A Review of Me, Myself and Blogging

Do you think the people at My Therapy are going to be celebrating their success this weekend? "Look at all the people who have signed up - our online diagnostic tool is BRILLLIIIAAAANNNNNNTTTTTTT!"

Such a shame.

I think tools like this are good for two things -
a. A bit of a laugh
b. Double-checking that yes, you are still a MENTAL.

So... I took their survey, and according to my, possibly unrealiable answers, have been diagnosed with;

- Bipolar II (Depressive)
I was diagnosed during my one-before-last episode as having "severe recurrent depression on the Bipolar spectrum", so this sort-of-fits.

- Schizophreniform Disorder
This was based on my rather unusual ideas during episodes of high and low mood, and around food. I'm also a bit paranoid in social situations, but I think that is more to do with low self-esteem. I have been monitored for "emerging psychotic symptoms", but think I can safely say this isn't a correct diagnosis.

- Agoraphobia without History of Panic Disorder
I think this because I don't go out when I am depressed. Which I think is a pretty common experience. So, incorrect, again.

Overall, not too inaccurate, considering it is a computer. It might be on par with one Consultant I had the misfortune to be allocated too!


In other news, I'm questioning whether to continue blogging. It served a purpose during my last-but-one severe episode of depression, but I spend much more time readng blogs than I do writing mine. I'm not sure yet, but I am considering a hiatus.

I've also got a new hobby, or rather, revived an old one.
I've started part-loaning a pony, a couple of days a week. He is lovely, safe and has already started increasing my confidence greatly. It is also another reason to say "NO" to the eating disordered thoughts, as well as any suicidal ones.

I'm going to try and blog more often over the next few weeks, and then decide whether it is helpful or useful for me now. I can't promise anything, as I'm tied up with two essays which are progressing extremely slowly. I keep trying to write something, anything, but being unable to string together a sentence.

When nobody wants to treat you.

I'm too hot. I'm too cold. I shiver, I sweat, I burn up.
I've missed all my recent appointments with my Counsellor and Connexions worker, even though now is when I need them most.
I think I'm sick, but I don't know. The apathy, tiredness, low mood - they could all be part of the depression, or at least that's what the GP always thinks.
I need to go and pick up my prescription, I've missed two doses of Venlafaxine and that's probably not going to help.
I've missed 4 days of placement now, time which I'll have to pay back.
I haven't even started the essay.
Last night I wanted to overdose.
I don't have enough tablets to make a decent attempt. It would have been different if I'd collected my prescription yesterday, 28 days of Venlafaxine, 4.2g.
I don't want to die - I just want this to stop. I want help. I want - and I hate myself for this - someone to take me seriously.
I'm going to be in so much trouble when I return to Uni. Everyone thinks I shouldn't be there. I'm obviously not commited to the course. They were surprised I made it through the first year. I hate the fact our failures will always take precidence over our acheivements.

Rock On The [Long] Weekend

I may have mentioned this before [I'm too lazy to check], but my Mum and step-dad have a caravan in a tiny little hamlet somewhere in Essex. We'll call it Doris Bay. It has two caravan sites, two pubs, one marina and one post office, which is owned by a charming World of Warcraft addict and his Thai bride.

I was there last weekend, and I'm going again tomorrow evening, until Monday. My Mum has used the money my Nan left her to "upgrade" her caravan - that is, the new one is two feet wider, two feet longer and VERY pink. It was owned by the "only gays on the campsite" until last weekend, when my Mum purchased it. We have lots of work to do - cleaning it top-to-bottom, replacing the bedroom carpets and making part of the plot into a driveway area for my step-dad's speedboat.

I'm rather sad to be saying goodbye to the old 'van, after four summers there, but my step-dad is about to fall through the bathroom floor, and having a real bed as opposed to an 18 inch wide bunk will be a improvement. I say real bed, I mean 2 foot 6 by 5 foot 6 - leaving me about an inch short, but still an improvement.

The village is full of characters, and I just hope my ban from the pub has been lifted [I was drunk, and rearranged all the bins in the village]. My main concern regarding the weekend is alcohol - it tends to be a place where I drink. A couple of cans or a bottle of wine throughout the afternoon, a few pints at the pub, flaming Sambuca with my drunken uncles - staying sober has never been an option [and on that bed, who would want to?].

This week has been a bit problematic drink-wise. I returned from the caravan on Monday evening, and was extremely paranoid. In fact I was positive there was someone in my flat, and I spent almost the whole night awake, shaking, clutching my phone and struggling not to call my Mum. Tuesday night, I had friends over and got drunk. Result: They stay, and I sleep. It's safe. Last night, I went to a friend's house, had a few glasses of wine on an empty stomach, and once again, slept without too many problems.

