recently happened.

“You are taking codeine again. You spent the past week suffering with terrible anxiety that had you begging the doctors for something to ease it. Your rage has been this huge thing that you have been struggling with, and that unlike you. You purposefully go out drinking when you shouldnt have, and miss a med dose when you only quite recently have suffered with the concequences of your last one but you don’t seem phased. In fact, you are sat here smiling about it… and you can’t understand why?”

“Do you think all of this has something to do with ‘feeling fine’ about reducing your meds by half?”

“Ahh.”

In that moment of realisation, a faint howl cried in the background. Could it possibly be that my med reduction is slowly undoing the taming of my Wolf I have kept chained up for the past 6 months? And why is she making an appearance now? Did I have a taste of her when I was ill the other week after the huge crash I had due to not taking my meds for to nights in a row? Is she manipulating me with her sly ways, by giving me a taste of the manic lifestyle I have embarked upon with her before?

I explained to Jan the whole ‘Wolf’ – she’s that huge part of me that wants to get naughty – she’s a temptress in disguise, the games she plays when the sun goes down. The lives she ruins. How invincible I feel when I let her out to play. No inhibitions, no social barriers, the driver who likes to play dirty. The Wolf, my mania. I have locked her up all these months and my medication has quietened her, and now she’s seeping through the cracks and reminding me how fun she is… how alive I feel when I’m running beside her.

Jan reminded me that I have a choice. I will have this choice to make, these lifestyle choices. Am I doing the right thing my myself if I’m revealing my raw self by dropping down the medication curtain… if im tempting her addictive nature by reaching for the prescription drugs… that i’m giving her that sweet taste back by wanting to drink at the weekend… I’ve woken her up, she is stirring and she wants to get in to trouble. I have built my life back up, I have a solid network of friends, my career growing in front of me, my precious daughter, a new home, a stable mind, a special person in my life to share it with….

 

It’s me who has got to decide now if the temptation of running off in to the night is worth risking a potentially normal life.

 

 

 

Clean.

Yesterday was the first day I didn’t find myself using opiates to cope. I have been having the odd one or two pills (down from 10 in two weeks) and I’ve only just remembered that yesterday went by without me even thinking of them. My anxiety is gone. Whether it has cleared up from not abusing codeine, or I don’t feel the need to use as the new medication has controlled the anxiety? I have no idea, but I’m grateful that this may all be over very soon.

Last month, I had a dry month. Midnight until midnight I was clean of any alcohol, to control the risk of cross addicting. There has been no self harm incidents. No bad thoughts of harming myself whatsoever.

And I can hold my head up and have the pride to say that my decision to cut clean from my partner of 6 years, the father to my child, has saved my life.

The Label.

Image

Bipolar Type 2.

Finally I’m on the road to getting the help I need, and it has come at the right time, just as my life has fallen apart in front of my eyes. I’ve lost my home, my family, my relationship. Almost lost my brother. It’s just me, my daughter, a few binbags of my stuff and a temporary interchangable roof over my head.

They have tried me with Seroquel (quetiapine) 200mg in the evening. I’m still taking the Sertraline along with it (in the mornings). Again, the med change came at exactly the right time – I’ve had a week off work and no daughter to keep an eye on whilst she went away on holiday, and all I seem to have done is sleep.

The seroquel makes me drowsy, confused, my dreams are mixing in with my realities and blending in to one confusing river of time. I feel like I have little control over my limb movements and my tongue sometimes gets confused when I speak – I slur my words. I feel like an outsider trapped in a hosts body, with its eyes as a window I look through to an unfamiliar world. I still get the bout of uncontrollable hyper energy at night right before I take the next dose, the type of energy that makes me feel like my hands are on fire when I type… But what  do feel like I have control over, is my emotions. They seem more detatched, like I can just reach in to my soul and grab the most appropriate one for the situation. The medication change has made me realise how intense my emotions were beforehand, and how on this earth did I manage to (barely) get my with them taking over my life like they did?

