Tag Archives: bipolar disorder

On board the Crazy Train

Before I write update you all, I want and need to say a huge, heartfelt thank you to every one of you who has given me support, shown love, shared kind words, sent me marvellous messages, and helped to keep me going. It has meant a great deal to me, and has helped me to raise a smile on the darkest of days. I’m lucky that anyone gives their time to my ramblings, but that you do, that’s more luck than I deserve.

Enough soppiness? Okay, I’ll fill you all in.

On Tuesday morning I felt very anxious; I wanted to go back to the GP because I wanted more help, but I was terrified I would be disbelieved or, at the other end of the spectrum, be told I would have to be admitted to a psychiatric unit.

When I was called by the doctor, I asked Mum to come in with me, and she followed on behind me, stopping only to hand my repeat prescription. As the door between waiting room and doctors’ rooms slipped shut, and my GP lead me on, the idea of being taken away to a secure unit flashed in my head, making my stomach lurch. Mere moments later, Mum was beside me, and I reminded myself not to overreact – that scenario was wildly unlikely!

Super Mum was silent, but prepared with tissue in hand for almost certain boo-hooing. The GP asked why I was there, and I told her all that had happened recently. I said that the fluoxetine had helped me, but for the past few months, I felt that I had been slipping backwards – crying, mood swings, manic phases. I said that I no longer needed an upper, I needed something to make me stable, and that through research and the testimony of a very reliable friend, I had come to believe Lithium was the best of the mood stabilising drugs.

I had been teary, and needed to take deep breaths, but the deluge of tears Mum and I had both expected stayed away.

GP said what I had been expecting – my psychological needs were now outside of her range of experience and real understanding. I silently steeled myself for “admission to a psychiatric unit”, but, like the tears, it didn’t come. Phew!

She said she would refer me to the Community Mental Health Clinic, which isn’t far away at all. Doctor looked at doubling my dose of Fluoxetine while I waited for my appointment, but decided not to as Floxy + Gabapentin can = seizures. And I could do without that right now.

Doctor said she will tell them that my case is somewhat unusual with EB etc. I think she thinks EB is the main cause of my Bipolar, and I really don’t think it is. But maybe I’ll make discoveries with the psychiatrist at the clinic (who will, I believe, prescribe the best meds for me after a meeting or two). It will also very likely speed up my referral (GP said about two weeks, when I’m told eight is the average for “urgent” cases). Maybe people will think I’m abusing EB to jump the queue, but I don’t really care. Like EB, my BD affects my parents massively, especially my mum, whom I adore.

The sooner I’m not making her cry, or taking up hours of her time as she tries to talk her sobbing wreck of a daughter round, or trying to keep up with my manic projects so that I don’t hurt myself, the better our whole families lives will be.

I’m past being shy of having Bipolar, I’m past being shy that I need medication to get my life back. Because I’m not shy to say I can’t help having BP anymore than I can help having EB, and I Camt so anything about one, I can actively fight the other.

I’m not just fighting for me, I’m fighting for my family and my friends, who have supported and loved me all the way. I’m pulling my gloves on and walking into the ring…

Round One is about to start….

Mel xxx

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Ms Jekyll-Hyde, at your service

Tonight (technically it was yesterday, but I haven’t been to bed yet. That’s my rule) two of my best friends came to spend the evening with me. We made the most of me having the house to myself (my parents and sister were out at a wedding reception, which I didn’t feel up to attending) and had a girly evening. They also, without being asked, helped me do the things my mum would help me with (acting as my hands, getting me things I wanted to save my ever painful feet). True, wonderful friends.

We had a good old chat, catching up with each other’s news: laughing, worrying, teasing, comforting, reassuring, innocent gossiping and being scandalised. For any male readers, they are the markers of a proper night of Girls’ Talk. They then helped me clear out my wardrobe – helping me decide what to send to the charity shop, taking some bits for themselves (which they’ll purchase by donating a few pounds to DEBRA), and clambering in to the wardrobe to pull items out, saving my hands and feet, and saving my full-time carer mum a job, as someone had to help me!

During our chat, the girls asked me a very pertinent question: “we know your skin is in a state, but how are you mentally and emotionally?”

Pertinent because, about an hour before they arrived, my mum suggested that we make an appointment as soon as we can, so that I can ask my GP for better treatment for my Bipolar Disorder.

Before I was started on Fluoxetine (Prozac), the idea of suicide was a permanent resident in my mind. Starting on the medication eventually shooed it away, and I felt more stable. My mood swings became far less frequent, and I developed the ability to know when a manic or depressive phase was starting. I’d tell my parents, and I would either do things to make use of my manic time – I get a lot of boring admin done during those times, as the Fluoxetine make them manageable. If it was a depressive time, I was able to talk more openly to my parents, who had endured me sobbing but still insisting “I’m fine, it’s nothing, honest, I’m just being stupid”. Now I could tell them “I can feel it coming on. I need a cuddle and to talk/I’m going up to my room, I need to be alone”. But if I wanted to talk, I would be honest; after my fundraising event, the euphoria of it being a success was huge…then the depression hit. I could tell my mum and dad that it was the come down – what did I have in my life now? What could I do next? It had proved I was too ill to work, which ruined my dreams.

I am incredibly lucky to be twenty-five and still have such dedicated, loving parents. As the Black Dog put its paws around me and growled despair into my ears, my parents would wrap their arms around me, letting me drench them with tears and snot as they pull me into cuddles designed to squeeze the hurt out of my soul.

Unfortunately, as my regular readers know, Fluoxetine hasn’t been working so well recently, with my suicidal tendencies making a reappearance. As my body let me down and drained every bit of energy and fight I had, the Black Dog broke out of its cage, and has been holding me by the jugular ever since.

Some days it lets me make a good show of being truly happy, but it’s always there, hackles up, telling me that I’m worthless, a drain on my parents, a failure, repellent, an oxygen thief, generally wholly unworthy of living.

The days of pretending are getting few and further between. Most days see me burst into tears, or wracking sobs that make my chest ache. Yesterday (Friday) was a emotionally painful day, made worse by the fact that I couldn’t vent my fury without sobbing. In a bizarre way, the tears seemed to help my case and amplify my rage, but I was angry to have uncontrollably cried in front of a crowd of people. I felt so stupid, so childish and embarrassed.

Today, a relative made thoughtless, unfair and hurtful comment. I was barely able to respond, knowing what would happen if I dared to speak too much. Of course, the tears came anyway, and what I would usually have a good old swear about, because it pissed me off, became a knife to my heart. I cried to my mum about it again just now – a good eight hours later.

I don’t want to live like this. I can’t kill myself without help, which no one will give me. I need to live my life, in which I’m me. I need to be a good daughter, not one who makes her parents feel guilty for conceiving her.

So, off to the GP we will go (my mum will come in with me only if I want her to. I’m certain I will). I will ask for something better – hopefully Lithium, which has it downsides but is apparently the first class Bipolar Treatment.

The Black Dog will be rehabilitated, retrained, rehomed.

And I can be me again. Flawed, imperfect, but not as much as I am now.

Wish me luck xxx

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