mental illness

Words are flowing…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves ~ 1 Comment

Words have always been my religion. Whether the beauty you can create with words or what I could say when I wrote made me a writer is my own personal chicken & egg. Regardless, the fact remains, I worship words. In that adoration lies a certain obsession; from worrying over a sentence for an hour to finding affinity in someone else’s perfect phrase. Which, is exactly what I want to tell you about. 

In the past week I’ve come across two such phrases that at different points in my life seemed made for me. Across the Universe is one of The Beatles songs I immersed myself in as a teen. I still love it, but the words have become so familiar that they often just wash over me. Well, on bus last week for some reason I was really listening. When I reached the chorus, one line flooded me with feeelings from times gone:

‘Nothing’s gonna change my world’ 

I vividly recalled being 15 & completely believing that nothing could shake me. I had at that point lived a charmed life. A life of love & safety & competence that had formed a girl confident she could take on the world. And win. 

I look back on that version of me with such mixed feelings. I’m proud of her; she was the weird girl that managed to be popular. The smart girl that partied. Even at 15 she knew her convictions mattered & those who felt threatened by that could fuck off. It takes a specfic kind of teenage courage to own that you are different & to celebrate it. Oh, the plans she had. It never once occurred to her that anything could knock her down. 

I’m welling up writing this because I know what happened next. It took years of therapy, but I can finally feel compassion for that cocksure girl that fucked it all up. Now, after years of blame, I want to protect her. A story of my history & evolution in 5 words. 

A few days later, in a fit of insomnia, I was flicking through tv channels & found Girl Interrupted. The first time I read this the description of suicidal thoughts clicked. 

‘Once you’ve posed that question, it won’t go away’

I hadn’t heard anyone else voice this cold fact before, but it was true. Once I had seriously considered suicide, it never really went away. Killing myself became the solution to every problem. So many of Susanna Kaysen’s words rang true. Hearing my terrifying feelings expresssed out loud somehow justified my pain. 

All I ever heard about suicide or self harm was don’t do it. People often talk in well meaning platitudes. They’ll tell you that suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Life will get better, they insist. It’s all meaningless. When you are in that hole, getting out doesn’t seem possible. More over, even if you believe that someday, you might be happier, it does nothing to assuage your current pain. Severe depression is torturous. There is a comfort in knowing an escape hatch exists. For a long time the knowledge that if I couldn’t take anymore of life I didn’t have to was the one thing that kept me alive. 

Watching that film again brought back those dark times. More than that, Kaysen’s words brought a sense of peace. In my suicidal days, having my daily struggle with those thoughts acknowledged was powerful. Now, realising that suicide is no longer my default trouble shooter is compelling. 

Sometimes it takes a glance at the past to see how far I’ve come. I know those feelings can return. Which is why these words still resonate. Another example of a handful of words spelling out the story of life. 

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No compassion…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves ~ 4 Comments

I’m 36yrs old, chronically ill and a size 22, I am no stranger to a bit medical fat shaming. Sadly, I have had to develop a thick skin when it comes to interacting with the medical profession. Drs & nurses will say things to me that no one else would dare to. I have had to learn to advocate for myself when necessary & brush off a whole bunch of bullshit along the way. To be honest I thought I was fairly untouchable. I am entirely comfortable with my size & though often tiring to hear the same fat phobic lectures, it doesn’t hurt me. Infuriate, yes, but I never felt unable to deal with it. Until recently. 

Earlier this year I had a miscarriage. It was not my first loss. My previous experiences of pregnancy & miscarriage were hugely traumatic and in fact played a major part in my mental health struggles. Losing another baby was horrendous. I had some complications and ended up having to spend a little time in hospital. The one small blessing was the support system I have in place and the kindness I was treated with whilst inpatient. Once home & physically recovered I visited my GP to discuss my general health & how to proceed fertility wise. That she wanted to talk about weight loss was not entirely unexpected. I know standard advice for anyone overweight talking about having a baby is lose weight. I know drs still hold rigidly to the BMI scale & that there is an upper limit for fertility treatment. I know fat women often have their pregnancies labelled high risk. What I wasn’t prepared for was this gp’s insinuation that my weight caused my miscarriage. So, unprepared was I that I convinced myself that I had misunderstood. I pushed it out of my mind & continued trying to process my grief. However, when I returned a week later and she still only wanted to talk about diet plans, what I ate, what I weighed now & how often she could weight me,I was more explicit. I explained my history of borderline eating disorders, of starvation diets & losing vast amounts of weight only to regain it. I told her I did not and would engage with rigid diets or weight loss programmes. Her response was given my multiple miscarriages, I might want to re think that. I enquired If she was saying I miscarried because I was fat & she confirmed that she thought it likely.

