muppinstuff

heading towards the darkest night

Last week it seemed like I was out nearly every night. Lots of things happening but of course, little time to blog about any of them. Tuesday night was a Friends of Coburg Olympic Pool meeting, Wednesday night the Moreland Council meeting, followed by drinks and then a walk home in the eerie night light. Thursday night was a delightful dinner out with my old mother's group and although I didn't bring my camera at the restaurant, I sat in the car at home afterwards and looked at the lights coming through the rain and it looked like some sort of heavenly disco. And I hadn't had a drop to drink. Not one. The other big event for the week was a friend's 40th birthday party. Very sparkly and fun. I must say, in many ways, I enjoy parties much more now as an old fart than I ever did when they were a regular feature of my life.

 

I'm really enjoying taking pictures at night at the moment, especially with my new wide aperture high ISO approach. Which is just as well because I feel like I don't have all that much spare daylight time right at the moment. Normally at this time of the year, I start to feel winter close in on me. It's dark when I leave work, the washing's a hassle, our house is damp, dark, cold and starts to get a musty smell that I'm sure would be much improved if the landlord fixed the guttering and water didn't pool under the house. Some years the winter grimbliness has been extreme. But not this year. Instead I feel quite light inside. I'm not sure whether it's more because it hasn't really been all that cold yet or more to do with the feeling that lots of good things have been happening in my life. The knowlege that this is the last winter we'll spend in this house has helped. And that that I'll be bidding farewell to the disgusting carpet that I've tried my best to ignore for 17 or so years.

Then there's the purple pills to consider. I have to say, that after some issues at the beginning, I've grown to really, really like the purple pills and the calm they bring to my life. It's really hard to explain the difference they make, but it's a relief not to be tossed between the up and the down. I still feel like me. Even if I sometimes do miss the inner drama of the unmedicated me. Feeling better and acting better has also meant that parts of my life that felt out of control before have started to mend. There seems to be a multiplier effect about the process of getting better that kind of mirors the downward spiral I suppose. What I mean is that once a few things start to get better, there's a flow on effect and more and more starts to improve and before you know it you wake up one day and realise that you don't feel like shit anymore, but actually life is pretty fine. Not that everything is perfect, we still shout at Grace when she's naughty for the umpteeth time in an hour and I still eat too much chocolate and not enough broccoli.

sounds of smashing glass

Once upon a time, anger would rise up in me until it reached this awful, awful point where I wanted to smash something. Actual smashing only happened a few times, a broken glass door at my parents place, an unbreakable (hah!) glass on the concrete path outside in the backyard and once, another unbreakable glass in the hallway of the cafe we owned. None of these smashing events were anything to be proud of and looking back, I have only the faintest sense of what it was that made me feel so wronged, so powerless, so consumed with rage. Other times, when the black dog was at its very blackest, thoughts ran through my head in which I heard the sound of glass smashing and felt my teeth breaking as I crashed the car into a pole. These two feelings, although different are not entirely unconnected. Both involved a terrible, awful, fearful feeling inside, that affected those around. The smashing was a cry for help that pushed people away.  So why am I writing about this?

Well, there was an incident at work last Monday and it hasn't quite left me yet. It's not that I think about it all the time, but I'm still a little jumpy, a bit touchy. When I wrote about it in one of my paper diaries, on the tram (because I've been busy and that was the first quiet time I had that was not taken up with watching telly and knitting), I noticed that I was writing in small precise sentences, like a statement for the police, and that I was fighting back tears.  Not that I didn't have a big cry after it happened. I did. Like others around me, I was all strong and quite useful while it happened but after the police had gone and things had settled, I retreated to the sick room for a big girly sob. And then I had to call mum and tell her and hear Grace's voice on the phone. Then I had to call G who was still in tasmania at the time. I wasn't the only one. There were a few red eyes and shaky hands about. There's something quite upsetting about having someone walk into your place of work with a brand new hammer and without even talking to anyone, calmly smash several touch screens, a computer, the video survelliance unit and a big wall mounted television. Which came crashing down. All the smashing was right at the front of the office which is a fair way from where I sit and no-one was hurt. I don't even think he ever any intention to hurt anyone but you don't know that when it's all happening. The first thing I knew about it was the sound of glass smashing, followed immediately by the sight of people running and shouting for the alarm. The ten minutes it took for the police to arrive seemed like avery long time. Especially with the alarm still running and a frightened customer whisked from the front area sitting at my desk. And not knowing what was going to happen next.

