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.

Praise to the GODS that are O2

We finally have INTERNET.
It has taken numerous phone calls, technician visits and kicking of the wireless box, but I am connected.
I need this blog right now, so I'm bloody grateful.

Talking of bloody, the irregular menstrual cycle appears to be related to it's grand return [it was also on hiatus following my little weight loss episode prior to Christmas], and possibly some effects of the Pill. My blood tests detected nothing - I'm am medically healthy.
I'm slightly disappointed. I was hoping it would throw up a little thyroid trouble or similar, instantly explaining my mood disorder and moving me from "mental" to "a bit physically ill". Let's face it - it would make life easier.

Food-wise, I appear to be having a slip. I came across a dreadful picture of me from a few weeks ago in which I look huge, and it hasn't exactly helped. I'm at my body's "healthy weight", the one it bounces back to whenever it is allowed to eat, and yet I feel like a whale. I have been surveying the pro-ana sites again, buying lo-cal bread and stepping on the scales a little too often. I'm at the top of a very slippery slope, and I'm making sure everyone knows it, because if I try and throw myself down it, I want the f*cking cavalry out to stop me. I am not wasting away under the duvet again. I want to just be happy with my weight, not keep hiring the anorexia videos from the university library so I can admire the competition. "See, you are huge -she is perfect". Bearing in mind that "she" is 4 and a half stone, and on her way to the Bethlem.

Part of the food problem is that I feel like I am always hungry. This gnawing sensation in my abdomen won't go away and it is having a real effect. I can quiet it for a short while by eating, but I'm pretty sure it isn't just hunger, I think it's an effect of the Venlafaxine to be honest. I have been trying to see my new consultant since March, but still haven't had any luck. The secretary is on sick leave, and the scheduled appointment is during an important lecture.

I am totally confused by food and weight now. My stepsister has two young children and is much smaller than me, she must be a size 6. She works out constantly and is so fit. I can't afford a gym membership and I'm too embarrassed to go running or work out anyway. I have no idea what is a healthy, well-balanced meal, I don't know what is a healthy size, and I feel huge huge huge.

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.

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?

Home Hairdressing

I'm actually quite good at cutting my own hair. I just gave myself a rather fetching fringe, and I'm quite please with the result. I'm also quite pleased that for once I cut my hair because I wanted to, rather than as an alternative to self harm.
I had a bit of a habit of cut/shaving chunks out of my hair whenever I thought that I'd go much to far if I self harmed
I gave myself an all over number 1, pure skinhead chic, when the Citalopram decided it just wouldn't work. I grew to quite like it, but at that point I liked anything which screamed "for fuck's sake just HELP ME".

I'm quite glad I have hair now, and that I've managed to make it look quite, well, pretty.

I also succeeded in eating some noodles today, which have been a banned food for about 6 months, so I'm quite proud of that as well.

I just read Lola Snow's post on TIDYING, and I've been there a few times. Today, however, when I got stressed over revision, I organised my notes - it gave me something to do when I needed something, and tomorrow my revision will be easier.

See. I can find positives. I can be positive.
Hmmm. Fag break!

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.

La la la la la!

Babble babble babble.

Anyone else hate being an in-between?
Not mentalistic enough for inpatient or intensive treatment, but just f*cked enough in the ol' brain department to scare yourself?

I was sitting in the kitchen, half-watching Scrubs whilst attempting not to consume the contents of my cupboard.
Enter my housemate. Early-forties, mature student, irritatingly cheerful. Wants to share every little giggle with me, and doesn't really pick up hints.
I mean, I'm sitting here, answering your constant spew of absolute drivel with occasional grunts, with absolutely no interest in having a conversation, and yet you just keep trying to make me join in. You're just making me feel guilty for being "mean" to you, not joining in your enthusiasm over a psychotic cat on Youtube.

I had to get out.

I took a trip into town to meet a couple of friends, and although I was dreading it and nearly cancelled, his arrival meant I was keen to get out. Queue GG, sitting in a pub garden, with a pint of lukewarm water, smoking like a chimney. Oh, and shaking like a leaf of course.
I can hear this tap-tap-tap, and I realise it's my right leg, with a mind of it's own, knocking against the bench. I firmly plant my tootsies on the ground, problem solved, right? Nah. Now it's my hand, then my little finger just won't stay still.

I'm sitting there, feeling like I'm levitating and about to float off at any moment, and my friends arrive. Hmmmm.

Act normal, GG. You aren't mentally interesting. You are mentally concerning.

I managed to hold out for quite a while, although I alternated between laughing hysterically and fighting back tears in the loo.

Walking home from the bus stop was a nightmare. I don't exactly live in the best area, but it's the best of a bad lot, if you get my drift.

I was petrified. Every shadow, dark doorway, and parked car was hiding a multitude of sadist rapist monsters who fancied ripping me limb from limb. I was scared shitless, walking right down the centre of the road, with the local paper headlines for the next week whizzing through my head.

"Local Teen Raped and Beaten"
"Girl Commits Suicide After Assault"
"Body Found In Bin"

There's a little selection for you all.
Why am I such a bundle of nerves?

