Progress, or lack of such

To be honest, I thought I’d have seen more progress by now. Three years after CBT started (it lasted about 8 months) and just over two years since I began taking meds. These have changed and dosages upped several times to where they remain steady at the moment. Daily: 600mg quetiapine, 20mg fluoxetine, 500mg sodium valproate.

And yes, they’ve topped and tailed my more extreme moods. In that respect there’s been significant progress. I still get frequent – and fleeting – suicidal ideation, but I don’t have the strength and wherewithal to actually do anything about it. I tend to ere on the side of caution and add ‘yet’ to that statement. It wouldn’t do to think I’m cured. I know there’s going to be no such thing.

So two years.. I’m holding down my job and – I think – doing well at it. My team gives me some support by way of accepting and dealing with my many cognitive and memory issues that pop up daily more than once.

I have no-one to talk to about my illness; at least, not in detail. Twitter remains a source of support, albeit from people I’ve never met and never will meet. There are loads of us on there exposing our souls and craving help and attention. Whenever it’s good to talk, Twitter offers a (usually) one-directional ‘conversation’ outlet. I have no input from my GP or any other medical service. I saw a psychiatrist last before the summer but that was only because my GP referred me due to a down-turn in moods. I have no future appointment set.

It would be interesting to see if I could hold-down a relationship at this point in my treatment. Bipolar destroyed all the romantic relationships I’ve ever had, and I still feel so bad about that. Some of these were good for me, and I let them go through my – admittedly uncontrollable – moods. As it stands now, three years since talking therapy began and just over two years since meds started, I have no such relationship. Indeed, I’ve not had a girlfriend (or even a date!) in two and a half years. That’s the meds for you; I’ve been stripped of emotions, feelings, libido and effort. I create no writing work, and barely any art work – the things that I’ve always done and done well.

I don’t really live; I exist. And even then, there are occasions when I get hypomanic and don’t even believe that. I exist with moods and delusions, my physical health has taken a hard knock (illness and meds) and I generally ache all over 24/7. I still don’t sleep. My short term memory is f*$*&d, basically. I’ve put on a couple of stone in weight since starting the meds but from looking at other people’s experiences I could have put on an awful lot more. Who knows, maybe I will? I’ve had to get rid of a load of clothes and start acquiring from scratch. (Though that’s actually been quite therapeutic!)

The biggest shock to me lately has been a letter from the Pensions people; I still have 9 more years to work in this stressful job. Until I’m over 66. How the hell’s that going to happen? I’m living day to day. Small mercies.

 

https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/e/e5/Magritte_TheSonOfMan.jpg/225px-Magritte_TheSonOfMan.jpg

 

 

 

 

 

 

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From depression to brief relief

I’m having a brief evening’s break from depression it seems and it’s such a relief. There are signs it’s coming, before I realise it’s here:

I’ll have a drink – not much left of that bottle of white wine. Small glasses, straight or tall glass of kir.

I’ll listen to familiar ‘up mood’ music: invariably this will consist of Underworld, Mew, maybe some Psychedelic Furs. But always Underworld. ‘Two Months Off’ especially

Such a relief; just to lift that mood that’s persecuted me for weeks, months. Try to forget that this break will more than likely last no longer than an evening. I’ll wake tomorrow filled with anxiety, low mood, suicidal ideation and OCD-driven thoughts and ideas I wouldn’t wish on my enemies.

An evening off.

The music in my head and in my body. Moving. Feeling. Being.

An idea that everything might be alright; not forever. Hell, not even for a day. But for now, it might be good. Shift those thoughts, overcome those blades and car crashes, live for another day.

Such a relief, so impermanent. A relaxing of muscles, a loosening of nerves. Just being someone, something, other than who I am. That can wait.

Breathe in, breathe out. Sleep, because tomorrow’s going to be the usual bastard of a day.

 

 

Poem – ‘Sunday, so’

Sunday, so.

 

 

 

I’m ill today. I know I

say that every Sunday

but it’s true, I do.