For the first time in what feels like a lifetime of pure torture, I feel a sense of… well, freedom. I’m not a prisoner of my emotions anymore. I can deal with the odd bit of anxiety which I remember to be normal – the Bipolar anxiety however.. well pat me on the back and give this girl a medal. Over a year of sufferring and I didnt cave in. I pushed and I give all my fight against it.

And yes, I might have lost my home, my relationship, material possessions, my car, my family etc….

… But I finally found me again. And that’s whats the most important.

Welcome home Megan.

Mixed Episode (trigger).

I’m finally ready to talk about my HECTIC week.

I should have seen it coming really. After struggling to sleep all week, getting up for work at 4.30am (really? Seriously, who does that??!), extreme irritability and anger outbursts, intense exercising and a rather uncalled for and unhealthy dose of rejection (again, another time when I’m brave enough) my energy started to turn rotten.

It was like a switch that flicked inside of me. Vicious anxiety gripping it’s claws in to my heart again, emotions and senses magnified x1000, distorted and unshakeable.

I couldn’t sleep. I was so desperate to switch off. It hurt to breathe. Every drop of blood in my veins pulsed with the urge to saw it all out. Overdose. Get rid of it. GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE, FAST.

I made it through the night with a desperate attempt to reach out for someone, anyone to stop me. A few people did, and I’m so grateful for those few spirits who helped me through the night. The following day might have had a completely different outcome of not for those people.

8am. Strapped Lola in the car in her pyjamas. Took The Boy to work. Then blasted Disney songs out of the window whilst me and my daughter sang along. I needed to get this energy out. It felt good. I screamed louder. Fuck it, I thought. Just fuck it.

Fastt forward a few hours later and I was on my way to the airport. With no passports, no money, and my mum and my daughter in the car.

If it wasn’t for my satnav taking me the wrong way with me ending up in the middle of nowhere in an Asda supermarket having a complete mental freak out, I’d probably would have ended up causing a scene trying to blag my way on to a flight to freekin Timbucktoo. I was totally out of it. All I remember is stopping myself from grabbing all the wine bottles off the shelves and letting them smash all over the floor on to onlooking innocents thinking that maybe try should have done their weekly shop on a Saturday this time.

Lola stopped me. My own daughter, unknowingly to her, stopped me from losing my head. I could not control these urges. I zoned out, dissociated, started to slip out of reality.

Dont black out now Megan.

I got in the car and sped back home, my mother freaking out besides me, abandoned the car on the estate and the next thing I know the ambulance crew were taking me away.

Arseholes all of them. A young girl gets rushed in screaming that she doesn’t want to be here and they all looked at her like they just didn’t have a care in the world- and didn’t know what to do with her we only deal with broken arms and bloody shins at Accident and Emergency, didn’t you know? We have no room here for the girl that genuinely wants to die!

They managed to leave me to calm down for an hour, then called the RAID team out to deal with me. I remember being sat in the waiting room with nobody looking over me eyeing up a shiny sharp object on the floor. I could have gone and locked myself in the restroom and sawed my way in to my wrists until there was no more blood left to gush out, and taken a fun last bet on how long it would have taken someone to find me.

Holding on tight is hard, why was no one helping me? I finally got seen to as things got better.

“I don’t think you’re meds are right for you…”

No shit, Sherlock.

And then I was on my way after a psychiatrist referral, a med review and an offer to stay the night.

Fuck you. Fuck you all.

The Boy took the next day off work and I took a sedative and finally got some well needed rest…

part two later.

I can’t.

And then suddenly, anxiety strikes and hits me straight smack in to the face, grabs my heart on the way and tears it out.

I don’t want to be here, I cannot bare to think of the future because it is empty. I want to go back to bed and hide, sleep it off, anything to just not be here right now. I cant cope with the present moment and I need to shut it out. I don’t want to be here.

I don’t want to be on my own tonight 😦

Anddd… this is what happens when you don’t renew your prescriptions in time guys, day 4 of Sertraline withdrawal right here, and it’s making me want to die.