On Friday, I went to the market on my own for some time out and to buy some socks. As I was sitting on the tram writing in my little emergency diary (the one I carry just in case I have to write something), I thought I'd get to the second incident this week. Yep. The second. On Thursday, just as I was getting ready to watch some late night telly (season 5 of The Sopranos) and knit, I heard the screech of tires, the smashing of glass and the grind of metal and plastic, followed by angry shouts. Right outside our house. I went out to have a look, there was kicking (of cars and the ground) and shouting and swearing, steam and glass everywhere. A crowd was gathering and seeing whether there was anyone hurt which there wasn't.  But I called 000 anyway, calm on one level, losing it on another, double checking that no-one was hurt. Again it seemed to take the police a long time to arrive. Actually, by the time the motorbike cop arrived, the young men whose cars had collided had already stopped yelling and were working together to move the cars off the road and the one who lives across the road was sweeping away the glass. Sort of.

Every thing at work was cleaned up very quickly, although the equipment is still broken. We were looked after well, extra staff arrived soon afterwards to help us out and allow plenty of time for a proper de-brief. But it makes you think twice about wanting to go to work. An extra reason to drag your feet a little, to stay under the doona for yet another five minutes. Especially when you're a simple public servant (although our bureacracy is complicated and kafkaesque at times). Sometimes though over the last week, I've thought about the man with the hammer and how he might have felt, having all that cold hard anger inside, why it might have built to that point. And then waking up and realising the aftermath. Will he feel regret, shame, be upset that he frightened people? Someone told me he'll be sent a bill. Apparently damaging commonwealth property doesn't come cheap. Even after it's all been swept away.

so, no more Dr X

Contrary to what I wrote in my last post, I'm extremely sensible about taking my medication and continuing therapy. I might dream of acting otherwise, with better consequences than are likely and I do often question whether being treated by a psychiatrist automatically places me into a certain category of unwellness. It's a slippery fish, this crazy/sane business, but that's one of the reasons why up until recently I was visiting the doctor every fortnight, every month at the very least. So she could keep me in line with the treatment. Tell me that I'm making progress, even when I can't see it because I'm stuck in a gloomy place (like poor old Eyeore), that I'm getting better and when I forget, remind me that I really was quite unwell. Because sometimes my judgement strays, especially when I start to feel well after being unwell. It's classic, and it's in the very nature of a mental illness. And as she reminded me on my last visit, she's doctor, that's her job and that's what I paid her for.

However, it's pretty obvious that for one reason or another, I am no longer her patient. As the intake nurse at the place where this doctor's business used to be, said, she's taken her book with her. Her big scruffy book of appointments and patient contacts. Although you would think that, in this day and age of the internet and email, her new practice, or someone else on her behalf, would be able to rustle up a mailing list and at the very least send a form letter, Dr X has  <insert plausible platitude here> and will no longer be able to treat you. Your options for further treatment are <insert names of expensive possibilities>. Please call <insert number of clinic here> if you have any further queries. We wish you well on your journey to sanity, blah, de blah blah.

I've been surprised at just how upset I've been about all this. I was referred to Dr X on release from the mother baby unit after the psychosis in 2005. She's seen me get well, loose the zyprexa weight, come off lithium, go back to work, get depressed again, get well again, start putting the weight back on, go nuts again, get well again. She's seen me at my lowest and blackest more than once and approaching an awful state of mania. I've told her when I've had those silent and disturbing car crash thoughts and although they're part of my inner landscape when the black dog comes to stay, they're not something I share easily because I know I would never act on them. So I don't talk about them unless asked, and she knew when to ask. I've burst into tears telling her that I want to go to hospital. Let her see when the actor is getting tired. And right at the beginning I told her my whole history, as far back as I can remember. Including my dodgiest behaviour as an adult, like how many drugs I really took back in the day and other less than savoury aspects of my past.  She's given me a sense of somewhere to go, of security, of backup. And although I paid for that service, it goes deep. I should have been told that I was no longer her patient. Or whatever the deal is.

