Paddi is not very impressed. Guinness is hogging the snug, and won't share.
The guinea pigs moved out of the garden and into my room this afternoon, and they seem quite content. They were purring away when they first went in the cage, but now there is a problem. I only had enough fur fabric for one snug, and they both want it. Guinea pigs don't share food and they most certainly don't share snugs! They are also argueing over the new water bottle - apparently the old one just won't do. It's been fun, especially watching Paddi running in and out of the snug repeatedly, purring and wheeking.
Today was my last day of placement, and I actually feel a little bit weepy! Lots of hugs and farewells, and I honestly will miss that ward. All I can think of now is looking towards starting my second year, and I just hope that I have more placements which I enjoy as much as that one.
Having said that, if a certain patient had followed me around for much longer complaining of being unable to cope, and begging for help, I might have thrown the towel in. The constant answering of the same questions [What should I do? Should I sit here or in my room? What do I do? I can't cope...] to someone who would not listen to the advice was starting to grate on me, after 6 weeks of being her chosen target. Honestly though, I've loved the placement, and I think the main reason that particular patient made me feel that way was that I hated to see her that agitated and distressed. I accompanied her to ECT appointments, assisted her with mealtimes and personal care, helped her in every way that I could think of, and it was nowhere near enough. Somehow, I still feel good. I left her this afternoon on the road to recovery, clean, comfortable and with a full stomach. As a nursing professional, given the situation, I feel I have done that best possible for her today, and that makes me feel good. That makes me feel proud.
Working on an Over 65's ward has made me wonder about my future health. A person's health tends to deteriorate as they age, people collecting illnesses like my mum collects shoes, and mental health doesn't appear to be an exception. I don't want to be old and crazy. Old and crazy conjours up images of conversing with felines and smelling of piss. I don't mind young and mentally interesting, most of the time.
Saturday, 28 February 2009
Monday, 16 February 2009
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.
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
Today I did very little.
It was my turn to clean, and I managed that.
I washed my hair.
I cleaned out the guinea pig hutch.
I attended my nurse check up.
Comparing this to how I was during my last placement, I am doing amazingly. I am coping, I am managing, I may not be 100% but I can look after myself at the moment, which is great. I still feel like I am giving myself this fake, patronising encouragement for doing next to nothing. I hate it, it's like "Yay well done! You're 19 and you can tie your own shoelaces!"*.
My check up was mainly for my contraceptive pill, but the nurse also weighed me. Ughh. I hate being weighed. I bit my tongue to stop myself informing her that my boots were heavy, and I had change in my pocket, and I was wearing a big jumper, and I'm NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT that big. The scales screamed back a 21 pound gain since November, and I am not ready to face that.
I just want to weigh myself properly, but I can only do it first thing in the morning, otherwise I start panicking about water weight, and chowing down on diurectics.
The ridiculous thing is that I'm supposed to be gaining weight, that was the plan, and yet every little gain makes me want to drop half a stone.
*When unwell, attempting to tie my laces has resulted in me in floods of tears, or retreating back under the duvet.
It was my turn to clean, and I managed that.
I washed my hair.
I cleaned out the guinea pig hutch.
I attended my nurse check up.
Comparing this to how I was during my last placement, I am doing amazingly. I am coping, I am managing, I may not be 100% but I can look after myself at the moment, which is great. I still feel like I am giving myself this fake, patronising encouragement for doing next to nothing. I hate it, it's like "Yay well done! You're 19 and you can tie your own shoelaces!"*.
My check up was mainly for my contraceptive pill, but the nurse also weighed me. Ughh. I hate being weighed. I bit my tongue to stop myself informing her that my boots were heavy, and I had change in my pocket, and I was wearing a big jumper, and I'm NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT that big. The scales screamed back a 21 pound gain since November, and I am not ready to face that.
I just want to weigh myself properly, but I can only do it first thing in the morning, otherwise I start panicking about water weight, and chowing down on diurectics.
The ridiculous thing is that I'm supposed to be gaining weight, that was the plan, and yet every little gain makes me want to drop half a stone.
*When unwell, attempting to tie my laces has resulted in me in floods of tears, or retreating back under the duvet.
Tuesday, 27 January 2009
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.
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.
New Shrink
Eeeep eeep eeep.