I'm sitting here with a pint of cider and trying to decide whether to finish the bottle.
I'm also making an informed decision to start smoking again as soon as the shop opens.

Gash.
Why can't I stick to orange juice and sugar free gum?

Thanks For The Open Network

... Lovely neighbours!
Yes, I'm being rather naughty, but some social contact and blog venting is needed.
This will be a quick one, and I hope everyone I haven't had time to catch up with is doing OK.
The flat is fine, but my mood is a little unstable. I was close to tears in Tesco earlier - I want to adopt a rat who needs a new home, but I can't afford a cage, and that inability to help him and continue experiencing the little spark of happiness as he licked my fingers was a little too much in my emotional state. I don't really know why I'm feeling like this, but the looming placement could have something to do with it, coupled with the little mantra of "I must not get ill -I Must Not Get Ill - IMUSTNOTGETILL".

The upheaval of moving, even if it was undeniably for the better, has probably just caught up with me, and Boyfriend has just gone back to Leeds after spending most of the Easter break curled up on the beanbags with me.

I am very very very poor - after paying for the flat and the electric, I have £135 per calender month to pay for my food, travel, mobile phone and everything else. Hence the lack of Internet. I'm quite concerned about managing this over placement - my travel expenses will be around £200 for the eight week period, and I can't claim anything back until afterwards, so I think I will be living on beans on toast until July. God knows how I'll cope when I have to pay for heating in the winter, but hopefully Boyfriend will have a job by then.

I have applied for the Access to Learning Fund at my university, and I'm awaiting a decision on my Disability Living Allowance application as well, so things have the potential to get better soon.

My wishes/hopes/dreams at the moment;
- For someone on Freecycle to reply for my [begging] advert for a rat cage
- To complete eight weeks in the acute setting without getting admitted to the ward
- To hold a £50 note at some point within the next year

DWP and Apologies

I'm swatting up on D.L.A. know-how... I've already completed and sent the form, but now I'm worrying over it. It's funny, I never used to do that, not even with exams, yet now I do.
My Connexions worker assisted me with the form, because I concentrate for long enough to figure out what they are asking, and the form is exhaustingly long.
It's hard to fill out because my condition varies a lot over a week. I have days of ok-ish, able to microwave food, keep myself reasonably clean and presentable, get to uni, keep [almost] on top of my work. Then of being either better or worse, staying home and isolating, or sorting through unpaid bills and making a meal. Oh, and of crashing. Doom, gloom and staying under the duvet. Neglecting to eat, wash or talk.

My tutor at university spoke to me on Monday regarding my unacceptable attendance last year. I'm unsure if anyone else has told her what my "issues", as she put it, were. I wanted to say "I don't have issues, I have an illness", but it seemed more appropriate to grovel my apologies and get out of there.

I'm f*cking low again.

I want to cry right now. I've been crying for the majority of the last 24 hours, but now I actually want to, I have a reason to. I want to scream too, and stamp my feet, and maybe curl up defeated and exhausted. I'm going downhill again, fast, and I can't afford to get ill now. I'm on the verge of being discharged from the mental health teams, and I'm nearing the end of my first year, and now I'm fantasising about suicide and unable to stop this constant weeping. I'm grasping at straws, making unsuitable decisions [it's only the knowledge of this, and the therefore obsessive caution I have adopted which stopped me from renting a flat today]. I should have realised that I was getting worse, instead of being overwhelmed with grief and guilt on Sunday night. I'd been somewhat dispondant, flat even, over the weekend, but I put that down to knowing I had to come back to London and Boyfriend had to stay at university, but now I'm totally deflated. I wandered round the shops, killing time until the bus came after seeing the flat, and I felt so unbearably numb. I'm concerned because this numbness tends to precede a slashy-slashy incident, and I have 112.5 hours of work placement to complete within the next two weeks. I can't afford to be ill. I need help, but I don't know if there is anything to help me if I'm like this. I want to change things, anything so I don't feel agitated and yet numb simultaneously, but I also barely have the energy to get out of bed let alone take an interest in doing anything. I'm finally feeling emotion related to my Nan's death but I didn't want it like this; delayed, agressive and set off by anything. I'm breaking out in those awful cold sweats, I can't sleep at night but I'm dead to the world during the day, and my legs feel like they've been dipped in cement. I don't know how to explain this to work, again, and accept the fact that maybe I can't ever have a proper career, because I will always be bouncing between ill and almost well.

Introducing....

LocumShrink.
Oh why oh why does he have to be a locum?
He listened. He replied. He actually told me what is going on, and he offered to send me a copy of my report [which I accepted]. And now he is going. Sob*.

He couldn't access the system due to a fault, so he did ask me some things about my past history, but not to repeat every sordid detail. He didn't want to know the colour of my socks, or piercingly stare whilst enquiring whether I was "compliant".
I like LocumShrink.