So anyway as I explained my situation to the intake nurse, I found it hard not to cry. As I ran through the whole sorry saga, the intake nurse really did seem to have heard it all before and I got the impression that I am not the only one of Dr X's patients being assessed by a new doctor. While I was sewing the other day, with the autumn sun on my cheek I found myself thinking that maybe Dr X is unwell herself. It would be hard to listen to all these crazy neurotic people and not take it on yourself. I really hope she's OK but I wish she'd made arrangements as per the RANZCP (of which she is a fellow) code of ethics. Still, it's time to stop being a sook and find a new doctor. Because even if I knew where she was, I couldn't really go back. Not now. Hopefully I'll be able to get my file transferred. Deep breath. Good to have made a decision.

why does a fish need a bicycle anyway?

One way or another I can't seem to get beyond putting things on my head for this theme. This brilliant (hah) idea came to me as I lay on the bed having a short nanna nap this afternoon. Mostly I was thinking about whether or not I've been jilted by my psychiatrist, who seems to have vanished into the ether. Maybe she's having a break for some reason, but various temporary receptionists have let slip little snippets of conflicting information. So maybe, I'll have to go through the process of finding a new doctor, of telling my story all over again, of settling into another treatment regime. Tedious. Or maybe she's moved offices, I've fallen through the cracks because of two cancelled appointments (her not me) and I'll catch up with her soon enough. If this is the case, how do I act? Like I'm not pissed off that no-one has told me what's going on? Pleased that she's OK and that I don't have to start with someone new?

The other thread of thought running through my head, as I looked out into the cold afternoon, and felt all jilted and teary was that maybe I could just wean myself of the drugs and abandon the whole concept of therapy. That I was normal before, and I can be normal again. Dangerous thoughts, because I'm feeling just well enough to start getting complacent. And if that's not absurd, tell me what is.

More of the absurd here.

so very, very tired

So very, very tired

Hitting a wall at three or four each day, wanting to sleep endlessly. Wondering if I could go a whole day without small talk. Looking around my office, the tram and thinking, hey I'm in sleepytown, it's all a bizarre somnolent dream. And yet not sleeping well at night. Feeling queasy, all clogged up. It's my liver maybe, possibly my old friend the gallstone. Hard to tell if it's a physical or mental thing. Maybe both. All being checked out, eventhough the very thought of being poked and prodded, of discussing my body, even with my favourite hippy(ish), but well qualified and diligent doctor, makes me curl inside.

Trying to eat right, craving smoked salmon on rye, bitter lettuce, lemon juice in water, orange food; pumpkin, sweet potato, canteloupe. Trying to walk every day to counter the sluggishness. Yoga would be good, if only I could be bothered (yes, I realise herein lies half the problem, lying around makes you feel like shit especially when that's all you want to do). Doing things; playing with Grace, cleaning the house, shopping, going to work, writing, being in my life but dragging myself through each day. Thinking, I should be able to stop feeling like this. Thinking, why can't I just decide that everything will be different. And then, having made that committment, find that they are.

I want my brain back. All of it. I feel like the straw man, or scarecrow, from the Wizard of Oz, if only I had a brain.... His is revealed, but I'm not sure mine will return. I don't mind going to work, it's no harder or easier than home (except I can't nap, which is probably counterbalanced by being able to read at lunch and go to the toilet by myself) but like everything else I'm slow at it. Muddled, but my voice is so soft, even the toughest customers are nice to me, leading to some good chats. But I'm not busting my arse to work superfast when it's busy, I'm pushing through mud as it is. Feeling my brain pop, the clouds drift over. A weird sensation, almost like I'm going to fall but I don't. Of course I think about it, along with crawling into a cave, with a telly, some books and a nice handknitted rug or two. Waking up in spring. All fresh and new.

I don't dare stop though, what if I never got re-started again? Perhaps I need my purple pills checked.

am I swimming?