 

I walked out feeling a rage that quickly melted away to sadness. I was left wanting to crawl into bed and never get out again. I have struggled with PTSD for many years; my original trauma was an emotionally abusive relationship & my the circumstances surrounding my first miscarriage. It has taken me literally my entire adult life to get control of my shame and guilt. Years of self harm, debilitating depression, panic attacks, flash backs and nightmares all centred around how the loss of my child and subsequent illness was all my fault. One thoughtless dr had thrust back into that damaging thought cycle. On top of that I have fought to reclaim my body as acceptable. I have had to work to enjoy my life in this fat scarred body. My history is well documented in my medical records and I have personally discussed it with the dr. That truth is she wants me to be thin more than she wants to me be happy & healthy. Her complete disregard for my mental health was cruel. That she hadn’t even bothered to investigate my history before speaking is unacceptable. A cursory glance at my notes would have revealed that I was not over weight at the time of my other pregnancy losses. She would also have seen that I am currently taking a medication for PCOS that causes weight loss. The drug is harsh on my already inflamed digestive system meaning that I throw up daily. In addition one of it’s major side effects is appetite reduction. Hence, I have been slowly shedding pounds since I commenced this treatment. I also have diagnosed gynaecological issues, which are much more likely to play a part in my inability to carry to term. The conversation she forced upon me was not only insensitive, but entirely irrelevant. That said, it is never ok to blame a vulnerable women for the loss of her child.

I have chosen not to see that GP again. I attend a fairly large practise and as a freelancer have the freedom to wait for appointments with another dr. I have yet to confront the issue as it still feels so raw. However I feel a strange sense of duty; I feel I must tackle this to prevent it happening to someone else. I recognise that there were times in my past when this dr’s assertions would have entirely destroyed me. I hate that the responsibility to educate & challenge falls to people like me. I cannot understand why a profession who swear to ‘do no harm’ are so married to fat phobia. Why is care and compassion is so often disregarded purely because a patient is fat?


 

 

And so it is the colder water…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves ~ 6 Comments

It’s been around 8 weeks since I miscarried. I think all things considered, I am doing ok. I mean, I’ve not completely fallen apart. I haven’t turned to scalpels for comfort or absented myself from the world. I’m getting up & painting my face & taking part in life. I wish I could say it was easy, but on days like today, it feels like drowning. 

I am attending the recurrent miscarriage clinic to see if there are any issues I am not already aware of & the midwife I see has been wonderful. She had given me info on a ‘support group’, which I’m considering. I’m on some new meds to help with PCOS & tracking my periods etc to keep on eye on things from that side. I’m socialising & blogging & getting more politically active. I’m doing everything i can think of to keep moving forward. So why do I feel like I’m wedged in wet sand?

I think about what might have been every day. Not all day long, but it’s never far away. There are so many reminders. So many painful things that can’t be avoided. From appointments at the maternity hospital & other people’s babies to just the scent of something that made me nauseous when I was pregnant & doesn’t anymore. I don’t want the world to stop. I don’t want to rob anyone of their joyous moments; it’s just so hard. The happiness I feel for others comes with a stab of sorrow. It’s been this way for so long, but my recent loss has given that sadness renewed potency. I let all my hopes out of a place I kept tied up tight. Blueprints for a life that I hadn’t dared to examine sprang to life & folding up those plans is proving difficult. 
I have my period again & I know that impacts on my mood. All of the sensations of menstruating mirror miscarriage symptoms. The cramps & sensitive nipples are reminders I don’t want. The blood remains wrapped up in my trauma. Forever a trigger. And yet, I’m glad to have the period. Not so long ago I had practically none. It’s a relief to have this increasingly reliable sign that my ovaries are doing something. Like so many other things the positive is marred.


I think from the outside I probably look fine. I want to look well. No, I want to BE well. I’m really fighting not to let my life slide. The truth is I’m struggling. My creative output is vastly decreased. I lack the motivation & clarity to write. Not writing is not good for me. I process my experiences through words on the paper. The less I write the more anxious I become. Of course the more I stress about it, the less I am able to curate my thoughts. It’s a predictable cycle. There are obviously more practical concerns; my words keep a roof over my head. 