Hmmm. This Venlafaxine stuff had better improve.
I'm all for sticking it out but I'd rather be the beast-from-under-the-duvet than crazy-girl-attacking-imaginary-foes-in-the-street.

Firmist Butt In Britain

Or possibly just the most bruised.
I am attempting to relax at the moment, but I am extremely restless. I attempted to watch a film earlier, as a break from numerous attempts at completing my essay. I paused it at least 8 times, not for toilet or tea breaks, but just to do RANDOM CRAP. I got up and moved all my DVDs from a shelf to a storage box under my bed. I sorted out the rest of my fire damaged items. I keep finding things to wash. I went to town earlier, and spent ages in the supermarket, almost in tears, because my 3 usual flavours of soup have been replaced, and there are only 2 new ones with low enough calories. I then ate a packet of biscuits, because I couldn't stop. I was just trying to be normal, have a biscuit with my tea, squeeze in a few more calories to make up for my erratic eating. Last night I tried to go to bed at 10pm, gave up after an hour, went back to bed at 1am, was up at 3am, 4.30am, 6.15am, 7.45am, 8.50am, 9.45am, then dragged myself up at 10.30am. over 12 hours of attempted sleep. I'm sitting here, typing this, constantly alternating clenching my buttocks, because for some reason that is something I have to do whilst sitting down. My bum hurts. I can't have a bath, because at the moment if I get a slashy-slashy impulse I'm pretty sure I'd act on it. I keep opening files on my computer, or grabbing a notebook and pen, then wondering what it was that I so desperately had to write down. I don't think I'm manic, I managed to cook a chili earlier without burning the house down [that way I have food for the next few days, I just have to microwave it]. I'm not myself though. Normally I'm pretty happy to curl up on my beanbag with a movie or a book, but today I'm not. I'm really irritable. My housemate was laughing in his room whilst watching a program on BBC2 about people with mental health problems. I wanted to rip his head off and spit down his throat. instead I just snapped at him to close his door next time he wants to laugh at other people's expense. I mean for f*uck's sake I'm a trainee mental health nurse, does he really think that I'm going to appreciate his ignorant jokes?
ARRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

When I see my psychiatrist in two weeks, I am going to beg for support getting council accommodation. I can't live with other people when I'm like this, I'm a nightmare and then I just feel so guilty. I'm trying to be civil and "normal", and yet I want to tell them to F*CK OFF!

This is from the girl who turns everything inwards. I can't even do that now. Hiding self harm scars isn't fun, and I promised Boyfriend I wouldn't shave my head again.

There is nothing left to CUT.

So It Continues.

This abnormal dreaming is quite confusing, and is affecting my sleep quite a bit, but I can deal with that. Hopefully it will settle down soon, and then I can work out if it's the medication or the depression. My dreams are often odd, but these are a whole new league.

On a lighter note, I'm definately much better today. I was up at 10am, despite waking up loads during the night, and bathed and dressed appropriately by 1pm. I know that 3 hours sounds like ages, but it's amazing for me! I actually feel happy with my appearence today, and I've eaten a can of sweetcorn soup and two slices of very seedy wholemeal bread, plus a cereal bar that wasn't even low calorie.

I've been drinking loads of green tea because my mouth seems quite dry, but I don't feel 3 feet to the left of life. I feel a bit more sorted. I can think [!] and I just whacked out 800 words of my essay. I've been alternating between consuming my fingernails, lying under the duvet and just plain avoiding it for weeks, because of this huge mental block, but now I can write.

I'm not great, I'm not 100%, but I'm certainly better than I've been in ages. Possibly the best I've been in over a year. I finally sorted out my "Fire Box", which contained all the fire damaged sentimental objects, photos, everything that I managed to salvage after the fire we had last year. All the important things, the things on display, on the wall, on the shelf, were just coated in thick black smoke. Today I've washed quite a few things, including my MONKEY:


Ha! My monkey is so getting a pirate costume now!
Well. I'm sure you can tell I'm rather brighter... [don't be manic, don't be manic...]
Um.
Back to the essay tomorrow morning, for now I think another cuppa, some monkey snuggles and possibly a film before I get an early night.
I need to go and buy more soup tomorrow, so I'm planning to be up and dressed bright and early-ish to go into town. I might even pop into Peacocks and see if they've got any corset-ish-belt-thingies left...

Slight Delirium...

... Or just overly surreal dreams?
I took my first dose of Venlafaxine, and maybe it was because I was nervous about it, but I had some very odd dreams/delusions.
I'm siding with the "it was a dream" idea at the moment, but I'm pretty sure I was awake, or almost. However I managed to convince myself that there was a man in my bed [to the point I nearly called Boyfriend to apologise for cheating], that I had spoken to my friend when I got home that evening, and that my housemate had woke me at 7am for a fry up. I've been in a huff with him all day, and can't exactly explain that the reason is that I'm a bit nuts.

I'm thinking it was just dreams, my over-active mind, but the medication leaflet says that less than 1 in 10 will experience abnormal dreams, and less than 1 in 10,000 will experience delirium.

I'm going to take my second dose now, so hopefully this will settle down. While I'm experiencing it, there is to be no watching horror movies or reading serial killer books before bed time!

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.