Not really. Not sinking either, treading water perhaps? Grasping at the loose threads of my life as they swirl around me. Knowing that I want resolution, especially to do with houses, but that I'm really not ready yet. Especially to do the things that come after the fall of the hammer. I'm trying to be patient.

Part of me is starting to go inside again. People who don't know me really well mightn't notice, but the extroversion of the mania is dissappearing. Along with all the grand plans and belief that I could do anything. I don't really want to write about any of this, but I promised myself that I would, to keep a track.

Just as my mood has started to sink, I've succumbed to a nasty chest thing that saw me coughing blood (just from burst blood vessels) and sitting for an hour in an unfamiliar doctor's waiting room (my usual doctor being overbooked) so I could get antibiotics. The new doctor was nice and wrote me a certificate without even being asked. She seemed impressed that I'd wrtten a list of the medication I'm taking and I nearly cried. Then in the chemist, waiting for my prescription to be filled, I cried again. Later in the afternoon, I asked my psychiatrist if what I was feeling was normal and she said, oh yes, classic. It's one of the reasons people decide to stay on mood stabilisers, these crashing lows after the highs. We talked about how I had been feeling flat and uninspired and about some of the other not so great thoughts I've been having on and off. She gave me her 24hr contact line and suggested that after my holidays, once I've recovered from the chest thing, come off the sleepers and had my thyroid tested again, that we fiddle with the other medication. My sense is that I'm really tired too. If I wait just it out, it will pass. I am so looking forward to the beach.

Blue water at the Brunswick pool, a while ago. Taken the same day I took this one, which has become my most visited picture on Flickr. Wouldn't be the blue would it?

Enter blue world here.

oh dear, not another post about breathing

It's been another intense couple of days. My computer, my beautiful computer has refused to start properly. There are various theories being bounced around but none have been proven. Oh, the anxiety of it! Especially when I've set myself new tasks to learn, new projects, all requiring access to the internet and email. Alongside the gazillion photos that need to be sorted (I hate not being on top of my photos). And my dad, expert and problem solver extraordinaire is away for a while. We've been talking by phone quite a bit and with his help, I've run a scan for the quality of the backup, restored to a known good point, reinstalled software, followed my nose around Windows Vista and waited for it all to come good. But no, not unless I'm missing something obvious, which is completely possible. It has taken hours and hours. Anyway, to cut a long and tedious saga short, I've decided to operate in safe mode for a while and to do what I can't do on my computer on G's. Like upload photos. Which may well involve using sneakernet (walking) to transfer them across. Lucky I can. Because I want to get back to chipping away at my projects and reading blogs and writing. The very thought of being computerless (except while on holiday which I suppose I'll cope with) just makes me want to cry. Pathetic, I know.

Anyway, I've managed to set safe mode so it looks OK. The photo editing software is working, as is the internet. I've lost emails back to mid January but that's OK I guess. I'll catch up.

These pictures are from the unsorted file and were taken early one evening before the crash, down by the Merri Creek. Gerard was chasing Grace, who was very interested in ducks and the water. I was looking at every rustle in the grass worrying about snakes and taking pictures of the pool. The council meeting was an interesting process to see. I think it's going to be a big fight.

All of this has come at an interesting time in my recovery from the mania. Mostly I'm fine. But still not quite ready to trust myself out in the world. It feels a bit like in the old days, when I'd enter a vigorous dance floor and there would be this time before it clicked, a time when I felt all arms and legs. Really clumsy and overly self conscious. Some people can jump right into a dance floor (or kitchen) but I always had that sense of dislocation at the start. Of course, some dance floors never clicked but then life is not a party, so I wouldn't want to push that analogy too far.