My physical health hasn’t been good. My sleep is appalling. I know that takes it’s toll. I attempt to rationalise myself out of days like this. My exhausted, pained, grieving & traumatised self will obviously have lows. I know this is to be expected. That knowledge doesn’t change the dread. It does nothing to chase away the fear when I awake to a complete inability to function. When nothing shifts the weight crushing me or the desire to disappear. 24 hours isn’t a long time except when your swamped in depression. I can get through the bad days. I’m just terrified of the days multiplying. 
That’s the crux of it. Mental illness feels a bit like being an alcoholic. I will never completely recover. The lows will always come. Life will always have ways to trip me up. The fear of everything unravelling sits quietly on my shoulder. It’s a bad day. I’m still grieving. I hope for better. 

Blackbirds singing in the dead of night…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves ~ 2 Comments

It’s 5.07am. There are some very loud birds outside & the light is creeping around the edges of my blackout blind. I haven’t slept, but I do finally feel a little bit sleepy. Do I sleep? If so I might sacrifice the day. After no more than a couple of hours for the last few nights I might conk out big style. I wanted to do something today. Something nice enough to make me feel like I’m participating in normal life whilst still being easy. Sleeping all day does not fit the bill. Although, perhaps I’ll wake up feeling rested & be productive. If I could complete one of the many, many things on my to do list it might relieve a little anxiety. For now I’m stuck in the vicious crazy circle. No motivation + no energy = accomplishing nothing. As the things I have not done pile up so does my anxiety. Until the undone things & the anxiety are so huge that I’m paralysed by their weight. I’m just stuck underneath, stressing & not sleeping & feeling increasingly worthless. So, maybe I should sleep. I’m exhausted. I’m always exhausted because I never get enough sleep. There is always something keeping me awake. Be it pain or fear or coughing or nightmares or vomiting or the terrifying vagueness of insomnia. Right now I feel that illusive part of tiredness that usually escapes me. The fuzzy comforting drowsiness that signals actual sleep is a possibility.

But

If I sleep now, chances of sleeping tonight are slim. I could miss the chance to do a thing that could make me feel something other than grey or jittery. If I close my eyes now I’m risking the dreams. Flashing scenes dripping with all the things I cannot bear to look at again. Flickering images soaked in feelings too potent for consciousness. Then I’ll wake in a mess. Heart pounding, breath hiding & I’ll have to talk myself down. Fool myself into a calmness that’s counterfeit. Either way the day is scuppered. All those hopes for lightness dashed. 

So, I stay awake. I’ll just wait in this cool dark room for the day to really get started. Force myself into the shower. Try to make a plan that doesn’t feel overwhelming. Push down the fatigue & the jangling of every nerve for the possible reward of OK. Reassure myself that this isn’t forever. Repeat that I am not back in the hole. It has been a difficult month. I am allowed to feel bad. Tomorrow or the next day or the day after that will be an easy one. Just keep going. Swing from one pleasant moment to the next & hold my breath through all the rest. 

This will pass

I will write the things that are over due

I will do some god damn washing 

I’ll cook a proper meal 

&

Wash my hair

Peace will be restored 

Life will go on

&

I will live it. 
If only I could get some sleep…

If you like what I do you can support me here or on Patreon.

 

Transforming mental health through research…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves ~ 1 Comment

I have struggled with mental illness for most of my adult life. I have written here before about the difficulties I have faced & the massive impact my illness has had on my life. As painful as my issues have been I have always been incredibly grateful that I faced them as an adult. The growing crisis in children & adolescents mental health care demonstrates that not everyone is so fortunate.

Currently 3 children in class have a diagnosable mental health issue. Despite early intervention being a key factor managing mental illness, children often do not have access to specialised services. Many young people are trying to deal alone with problems of a magnitude that defeat adults.

MQ Mental Health Infographic[754]1.png 

There has been much talk of mental illness reaching parity with physical in terms of funding & priority. However, there is still a vast shortfall in mental funding. It is clear that the descripency in care for young people facing mental illness has long term impact on not only individuals, but also society at whole.
The only way to defeat the stigma attached to mental illness is to treat psychiatric & medical problems equally. We must make it easier for children to not only talk about mental illness, but to actually access the treatment they need.