He also has an idea of what might be going on in this little brain of mine. It's just an idea at the moment, we'll see what happens, but it could explain why Prozac and Citalopram didn't agree with me. He thinks I might be Bipolar II, as after going on Prozac I had what is suspected to be a hypomanic episode, and possibly also following my brief spell on 'Tally.

Bipolar II, for anyone not so familiar, is depressive episodes with a few hypomanic episodes thrown in. No fullblown manias, just probable hypomania, periods of excessive everything which to be honest can be quite enjoyable if a little unpredictable. Well. More than a little. After the Prozac kicked in [and kicked me up up up] I was in a bit of a whirlwind for about 6 weeks. When I came out of it, I had started a nursing degree. Now, I love what I do, but prior to that I hadn't even considered it.

*The good looks and soft Irish accent helped. LOL.

I <3 Threatening Letters

I might write them more often. They make me feel very empowered, even when I don't send them.
I forgot what an excellent release they actually are. The council tax office couldn't talk to me and Connexions PA, because they're computer system was down. Therefore, Connexions PA wrote a very official letter, which basically boiled down to "stop harassing GG, you bastards". She is great, really. She helps me with all the forms and bills that I've been hiding under my bed for the last few months. Actually, there are a lot of things which have been building up since the fire. I just can't deal with it all.
She also agrees with my opinion that Shrink is hopeless. I've seen my medical records [advice: don't leave the projector on, Shrink. It puts all my notes onto your magnolia walls in large print easy to read letters. Yes, mentals can read too!], and they are very basic. They miss out a lot of key stuff, and if I left notes like that, I'd be in deep sh*t. Plus, even though I've been under his care for nearly a year, I first saw him 4 months ago. In this time he has never adjusted or even discussed my medication, contacted my GP, or arranged a referral to Psychotherapies or any other service, despite saying he would.
Basically, my medications are managed solely by my GP, who luckily has been on anti-depressants and is relatively knowledgeable, compared to your average Doc. Counsellor looks after my mind, checks out my suicidality [is that a word???], and makes sure I'm not slitting my wrists or starving myself to death. Connexions PA keeps my finances afloat and the bailiff-wolves at bay.
I'm pretty well at the moment. My drinking has increased, but so has my eating, I'm pretty clean and this evening I cooked. I've been to both my exams so far, and today I almost finished my Christmas shopping. I'm in a right muddle at the moment because the impulse-buy wrapping paper doesn't match the gift bags, but I've found the perfect one, so I'm going to pop into Poundland after I see Counsellor tomorrow, and negotiate an exchange.
The gift bags are gorgeous, and will hopefully make up for the budget pressies.
I found the perfect card for Boyfriend, and a gorgeous pressie for a friend of mine. I think she needs some cheering up at the moment, and she looked after me last week when I was down. She bought me a toy kitty-cat :)
I might go back and get a couple of bits I saw for my two nieces, I'd like to be able to get them something so if I'm careful with the food budget I should be able to get them a little pressie each.
I <3>Venlafaxine. Please, please don't desert me like Fluoxetine did.

Multiple Choice Exams and The Depressed Mind

Quite simply, it is not a good idea.

The written questions weren't too bad, I just wrote down whatever I could vaguely relate to the topic, and attempted to stay on the topic. Multiple choice is really not a good idea for me right now. I can spend hours in Sainsburys debating over whether I should buy chickpeas or lentils. I can't pick between two flavours of soup, and don't even get me started on buying things like shampoo. They all promise so much!

The exam was a bit disasterous - I was desperate for a cigarette, and being given 4 slight variations of essentially the same answer was confusing and frustrating. I kept getting stuck on words, going round and round until I couldn't tell you which one I originally thought was most probable.

The worst part was that itchy feeling, the one I get when I desperately need to make a list. Pre-exam, list making isn't really an option. I ended up being escorted to the bathrooms, where I proceeded to scrawl some meaningless crap about plucking my eyebrows on my inner calf.

I'm supposed to be going to my Mum's to do some Christmas shopping. It's cold and horrible outside, and I want to get back into bed. I also need to eat the cottage pie I defrosted, but I know that she'll force me to eat again tonight.

On the plus side, my curtain rail decided to fall down on me at 3am. How fun!

Damn That Boyfriend Of Mine...

He's gone back to sodding Oop North. I feel like I've been kicked in the stomach, it's winded me, as it always does.
Pffft.
I'm also extremely on edge, as the council tax c*nts have sent me a lovely letter informing me that, whoop-de-doo, the bailiffs are coming for my meager possesions. Good luck flogging my battered books, oversized dreamcatcher and graffitied rubber duck. Touch my laptop and I'll bite your f*cking hand off. I'm mental, donchanooooo???