I don't know if I'm over reacting when these computer issues bring me to the verge of tears (more than once), or if being nervous at a council meeting is normal for me. Something about this pool issue really gets to me in an emotional sense.  My outer shell has not quite reformed and the hall of mirrors effect still lurks in the background occasionally. Not nearly as bad as it was, more like the odd shimmer than a full on halucination. It's still hard to relax or switch from one task to another and I could easily sit here well into the wee hours with the tap, tap, tap. Being obsessive. Have I filled my life too full or with the wrong things? Yep, that's the hall of mirrors effect again, because really there are just little spaces here and there where I really get to choose. Time that would be otherwise spent watching telly or something. The rest is full with family life and working and the business of life, like eating and sleeping and going to the supermarket. My doctor thinks I'm doing well, citing improved sleep, returning to work, calmer moods, but she says I have to expect that full recovery will take time. Just as it would if I'd broken a leg or something. I know. Alright. Bedtime. Blogreading tommorrow.

back to busy

Back to work last week. Just two short days. It was OK, but enough. Two full days coming up this week which I think will be OK too. It's kind of weird leaving in the middle of the afternoon, so it will be good to work normal days with proper rhythms. With an hour for lunch (instead of half). Being at home for four weeks has made me realise anew what a difference it makes to have an hour to myself in the middle of the day. Especially important when I come home from another kind of intense day and have to go straight into the bath, dinner and bed routine. Complete with tantrums.

Some of my colleagues thought that I had been on holidays (leadership not being specific about why I was absent due to privacy reasons, which I appreciate) but for some reason, that really bothered me. So, I've started to tell people that I was ill, and if they've asked, I've said that I had a manic attack, that it was pretty serious and that I'm getting better. There have some interesting reactions, one being that I seemed alright at the Christmas party and you wouldn't have known. Which may well be true. I guess my actor continued to present the calm/normal facade for short periods, although she did get a bit tired and haggard there for a while. I really, really need my actor, but sometimes she needs a rest.

Some have said they think being honest is really brave but I doubt I'm ever going to buy the whole bipolar / mood affective disorder / mania / depression / whatever it is I have / as just another health issue that can be managed just like diabetes thing until it's not shrouded in shame and secrecy. I'm sure blogging about it and the supportive response I've had is a big factor in why I feel more or less OK about being upfront. Sure, I do worry about my career (such that it is) and about being labelled and about having a return to work program, but less than I would have thought. Blogging means I'm used to expressing my thoughts, used to making a narrative about what's happened to me. That's given me a confidence I might not have had otherwise. So, once again, thank you all for being here. And for reading.

Last week I also had two(!!) by myself outings at night. Firstly a mother's goup dinner at a local place, which was great. Although I felt a little sunworn and sweaty, as I chose not to go home after my doctor's appointment, but to walk by the river with my camera instead, and then catch a tram to the restaurant. Then the next night, drinks (sadly softies for me) with a woman friend at a nearby pub. It was interesting to walk into a hotel by myself for the first time in about eight or nine years and scan the room for my friend. I noticed a number of men of roughly my age group look back. Not that I would dream of anything untoward, but you know, it's a funny/interesting feeling when you're a forty something, somewhat shrewish mother with a partner and all the responsibilities that go with that life to have a man make eye contact with you. Indeed. And then later walking back to my car (on a main road not far from where I met my friend), I was harrassed by hoons driving past yelling take our photo. When I refused, because I was only interested in the lovely soft rain (oh yes!) and the lights, and because I'm fairly arrogant that way, they said, hey look, she's not a man! Hah. All in all though, it was really great to be out and about. I'm going to do it again. For sure.

recovery

The theme for January self-portrait challenge is celebration and and I think I'm stretching it a little to say that I'm celebrating recovery. Nonetheless, what with being unwell and everything, I feel a bit as though the usual celebration passed me by a little this Christmas. I was there, but there was also too much anxiety, tension and well, mania for it to be fun on the inside. Indeed, I feel quite proud of getting through it all without crumpling in a total heap until afterwards. And proud of being there for the first Christmas that Grace will remember (just hope she remembers the good bits, like the dancing, the presents and lunch at Dad's). So celebrating recovery it is.

I've started back at work this week. Just two short days to begin with. And I'm starting to feel like I'm actually in the recovery phase now. Not totally out of the woods, but ready to begin doing the things I need to do to become well again.  There's a fine line here. Too much too soon and I'll go backwards, but I have to push myself to get better. Today I continued with last weeks goal of starting an excercise programme. To get the endorphins going and to counter some of the effects of the medication I'll be taking for the next six months or so. I walked for an hour or so with Grace in the stroller, finishing at the pool. Grace happily went to hang with the childare ladies (actually I think the cool toys are the big draw card here) while I went and did laps. It feels good to be in the water, and swimming is exactly the right excercise for me at the moment because really, it's all about breathing. And the blue of the water. If nothing else, I find that extraordinarily calming. My fitness is returning faster than I thought it would and I think I'll be able to do 20 fastish laps of a 50 metre pool by the end of the month (if I keep it up).