MQ Mental Health Infographic[754]2.png

As I said there have been moves towards redressing this shortfall in mental health funding & research, but it has to be solidified. In order to guarantee this sustained political will has to be garnered.

If you feel, as I do, that this is a critical public health issue please get involved at http://www.mqmentalhealth.org

Love your curves & all your edges…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves ~ 6 Comments

January has been a bit of a fail on the outfit post front. I wasn’t out all that much & I had no photographer when I was. I aim to do better this month. Starting right now.

I wore this outfit to lunch with my bestie a couple of weeks ago, but didn’t get any good pics. I really did like it & recycled the look for a film with my Sis. 


This swing skirt is too big now as the combination of going vegan & taking metaformin has caused me to inadvertently lose some weight. It still looks cute if I pin it a little & I think I’ll try getting it taken in. Anyway, the print is fresh & with a simple vest it shows of my ins & outs nicely. 


Skirt – Lindy Bop

Cardi – Primark

Brooch – Posie Grenadine (Etsy)

I stuck my favourite brooch on for a touch of sass & was good to go. We had a quick, but yummers lunch at Tortilla. Great option for vegans, big thumbs up. 

We saw Split, which could have been a fairly entertaining thriller had it not gone down the tired ‘crazy’ route. The vicious killer has dissociative identity disorder & of course has alters who want to abuse people. This is basically the only way DID is represented by popular culture & is so stigmatising. It’s a shitty trope that needs to stop. In short, I’d suggest giving it a miss. 


Amusing outtake. 

All I can say is I’m breathing…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves ~ 8 Comments

PTSD is a persistent foe. You can make progress & start to think maybe, just maybe you can actually defeat this bastard, but it knows you think that. 

It’s waiting for you to relax your hyper vigilence. The moment you begin to let go of the breath you’ve been holding for 17yrs it will suck it in & grow.

Folks in your life see you gaining strength & think you’re better. There is no ‘better’.  There is managing ,

coping,

trying to live,

daring to live?

The good days can start to stack up. You can feel a safe distance from the horror, but you can never be sure. 

You can never be certain that a flashback won’t stun you like lightening. 

And stuck in that hot, white memory you could loosen your grip on the here & now.

The relative calm & safety could be shattered. Perhaps only for that instant. You could be lucky, those smells & fears could melt away. Current achievements or delights may well wash over you. It’s possible. That happens. 

You’ll make plans & take steps. But you’ll always be looking over your shoulder. The knowledge of the cruelty of your own mind will keep you rigid.

Because lightening does strike twice & thrice & ever & on.

With every thump of your heart you know you’re only one more squeeze from disaster. Where little sleep becomes none. The crazy creeps out from behind all those positive walls, it brings terror & tsunamis of grief. 

And the pills don’t work

Or Dr’s 

Or the life jacket you had to make with your bare hands. 

There is only one way to row to shore & it’s brutal. It’s hot blood dripping from your fingers; slippy yellow fat & an uncontrollable urge to cut a little deeper. 

Bleed a little more 

Wrapping up the unthinkable pain in the easy hurt of butchering yourself. 

This illness is being  awake in the night & writing so you won’t do. It’s ignoring the destructive comfort because you so desperately want this new, real life. 

And, yes, all those yous should be I’s. 

It’s my past, my pain, my ongoing battle for a future. 


Listen, I’m a really perfect song.

If you like what I do you can support me here or on Patreon.

Don’t patronise me…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves ~ 3 Comments

I’m struggling to sleep tonight. My  pain got a little out of control last week & so my dr upped one of my pain meds. It was quite a big leap & my body hasn’t been behaving since.  My mood hasn’t really been behaving either. It took a dive earlier in the week for, I imagine, a combination of reasons. Perhaps feeling so bizarre, or the pain or an upcoming anniversary. Who can say?

On account of the above there have been days when even getting out of bed has been difficult. Yesterday was one those days, everything hurt & I was very foggy from the meds, but things had to be done. Bronan had to be fed. I had to return some important calls & I had to put my bin out to be emptied.  Dragging myself out of bed was a struggle, but I did it. So, up I got, flung on whatever clothes were lying on the bedroom floor, brushed my teeth & completed those tasks as best as I could. I did these not because they would lift my mood. Nor did I do them as part of an ‘action plan’. I didn’t derive any sense of achievement. They needed to be done, so I did them.