Meeting the new mind-doctor today. Let's hope he does more than the last one did!
Important things -
Assigning him a new name, for use on this blog.
Remembering to take my diary - although I'm not quite as dependant on it as I have been.
Working out what to wear - too tidy and I'm discharged from services, too scruffy/smelly and I risk admission, not to mention my pride.
Oh. Holy fuck. I have pride in my appearance again. I actually CARE. This is great, fantastic, but also scary, as it is already expressing itself as a desire to LOSE 25 POUNDS NOW.
I hate these appointments.
New shrink usually means having to go through the last 19 years, and with my slightly squiffy memory, it's not that easy.
Fear of a BPD diagnosis - hmmm, young female who selfharms? What could that be.....
I will tidy this post up later, I'm just all in a muddle and I want another fag and I want to see Boyfriend for a good luck kiss but he is Oop North again :(
Half of me wants to let the numb feeling slide over me and crawl under the duvet for a few months, and the other half wants to skip and dance and tra la la la la all the shit stuff away.
Meeting the new mind-doctor today. Let's hope he does more than the last one did!
Important things -
Assigning him a new name, for use on this blog.
Remembering to take my diary - although I'm not quite as dependant on it as I have been.
Working out what to wear - too tidy and I'm discharged from services, too scruffy/smelly and I risk admission, not to mention my pride.
Oh. Holy fuck. I have pride in my appearance again. I actually CARE. This is great, fantastic, but also scary, as it is already expressing itself as a desire to LOSE 25 POUNDS NOW.
I hate these appointments.
New shrink usually means having to go through the last 19 years, and with my slightly squiffy memory, it's not that easy.
Fear of a BPD diagnosis - hmmm, young female who selfharms? What could that be.....
I will tidy this post up later, I'm just all in a muddle and I want another fag and I want to see Boyfriend for a good luck kiss but he is Oop North again :(
Half of me wants to let the numb feeling slide over me and crawl under the duvet for a few months, and the other half wants to skip and dance and tra la la la la all the shit stuff away.
Monday, 26 January 2009
Where The F*ck Are My Hipbones?!
Let's just bear in mind the fact that I've never really lost that much weight. My BMI has never been under 15, and I cut no skeletal waif-like figure even then.
I just can't stand this weight gain business. I'm almost back to my previous normal weight, and it sucks. It's shit. I hate it.
Oh, yes, it has it's advantages. I'm capable of working, I can study, I can get out of bed in the morning, and I haven't had a black eye from fainting and smacking my face on the toilet bowl in recent months. I haven't cut since November, and I haven't purged since before Christmas. I have more energy, I am not suicidal and I have breasts again.
I'm not special. Before I had something, something I cherished and nurtured like the life-sucking little parasite it was, but still it was mine. My special thing. It defined a lot of what I did. Now, I'm lost without it.
I know that my disordered eating only really comes into play when I am unwell, so the recent weeks have reflected me being much better than I have been in a long time. I also know that messing around with my eating greatly increases my chances of a relapse into depression, as the two tend to strike together. I know all of these things are good signs, that I am getting more and more stable, and yet I WANT HIPBONES. I want bones. I want jutting bones and paper thin flesh and I want purity and all that is good and the effort of day to day living to show. I want to be special again.
If I put half the effort I have expended on disordered eating into something productive, I would be special by now, and yet that just makes me want to lose 25lbs even more?
I just can't stand this weight gain business. I'm almost back to my previous normal weight, and it sucks. It's shit. I hate it.
Oh, yes, it has it's advantages. I'm capable of working, I can study, I can get out of bed in the morning, and I haven't had a black eye from fainting and smacking my face on the toilet bowl in recent months. I haven't cut since November, and I haven't purged since before Christmas. I have more energy, I am not suicidal and I have breasts again.
I'm not special. Before I had something, something I cherished and nurtured like the life-sucking little parasite it was, but still it was mine. My special thing. It defined a lot of what I did. Now, I'm lost without it.
I know that my disordered eating only really comes into play when I am unwell, so the recent weeks have reflected me being much better than I have been in a long time. I also know that messing around with my eating greatly increases my chances of a relapse into depression, as the two tend to strike together. I know all of these things are good signs, that I am getting more and more stable, and yet I WANT HIPBONES. I want bones. I want jutting bones and paper thin flesh and I want purity and all that is good and the effort of day to day living to show. I want to be special again.
