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.

 

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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 – ‘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?

 

Easter Sunday

Easter Sunday

 

 

 

Today, again, I’m not me. Today,

again, I see reflections of elsewhere;

else-one. Some other to be. Buzzing

with a particle pulse of happening,

sampling on another level, distant.

 

Withdrawn and imagining how the

smooth cut of a wet stem makes

the flower undone. I’m not here

today; something is, but not me.

I am that close to the atom, see?

 

 

Madness

However much I improve, however much I remain stable, I’m still balancing on the edge of madness. So much so that I feel, even with a smile on my face, that balance could be tilted and into the mire I slip.

There’s no doubt I’m so much better now than I was all my life until the climb began a couple of years ago. While therapy did little except drag up tons of old stuff (childhood issues, physical and psychological abuse) that was then left to fester un-dealt with, the meds – currently 550mg Quetiapine, 20mg fluoxetine – have clipped the ends of my mood swings. There’s been no obvious hypomania for quite a while now, no deep low. My sleep is still almost as bad as ever and decades have passed since I slept right through the night – if indeed I ever did so.

Anxiety is always there to some degree; it’s the main symptom of my ultradian bipolar that hangs around stubbornly poking a long stick at me. The OCD, while a nuisance and often unpleasant, is mild and I can handle it.

I’ve had to live with this my whole life – I don’t just have bipolar, I am it – and as the saying goes, I’ve survived every bad day I’ve ever had. I’m still here.

But I’m still doggedly hanging onto sanity. Those claws could slip any moment making me fall into madness.

I call it (but only to myself) the other one. That other me sharing my body but lurking in the shadows rather than being out here with Me. The one in the mirror sometimes. Dissociation is something else I’ve always had; I can remember it in existence as a child. I’m uncertain whether the other one wants to choose madness. I think we always opt for survival, and bipolar suicidal ideation I believe to be little about actually wanting to die but rather, wanting to be free. To be whole, to be well. Whatever that is.

On the edge of madness, 24/7. Fighting a range of battles, physical and psychic. It’s quite the balancing act. Sanity is winning a struggle against ‘inner demons’ or the other one. Always teetering, always throwing one’s weight in the direction of self.

 

So long ago. So clear?

This October has marked one year since I began taking Quetiapine (Seroquel) and yesterday my son told me I am very much better (“nicer”) than I was thirteen months+ ago. Personally, I can’t see it, though I’m aware that the meds have worked their virtual miracle on my out of control, life-long bipolar symptoms. I have no reference point to ‘getting well’ as I’ve never been well.

Although I only sought medical and psychiatric help two years ago, at the age of 54, I can recall mood swings and what I now assume were brief psychotic episodes back to the age of four. So then, a half century of bipolar and depression, untreated and ignored by those who knew me. Who know me.

Having had eight months off from my stressful job last year, I have managed to stick at it for a couple of months now without missing a single day. I’m stubborn; I won’t let bipolar dictate its terms to me anymore. I must have always been stubborn, otherwise I’d have sought help before now. Actually, as you’ll know if you’ve been reading this sporadic blog (sorry), I did present myself to my GP when I was 20 with severe depression. He told me: “Pull yourself together” and sent me away without help. I was so embarrassed I waited almost a quarter of a century before handing my current GP a letter detailing my illness.

I know exactly when the light bulb above my head lit up regarding bipolar. I’d tried several different anti-depressants over the years for reactive depression: divorces, deaths in the family. That kind of thing. But these meds had made me ill; none of them worked. Then I read a book called ‘Why Am I Still Depressed?’ and it all made sense.

Which brings me to October 2016 and twelve months of Quetiapine (and at some point the addition of fluoxetine). The Q dose crept up and I now take between 500-550mg a day in three or four doses; the days I’m in work I take that extra 50mg for anxiety.

The biggest issue for me has been the Fat or Mad? decision. It became apparent early on that I had to make a choice, and I chose not to be mad. So in a year I’ve gained over a stone in weight and my general fitness has suffered greatly. No-one talks about the physiological symptoms of bipolar, but they’re very much there. I’m sedated half the day and I ache like hell from tip to toe.

I still don’t sleep through the night, not by a long way. I wake every hour or so then fall asleep again quickly. My anxiety level is still higher than I expected it to be by now, and my mild OCD with it. The meds haven’t really touched the OCD at all. Neither did the nine months of CBT I received last year before starting meds.

I look back on hypomanic and manic phases with more embarrassment and utter bewilderment. How on Earth was that person me? A stupid question as I have no idea what or who me is.

Some things disturb me more than others now. About the illness, I mean. The dissociation is scary and confusing. I tried to get help for that during my therapy but after dragging this issue out from the depths of me, it was then left unaddressed. Yes, the dissociation disturbs me; I don’t like it at all.

The meds have lessened the occurrences of ‘extremely intrusive suicidal ideation’. It’s clipped the top off the highs and the bottom off the lows. I’m more stable. The fact that I’m compliant – both with taking my meds and attending my psychiatrist appointments – shows that I’m in a better place than I was. Not a good place, just a better place.