Grrr. I'm a student. They told me I had been removed from the council tax list. Chase my ex-housemates for the £53.43 that we apparently owe you. I've lost so much money over that sodding house, not to mention been fired, and had a severe relapse of depression. I can't take any more of this shit. Hence, my Connexions PA got a rather incoherant text begging her to sort it out. She is rather useful. Otherwise, I think I would have gone on a bulk-buying mission of paracetemol and vodka. Bye bye liver!

My Nan has decided she is dying. I'm not very impressed.
She has heart failure, and they are giving her lots of medications which seem to interact badly, and also slow her pulse. I checked it before she took the pills, and it was under 50 bpm. This, coupled with her hallucinating ["there's little furry weasels running around the living room", apparently] meant that I've lost faith in Middle-Of-Nowhere's medical team.
I blame myself. I do that with everything, but especially this. Since I moved back to London 18 months ago, she has gone from independant to housebound. I can't believe how much her health and spirit have declined. This was a woman who would go to Alice Cooper concerts with me, and the only alcohol she touched was straight vodka.
I'm also angry. How dare you threaten to die on me? You're my Nan, you practically brought me up, and I still need you. You ain't going nowhere, missy.
Mainly, I keep crying. I can't even phone her, because we both end up sobbing down the phone.

Argh. Apologies for the disjointed post.

Shrink was his usual self, eg. asked a few questions and did absolutely nothing. Oh, and he said he'll transfer me to another Shrink, because I've moved. He said that in August too.

Right, I need to wash my hair, because my new fringe is greasing itself to my forehead. Uggghhhhh. I am rather gross right now. My guinea pig Paddi left me with some lovely scratches on my chest, because it rained when she was in the garden, and she hates being soggy. I must bath tonight. I have clean bedsheets, so if I don't bath, I'm sleeping on the floor.

GG

A Master of Avoidance

I have successfully managed to avoid studying. I decided to print out all the missing lecture notes for Psychology & Sociology, but when it came down to actually reading them I didn't do so well. You see, I don't actually know how to study. My brain used to work like a sponge, absorbing information, and then I used to just "mentally vomit" onto the exam paper, and somewhere out of that I'd get an A. I tried to study, but it usually consisted of reorganising my notes, or reading up on some morbid off-topic subject which had caught my interest. It used to work, but now my brain takes a hell of a lot of abuse before it accepts information. That's in all areas of life, not just studying.
GG, for fuck's sake EAT SOMETHING. Um, no. I don't need food. It's a government conspiracy to make us all fat, haven't you all worked that out yet? The re-education of my mind is proving rather hard.
I tried reading some psychology stuff, things which usually would have caught my interest, but none of the important information is sticking. Maybe if I ingest some Pritt-Stik?
I think I should just give up and get some speed. Me and my friend Ladders used to talk all the time about getting some speed and spring-cleaning the house. Maybe that would work with studying? However, the horrific comedown would not help with the examination itself.
I'm wondering how I'm going to be awake enough for a 9.30am test anyway, considering that I haven't managed to surface since I started the Venlafaxine. No doubt, my mood has definitely improved, and the late afternoon-early evening has proved relatively productive, as far as bathing and washing bedsheets goes. I even treated myself to a bit of Russell Brand last night. I just need to get through the exam without falling asleep, or being in a general zombie-like state.
On a lighter note, my guinea pigs have been in the garden since 11am, I just put them back in the hutch and Paddy was very displeased. She was squealing at me in her pissed-off tone, like she does if Guinness steals her food. I've got an appointment with the counsellor soon, and I was going to leave them out until I leave at 4pm, but next-door's cat is taking a keen interest in them, and I don't trust it. It sits on the fence pretending to ignore them, then when it thinks I'm not looking it stares intently at them, licking it's lips. I can imagine it prowling around their run, singing "I'm gonna eat ya little guineas, I'm gonna eat ya little pigs...". Think "The Cat" from Red Dwarf with the robotic goldfish.
I try to make myself relatively presentable when I leave the house, and this also applies to going to see the counsellor. I'm not to bothered when I go to Dr Oddie's, as it's a 10 minute walk, but the counsellor is in town, right by the pub, and to be honest a bra, deodorant and brushed hair are kind of required if I'm going somewhere where I'm quite likely to see friends, and to avoid abuse on the bus.
I have a Shrink appointment next week, Connexions PA is attending to make sure that we actually discuss certain issues and to see if she can help with anything. I think I'm being referred to my new area, but I'm not sure. This is a bit of a conundrum, because Connexions PA usually sees me when I'm not-overly-repulsive, and I made an effort the last time I saw Shrink. This approach has got me nowhere, so I'm considering welcoming them to my world, eg. the one where I don't spend the whole day pulling myself together to get ready for the appointment, and just show up in whatever was lying on my bedroom floor. Maybe I should take my duvet?