If I put half the effort I have expended on disordered eating into something productive, I would be special by now, and yet that just makes me want to lose 25lbs even more?
Thursday, 22 January 2009
My Size Zero Is Better Than Your Size Zero...
Or the wonders of so-called "vanity sizing".
I usually wear a pair of lowrise jeans, bought from Asda, which claim to be a UK size 4. They are getting a bit tight now, but they stretch a bit after an hour or so of wearing them. Today I bought a pair of leather trousers [for motorbike rallies and the like] from The Gods Of Clothing, the almight Topshop. They are a UK8, however they seem quite tight. Part of this is because they have a higher waist, and I have high hipbones, however they compare more to a size 6 in most of the other high street stores. I also tried a higher waisted pair of Topshop jeans in a UK10 [!!!], which hung off me, and made my mother grimace and comment on how I "need feeding up".
A UK6 in New Look still fits relatively well, although they seem to think I have the thighs of a UK14. Boots are never small enough on my calves. Most clothing stores seem to think I have no breasts [I have them again! Back to a 30DD! Mwa ha ha ha ha!]. Although getting a longer leg length is relatively easy, getting tops to fit my [ridiculously] long upper body is still almost impossible, and for someone who HATES their stomach, this is very frustrating. I tend to buy t-shirt dresses, or get men's band t-shirts and sew up the sides.
Shirts are a nightmare. The arms and body are never long enough, and if I get clothing from the "tall" section, I need a UK4/6 which is hardly ever available.
What is the deal with this vanity sizing business anyway? Why can't everything just be available in tall as well as petite? Almost all the hghstreet stores cater for the *ahem* fuller figure, with Plus Size clothing getting it's own section, designs and even name, yet tall clothing is limited to one rail, if there is any!
The only options seem to be paying extortionate prices at specisalist online stores, which usually don't do smaller than a UK8, gaining lots of weight [Noooooo! This is big enough!], or having life changing surgery to shorten my body and arms, so that I can wear normal clothes!
Next clothing rant: How DARE La Senza stop selling 30-inch back sizes!? Now, I have to buy from specialist, not to menton expensive brands such as Freya. Or spend hours at my Mum's sewing machine removing inches of excess material.
I usually wear a pair of lowrise jeans, bought from Asda, which claim to be a UK size 4. They are getting a bit tight now, but they stretch a bit after an hour or so of wearing them. Today I bought a pair of leather trousers [for motorbike rallies and the like] from The Gods Of Clothing, the almight Topshop. They are a UK8, however they seem quite tight. Part of this is because they have a higher waist, and I have high hipbones, however they compare more to a size 6 in most of the other high street stores. I also tried a higher waisted pair of Topshop jeans in a UK10 [!!!], which hung off me, and made my mother grimace and comment on how I "need feeding up".
A UK6 in New Look still fits relatively well, although they seem to think I have the thighs of a UK14. Boots are never small enough on my calves. Most clothing stores seem to think I have no breasts [I have them again! Back to a 30DD! Mwa ha ha ha ha!]. Although getting a longer leg length is relatively easy, getting tops to fit my [ridiculously] long upper body is still almost impossible, and for someone who HATES their stomach, this is very frustrating. I tend to buy t-shirt dresses, or get men's band t-shirts and sew up the sides.
Shirts are a nightmare. The arms and body are never long enough, and if I get clothing from the "tall" section, I need a UK4/6 which is hardly ever available.
What is the deal with this vanity sizing business anyway? Why can't everything just be available in tall as well as petite? Almost all the hghstreet stores cater for the *ahem* fuller figure, with Plus Size clothing getting it's own section, designs and even name, yet tall clothing is limited to one rail, if there is any!
The only options seem to be paying extortionate prices at specisalist online stores, which usually don't do smaller than a UK8, gaining lots of weight [Noooooo! This is big enough!], or having life changing surgery to shorten my body and arms, so that I can wear normal clothes!
Next clothing rant: How DARE La Senza stop selling 30-inch back sizes!? Now, I have to buy from specialist, not to menton expensive brands such as Freya. Or spend hours at my Mum's sewing machine removing inches of excess material.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