Also celebrating, with much joy, my new little camera which is bright orange and which I can use in water. It still freaks me out to do this.  Although I love being in the water, it was seemingly impossible to smile and blow bubbles at the same time. Taking pictures under water is harder than I thought... but it's fun learning. Grace and I had a swim together afterwards and I think she's going to love the water too.

See more celebration here.

Christmas '07: the good, the bad, the ugly and the good again

the good: Watching Grace place an ornament on the Christmas tree as though she'd been doing it all her life. Going to Dad's place and having a bang up Christmas lunch with roast chicken, ham and all the trimmings. Some really great and thoughtful gifts (and not so many that we're having to re-arrange the house) including a new telly (I so love the new telly, in a completely shallow way). Making calenders from my photos (nervewracking but I'm so glad I did it, it's reallly nice to see my photos printed on posh paper). Christmas morning with Grace, Beach boys Christmas songs and old cartoons, Grace calling the reindeer donkeys. She totally gets the concept of presents now - the big hits were the tool box G made her, the easel from Nana, the kiddy camera from Papa, the fairy skirt from G's folks in Tasmania and the Grover t-shirt from me (meaning she'll wear something other than a singlet, a major victory for sun protection). Grace going to sleep at Papa and Nina's in the big bed in the spare room and not being a Christmas monster. Plum pudding the way my nan used to make it (gosh I guess I'll have to learn one day). Hanging out with the family. Taking photos of my step sister Vivian, And a big dance to Boney M in the loungeroom at the end, with Grace wanting to do hold hands dancing with mummy and shrieking in delight. Yep, all that was really ace.

the bad: Being prescribed an anti-psychotic that was supposed to make me sleep the Thursday before Christmas. My re-action was atypical and I was awake all night and really groggy the next day, actually not just groggy but almost unable to function and having a child to look after, and lacking the judgement to ask for help. Wanting my mania back because then I could do stuff and at least with the sleepers, I got six hours sleep a night. Making a fairy skirt for Grace and receiving one from G's family in Tasmania that Grace opened first (on Christmas Eve) and liked better. Over-reacting. Probably a misunderstanding from when we talked about gifts. It's not like I can remember what I say half the time at the moment. Having to lock myself in the study on Christmas morning to cry because everything was just all too intense. Christmas is not a good time to have a manic episode, my friends. Not being able to drink on Christmas day eventhough I'm still not driving. My Dad had seriously nice drinks, so that sucked. I love getting a bit wobbly at Christmas.

the ugly: Yesterday was the first day I haven't felt like crap in a bag. Boxing Day I felt like I'd been hit over the head several times and there was a pain across the back of the neck that radiated into my right arm. Sewing, computering and much tension held in my neck, is my guess. And I couldn't get the new telly to play dvds in colour. On Thursday, Mum took Grace while G was at work and I bumbled around by myself at home. The morning was fine but in the afternoon I collapsed into a pitiful crying heap. Again. For two hours. Thought I was doomed. At least it all came out.

the good again: Finally figured out dvd  in colour. Watching said telly (did I say before how much I lurve the telly?). Friday, Mum came over and we went to the material shop (to touch fabric and get more of some lovely cotton knit I made my Christmas cardy from). I made chicken soup (with the stock from the Christmas roast carcasses) and then while Grace napped, we sat and chatted while I did some mending and light sewing. Maybe I am going to be OK. We talked about planning Christmas so that there's still time for making and doing (even if I'm working). It's going to be much more mellow at this end next year. But lunch at Dad's was great. Like I said in my last post, I am so grateful and love it that my family can do that. I really do.

Today is pretty good too. We've picked a whole heap of apricots and I'm off to jam in the heat. As it should be. Hope your Christmases were all excellent and that the recovery is well under way.