Poppets, New Rocks and Turquoise Hair Dye

Today I have eaten two slices of toast, some yogurt and muesli, and two packets of Poppets.
The Poppets were compulsive. We have a box of 36 packs on the kitchen tables, and all I want to do is cram the whole lot down my throat.
I'm back to the point of having almost no proper food left, just some tinned soup.
I have some sauces, pasta and rice, but they aren't allowed.
Poppets are though?!?
I don't even like the toffee flavour ones, yet that is what I'm eating.

I have an exam on Friday, and I just looked at some past paper questions and have absolutely no clue. No surprising, as my attendance is awful. My counsellor keeps saying I shouldn't be doing this course, but her idea of the alternative is to go and get a job. I can't make it to lectures a couple of days a week, how am I going to work enough to live? How am I going to hold down a job, concentrate and be productive? I lost my last job after missing two weeks of work following the A&E incident, but I'd been a complete mess for quite a while prior to that.

I'm reasonably functional at the moment, I'm out of bed by midday and I washed some clothes this afternoon. I'm dressed, I need a shower but I'm not filthy, I can't cook but I should be able to microwave some soup later. I'm drowsy and a bit lightheaded, but I haven't collapsed.

However, I'm aggressive and agitated by the smallest thing, and I am not usually that sort of person. Every little thing winds me up, particularly human company. I'm snapping at people, I'm increasingly sarcastic, patronising and short tempered. All I want to do is turn round and say "for fucks sake, can you just fucking LEAVE ME ALONE???".

I want to make something of myself. I want to make people proud. I don't want to be like this.
I've wanted to do this City & Guilds Corsetry qualification for ages, thought I could make time to do it once I'd qualified and then maybe sell some handmade corsets and lingerie online, as a hobby at first but see where it leads. Now, I'm too scared to do it because how can you run a business, and complete your orders correctly and on time, when you can't look after yourself? Sometimes I just want to crash and burn, so that people around me will understand the effect this actually has on me, on my life, so they can understand some of the things I've done and the mistakes I've made. I'm not trying to rid myself of all blame, but some things are related to my illness or my medication.

I have this image of myself in years to come, where I'm happy. Socializing in a club with friends and acquaintances, handing my card to the girl in the toilets who compliments my corset, measuring eager Suicide girl look-a-likes in the back of my boyfriend's record store, sewing perfect seams on frozen winter evenings while he plays guitar, and we are both so happy. I don't spend days in bed, I don't push him away or hold onto him too tightly, instead we can both be ourselves, but better. A day when I don't longingly gaze at pots of turquoise hair dye or lust over piercings and tattoos which aren't suitable for my work.

I love what I do, but now I wonder if it isn't much too close to home. After all, I am a little bit jealous of people I see who get an inpatient admission and leave us with support, fixed. I know that's probably not true, and most cases are much more ongoing, but sometimes.... Well, at least they get taken seriously and not as attention seeking, pessimistic, moaning GG, 19 years old and still can't stand on her own two New Rock clad feet.

Neurotic And Agitated.

I have a diagnosis of Severe Depressive Illness [apparently!].
Unfortunately, a diagnosis doesn't come about in one session or meeting. Originally it was an "Adjustment Disorder", but sometimes it takes time to assess an illness. My psychiatrist and various GP's have written a whole variety of different things on assessments and sick notes.

Personally, I'm pretty neurotic about BPAD. I have a strong family history of BPAD on my maternal Grandfather's side, and depression on my Father's. I didn't know any of this until after my 4th depressive episode [except about my Grandad, that was after my 2nd], so I do not count myself as "self fulfilling prophecy" in terms of Depression at least.

I do worry about BPAD, purposely inform my Doctor of the family history as I know some medications have a greater likelihood of triggering a manic episode, and I do worry more now because most of my BPAD family members had their first manic episode in their late teens/early twenties [I'm 19].

Sometimes, I hate being more like my Grandad. His siblings had a diagnosis of BPAD and in terms of medications etc were managed relatively "consistently".

My Grandad was the least understood, I still don't know his official diagnosis as they just weren't sure. I suppose the closest they came to it was again, Severe Depressive Illness. Cue a long stream of anti-depressants, mood stabilizers, good old Lithium and countless other treatments. Chuck in a load of inpatient admissions and you'd think they'd have an answer by now.

I know that if I became full blown manic, I would probably be unable to see anything wrong. I'd be in complete denial. It's a mixed state that I'm more concerned about.
My Grandad' siblings have an alarming habit of what I presume to be mixed states. Either that, or they like blood when they are high as a kite. There's a lot of slashy-slashy going on just when they seem to be out of the Depression. The mood lifts, you think they're fine, then you find out Aunty-So-and-So is back on life support or has giving herself some interesting arm decorations.