 

I’m low today; I know

there’s nothing new to

tell you, but I’m low.

 

So the wind swings

from the autumn trees,

I ache from head to

 

toe, that’s so. Elbows,

fingers, knees and toes,

the sort of pain that

 

lingers throughout the

day and blinds the night.

I’m right, I’m ill today.

 

Poem – ‘Check List’

Check List.

 

Mustn’t cross this knife with this

spoon with this fork with this

knife. Must check that window’s

shut now for the tenth time; line

 

of sight not enough must touch

must repeat beneath breath the

mantra, the spell, must put left

shoe on before right must walk

 

upstairs again. Must check the

windows. Must lock the door,

try the handle; time after time

try the handle. Get to the gate,

 

go back check the handle.

Did I shut that bathroom

window? Must go back in

must check must reset the

 

alarm. Make an exit.

 

Poem – ‘I am Full of Bees’

I am full of bees.

 

I am full of bees; every

cell of my being every

breath of my soul aches

 

and pains day and night

night and day ad infinitum.

Gravity is in league with

 

this illness; I’m pulled

down. Down towards the

centre, making my feet

 

heavy, dripping the atoms

that compose me, leaving

me heavy but with little

 

mass. And I’m tired; you

couldn’t even guess how

much I’m tired. I don’t

 

sleep. Never have. Mired

in that sinking sand I’ve

tried everything. Nothing

 

works. My opponent is

me; however the moods

make, take, me. I am

 

full of bees; each cell

buzzing with exhaustion,

creating a sea-swell of hell.

 

 

Meds update

I’m on a relatively recent cocktail of meds now and overall they’re doing their job. The side effects are substantial, significant. I continue to pile on the weight (quetiapine). I ache literally in every cell of my body, constantly. I’m sedated much if not all of the time. I still don’t sleep through the night.

20mg of fluoxetine caps the low moods. 600mg of quetiapine stops the psychosis and the high / mixed moods pretty successfully. (Though see my other post of today.) And the latest, 500mg of valproate stabilises my mood. These three meds seem to have made friends though they gang up to bully me now and then. They know I need them.

I still have ‘extremely intrusive suicidal ideation’. I still have ‘rapid and uncontrolable mood fluctuation’. But regarding the former, I can control it more (hopefully – time will tell). And the latter, the valproate seems to have gone in with fists flying there.

It’s taken months to get the GP surgery and local pharmacy to get my (psychiatrists’) prescription right. This has caused me a lot of stress and worry. It’s isn’t rocket science; it’s a straightforward repeat prescription that should take moments to set up. So far it’s been 3 or 4 months of getting it wrong. Three or four months of stress. I wrote my GP surgery a begging letter recently, imploring him/her to get the ‘script’ sorted. I can do without the hassle basically.

I speak to no-one about my illness. No professional has come forward to offer me counselling or has even offered an ear. It’s all bottled up, and I hold down a stressful job because I hate the thought of being defeated by the evil bipolar monster. I’ve spent the day shaking and confused (again, see my other post of today). Got home, had a couple of glasses of wine, took my meds. Is it bedtime yet?

 

Spooky Action, not much of a distance

I am fastidious about my pre-bedtime routine. This is dictated by my (bipolar) anxiety and OCD. In the living room, I make sure the TV is off, the lights are off and the door is shut. This is how it always is, how it always has been.

This morning I came downstairs and stopped when I saw the door open and lights on. My first thought was that I’d  been burgled (unlikely as the house is as tight as a drum). But no, the lamp I always use was on and another lamp I seldom use was also on. The TV had switched itself off on the power-saving mode.

There was no sign of a break-in; windows were intact as were front and back doors.

This hasleft me feeling ill and uneasy all day. Thinking about it, I can guess only at two posible explanations:

Memory lapse (wouldn’t be the first) probably linked to the dissociation I have with my bipolar. Brief psychotic episode (again, wouldn’t be the first). Had I come downstairs in the night and watched TV or done something else? I have no history of sleep-walking.

It’s all very strange. Spooky action indeed.