Grandad himself... A mystery and yet the person who understood me best? I don't know. He would be so low for so long, then be irritable, argumentative, then decide we had to go to the Millennium Dome. Again. Suddenly this need to go to a museum, where he'd refuse the wheelchair until he couldn't walk any further, which usually meant he would use it like a Zimmer frame whilst pushing me around in it. Art galleries, where he would get so excited.

Yet, somehow, he was never as manic as, well, manic. He seemed to gain this "zest for life", but I don't know if that was part of his personality or his illness, because by the time I arrived he had been ill for many years.

Then, one day, he took to his bed and stayed there for 8 months. I couldn't bear to see him like that, partly because of my family's reaction to it, and partly because I would do the same thing when depressed. My Nan went out for an hour to get some shopping, and he took every prescription medication in the house.

They wouldn't let me see him. My Nan said he wouldn't have known I was there, "better to remember him how he was". I regret that so much. Two long weeks of tremors, fits, coma... Then he died.

I'm 19, I'm on my 3rd antidepressant, I'm messing up my life and all I want to do is stand at the weekend of Walton Pier where the lifeguards scattered Grandad's ashes, and cry and cry and scream and cry. I want all the pain and anger to wash away with the tide, and if it doesn't then I might as well throw myself of the f*cking pier rather than struggle for another 55 years before topping myself in a similar fashion.

Focus On The Positive

... Says my counsellor, and my Connexions PA.

Now, they do have a valid point in saying that, but giving yourself Brownie Points for every little positive step just seems a bit like cheating. After all, the positive isn't important, it isn't what people remember you for. It's always the negative stuff they pounce on, using it to rip you to shreds, whereas the positive stuff is so easily ignored.

Lets try listing "good stuff" since returning from 'Oop North.

Here goes nothing.

Kudos for going to Connexions session, counselling and Doctor's appointments this week.

Double Points for doing my jobs on the cleaning rota.

Smiley Face for making (and eating!) a veggie chilli, and for going food shopping.

Gold Star for bathing, washing hair and de-fuzzing legs without any slashy-slashy business.

.... ignore "not going to uni"....

Shiny Pretty Bright New Drugs

Venlafaxine [Efexor] is the new drug of choice. Fluoxetine [Prozac] has deserted me once again, and that was 60mg daily, so we're trying something else.

Dr Bill Oddie apparently used Venlafaxine for a while. He described it as "very strange, feeling like you're three feet to the left of life". Hmmm. Not instilling much confidence, but that "three feet" maybe put me slap-bang in the middle of real life, and I'm ready to try anything. I have exams in a few weeks, and an essay due, so I need my brain to start working. Pronto.

Boyfriend's bolthole 'Oop North was just what I needed. TLC, lots of hugs, encouragement to eat/shower/get out of bed. Slight moan though - I told boyfriend that I keep a blog, for venting etc, and he thought that it was a really bad idea, and would just encourage me to dwell on my problems.

Not sure whether he has a valid point - I think it comes back to the lesser of two evils concept. When I would normally binge, purge, self harm or drink myself to oblivion, I blog. It may be a web page devoted to my endless whining, but this doesn't involve scars or throwing up blood. Also, how come I'm training to be a mental health nurse, I suffer from a globally acknowledged condition and yet so many people still believe that if I really wanted to be happy, I would just snap out of it, pull my socks up, THINK POSITIVE.

Maybe it is "all in my head", in which case, I want to get out of my head.
Pass the horse tranquilizers.

Ah. Crap. You gave that all up with the heavy drinking, remember? F*ck it. I'm at least having a fag.

There's got to be some Zopiclone somewhere...

I mean, come on, I'm a walking pharmacy.I tend to hoard, and that extends to medications, and there MUST be some Zopiclone in my room. I've had barely any sleep this week, although I've hardly left my bed. It takes hours to fall asleep, and then I get less than an hour before I'm up again. Repeat several times, and you wake up more exhausted than when you started. I'm really anxious. I don't know why.

I saw my counsellor today. It's been two weeks since I last saw her, and so I should be more relaxed, less agitated. Instead I'm petrified I'm going to get carted off to MY HOSPITAL. She said I need to go somewhere to be looked after. Not necessarily an inpatient admission, maybe stay with family? Pffffttttt. My family? My mum would hit the roof if she knew I was still on the medication, my father chooses to ignore it, and the only person who really understood me decided to commit suicide. Thanks, Grandad. I NEED YOU.

Well, lets have a quick looksy at the family tree. You have lil GG, Mummy, Daddy. Mummy is rather barking, as was her father and all his siblings - BPAD or recurrent depression, and their kids are almost exclusively BPAD/PD's/addicts/depressives. Mummy hasn't [to my knowledge] been formally diagnosed, but then she believes that mental illness ISN'T REAL. So, I'm training to be a not-a-real-illness nurse. Goody.
Daddy and both his brothers have been on anti-depressants for varying lengths of time. Paternal grandmother has suffered with it for years, and now is "emotionally numb". Her words, not mine, when she called me to warn me not to end up like her.
Her father/step-father [hasn't been clarified, as Great Grandmother really liked getting married] committed suicide when she was a young child. Her older sister found him with his head in the oven.

Confused yet? Yeah, me too.

So how did GG end up in the gutter? I can't sleep, so you might as well get a brief picture. It goes something like;
Bullied at primary school - "Your dad doesn't live with you, you must have done something wrong". Ain't kids nice? Leave school on verge of nervous breakdown, self harming, and find secondary school slightly more pleasant. Well. I used to hide in the library.
Aged 12, stop eating. Starvation is my new form of self harm, but it is quickly stopped when I collapse in school.
Aged 14, have first major depressive episode. Lasts approximately 6 months, and triggered by being evicted from the house I grew up in. Mum throws things at me whenever she gets stressed out. I learn to dodge quickly. Increase the self harm, and discover joys of alcohol to "drown my sorrows".
Aged 15, arguments with Mum, second depressive episode. Self harming is discovered, and the household is subtly changed by the presence of razorblades with little safety bars, and blunt knives. Mum fails to understand that this isn't about her, and continually asks "why are you doing this to me?".
Aged 16, have been thrown out of home and college in quick succession. Have a termination. Third depressive episode. Characterised by lots of drinking, self destructive behaviour, and trying to throw myself under buses. Fortunately I have some very good friends, who tend to pick GG up and carry her kicking and screaming onto aforementioned bus.
Aged 17, bit more sorted, living with my Nan and back at college. Very homesick. Then - BAM! Fourth depressive episode, resulting in me staying in bed for 3 months and promptly failing my exams. Discover that Citalopram is NOT for me.
Aged 18, living in a house with friends, until the dishwasher sets it on fire. Stay with aunt and uncle, hold things together until I snap, spend a night walking on and off of the train tracks, then shimmy on down to A&E. Fifth depressive episode. Declared not suicidal, and sent home with a prescription for Prozac. Go to stay with boyfriend until I'm more "with it". Then have a possibly manic episode, which I remember barely anything of, except that when my mood settled, I had been fired from my job and started training as a Mental Health nurse. Irony!
Since then the Prozac has sufficed, although it's been gradually increased as the effects have decreased. I've had sessions with a psychologist, and I see a counsellor on a weekly basis.
Now, the Prozac has stopped working, and I'm close to how I was when I ended up at A&E. However,I don't have the motivation to get dressed, let alone get dead, so hopefully my mood will improve before my energy levels do?

That Brick Wall.

I feel like I've run head first into a solid wall. Like I've pushed and pushed and then BAM!

This is going to be poorly written, but I'm not very "with it" right now.
I went to work yesterday, first time I've gone since Tuesday. And today? I'm back in bed.

I haven't bathed, washed my hair or cooked in over a week.
My laundry bin is overflowing, my guinea pigs are quite frankly being neglected, and I'm living off the occasional forced down bowl of cereal.

Welcome to my world, eh?
So, next time my Connexions PA asks me, how does my illness affect my everyday life, well, I think I'll direct her straight to this post.

I have a splitting headache, I'm dehydrated but that means I have to get out of bed less to use the toilet, so I don't care, and I'm repulsive.

I want to die quietly and apologetically, because this existence isn't helping anyone.

Things I Love

I love grass. I love the sky. I love forests, with gnarled trees, the forest floor mottled by the sun shining through the leaves. I love the branches reaching out to touch me, because I am me.

I went to where I used to live, and stayed with a friend of my mum's. We were throwing a party for another friend, and I just got home. I was waiting for the bus near my old house and the forest was just calling out to me. I can't resist nature. It takes my breath away that in the outskirts of London there is this place that is so beautiful. I used to skip lessons and go there to get lost. To lose the world, the worries. To lose myself. I lay there in the grass and for those moments the world was beautiful again and I was so overwhelmed.

My eating is becoming a real problem. I told my mum, she doesn't understand. I don't understand. Telling me I have to eat, my body needs food, stop cutting yourself, why do you do these things, don't do anything stupid.

My grandad commited suicide two years ago. I love my grandad. I think he understood me better then anyone else. I was so angry when he died. How could he leave me to face this all alone, I needed him.

I don't think I would kill myself. I keep myself grounded enough. What would happen to my guinea pigs? They need me. There. One reason to keep going.

This is a really bad blog. I have another bad hangover, and I really shouldn't be drinking on my medication. But I had to tell someone about the grass, the sky and how the world is beautiful.

This Ain't No Bell Jar

I thought the best introduction I could give you to my life would be to give you an overview of my week. I ain't no Sylvia Plath and this ain't no Bell Jar. However, that said, I will try and make this as grammatically correct as possible. It might even be vaguely amusing, but no promises there.

Monday tends to involve an appointment with Dr Bill Oddie. He is exactly like Bill Oddie. Except slightly more interested in medicine than birds, I hope. It's the last appointment of the evening, plus over an hours waiting time. I'm not sure if I'm developing OCD tendencies or just get bored, but I do tidy the waiting room. A lot. Magazines by type and date, books by size. They look too messy by author. Anyway, Dr Oddie comes out with most amusing quotes like "what did you do that with, a cheese grater?". This of course referred to my last self harming spree, armed with only a blunt razor and the desire to draw blood. The results were numerous but superficial, all though another observation of Dr Oddie's was that it appeared I had "stuck my arm in a blender". I feel this to be rather exaggerated.

Tuesday means a trip to the chemist, handing over another ridiculous sum for the drugs which can't even get me out of bed in the morning. Unfortunately the lady who serves me is a friend's mum, so while I wait for my prescription I nip down the road for some dressings. Collect the meds (cue a pitying look from the pharmacist, or so I imagine), and it's back to Bill Oddie's surgery. His receptionist leaves several hours before I actually see him, so I have to go back to make the next appointment. She knows my name now. It makes me feel a little bit special and rather suspicious. Are my pathetic problems being shared among the other surgery gossip? Am I Mel, Cheese Grater Girl? I leave the surgery, resisting the urge (and it is STRONG) to chastise the children messing up my carefully organised books. Can't that old lady see that the Woman's Weekly does NOT belong in the Glamour magazine pile?

Wednesday involves even more of what I do everyday, which is stay in bed. I have no reason to leave it (except for, of course, the degree I am failing and the friends I am losing), and I don't. Late afternoon is time for "The Binge". This tends to involve large amounts of chocolate Hob Nobs or a whole baguette stuffed with brie. You see, I know I will go to a rather shit "alternative" night with some friends, to keep up the illusion of being okay, and I will drink and I will dance. Neither is a good idea as the former makes me VERY drunk due to the medication and the later makes me look like a twat. But hey, all in the name of burning calories. How does drinking dispose of pesky calories, you may ask? Well, as I am and always will be rather shit at purging, and am aware that laxatives don't do much to help, I drink and then I have a legitimate and easy way to throw up. That girl who rents the room upstairs throwing up in the bathroom a few times a week is suspicious, but someone purging in a club toilet? Totally socially acceptable.

Thursday (which happens, darlings, to be when I am writing this) is counselling day. I spend a lovely afternoon with my lovely counsellor, who gives me big meaningful "now isn't that a silly thing to do" smiles, complete with "and did that solve the problem?" style quotes. Actually, she's rather good. I can actually talk some of these feelings out of me, but I don't have an answer for why I have no motivation anymore, and neither does she. Also, I'm not allowed a cup of tea when I'm there. It always gets my goat a bit, I mean fair enough we can't smoke inside anymore but surely a cup of tea and a chat solves everything? That's the East End girl coming out in me.

Fridays, once again stay in bed until there is some sort of social gathering, which I drag myself too. I have this great little "Happy Mel" mask I can put on, but recently it's really been slipping. This can be another opportunity for a binge and purge, not on such a large scale, but maybe a bag of chips which I can sneakily chuck up later.

The weekends are a mixture - either visiting Mum, Dad, Nan or boyfriend. Boyfriend is a Viking and lives in Leeds for university. He is amazingly talented, and I don't deserve him, or rather he doesn't deserve the crap that comes with dating me. When visiting family or boyfriend, I am still careful with food, and if the opportunity to purge presents itself I will. However, family would hit the roof if they knew and Viking is rather saddened by it. Also, rather odd rule, but as I am a people pleaser I would rather eat at least some of what someone has made me than disappoint them. Visiting Dad is the worst. It's all restaurants and Pizza Express and foods which I can't even begin to count the calories in.


As to my usual dietary intake - the staple diet revolves around low fat yogurt, low calorie soup and lots of apples. I sometimes chuck in the odd sandwich or jacket potato, then laugh secretly to myself, because they don't realise that I can make a sandwich under 150 calories and that a small potato with tuna isn't much more. Any the reason I eat fish? "Oh, it's much better for you than meat". Bullshit. It's because a piece of white fish has around 60 calories in it, and you, ignorant housemate, will never know.

This makes me sound like a conniving bitch, and I probably am - I don't want to gain weight, I want to lose it, and I mess it up enough by binging without you deciding to force feed me. The worst part of all this is, it isn't really me at all. Really, I know that losing a few pounds is not going to sort me and my life out and will probably make things worse. I'm a Student Mental Health Nurse and I should have more sense than this. I really, really should.