Later, I tried to write, but couldn’t concentrate for more than a minute or two. It occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten all day & perhaps something in my stomach might counteract the effect of my medications. My fridge contained some broccoli that had to be used today or it would only be fit for the bin. So, I steamed that broccoli in the micro, poured some boiling water on noodles & flung soy sauce over both. I didn’t cook because it would make me feel that I was worth taking care of. I simply used the ingredients available to feed myself in the quickest manner because otherwise, I would not eat.

I tell you these things not because they are interesting. I certainly don’t mention them because I want applause. I merely draw your attention to these mundane activities as they are the reality of day to day life.
THEY ARE NOT SELF CARE.
Mental health organisations & increasingly, just anyone are constantly spouting the merits of self-care. I am so tired of hearing this bullshit. Everything I do does not have a therapeutic purpose. Mental illness (or for that matter physical) does not define me. I am a single woman living alone. There are always tasks that need taken care of. I take each day as it comes & do as much as I can manage. That’s just survival. In that respect I am no different from anyone else. Obviously my illness can make simple jobs difficult. Things the average person may take for granted come harder to me. That doesn’t change the nature of life. I either keep living to the best of my ability or I lie down and die.

To label each chore or treat self-care is to rob me of my basic humanity. I am no longer a person, but a collection of diagnoses’. Illness becomes my defining feature. I strenuously reject that characterisation. To measure my wellbeing by how many dishes are in my sink is insulting. Similarly, to minimise serious conditions by suggesting a nice dinner will make it all better is also offensive. A cute badge with a star & I took my meds or A childish phrase is not going to brighten my day. 

I live my life as fully as possibly. I enjoy whatever I can and try my best to endure the rest. Doesn’t that sum up most people’s experience? I don’t hear anyone congratulating ‘non-mentals’ or ‘non-spoonies ‘ for continuing to exist, so why are they patronising me?

If my thoughts on this offend you, then just imagine how I feel when several times each day I am confronted with the cult of self care. If it works for you, cool, you do you. However, don’t suggest I have a bath with candles to get over terrifying flashbacks. Don’t tell me to give myself a wee treat to combat searing pain. Most of all don’t belittle me by suggesting my daily drive to survive is ‘self care’. Keep it to yourself, darling or prepare for my wrath. 

The mirror has two faces…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves ~ 5 Comments

Yesterday I performed a fairly miraculous transformation. I was so impressed with myself that I felt the need to share my handy work. 

I posted the above on Facebook with the caption, left to right & out the door in 40 mins. All of which is true, but there’s so much more I didn’t say. 

What I didn’t mention was how I felt. My head was wobbly yesterday. I am titrating Pregabalin slowly up to recommended dose. This is an issue because every time I up the doseage the side effects come back. Hence, my brain was not that sharp. Along with that my anxiety was troubling me. The thought of going out alone was frightening. I was of course sore; my back & feet are a constant source of pain at the moment. So, basically what I’m saying is the first picture is an accurate representation of how I felt as well as how I looked. 

I worried and procastinated for so long that I only had 40 mins to get ready. I forced myself out the door with the aid of diazepam, earphones & big sunglasses. I still felt exposed. I dreaded anyone talking to me or even getting standing too close. I got lucky with an almost entirely empty bus, but my heart was still pounding as loud as the music in my ears for the entire journey. At every stop I had to force myself not to get off & go home. Every bump in road sent a shudder of pain up my back. I persisted because I’d really like to have a real life. 


I met a dear friend who I feel completely safe with. We had a drinks & I managed to relax to level where I could enjoy myself. The weather was lovely, the company excellent & I passed for an attractive human being. 

I’m smiling in this picture because I was having a lovely time. I was still in pain. I’m always in pain. I say that not for pity, but as a fact. For my one evening’s entertainment I’ll probably require two days of rest. Today I am suffering. 


My point is that invisible illnesses are often attacked as not genuine & the weapon used can be anything sufferers manage to do. 

You can’t be that ill if you can work.

You can’t be so ill if you can go out.

You can’t be in pain if you excerise.

You can’t be depressed if you can put make up on.

And on & on & on.

I’m offering myself as an example. Some days are good, but I never feel ‘normal’. There is always pain & anxiety. There are nightmares & flashbacks & urges to butcher my flesh. There are days when I can’t get out of bed & nights of no sleep at all. It’s shit to have to push & push to accomplish everything. We (spoonies) have no alternative, if we want to build a fulfilling life, we have to fight. Wether we’re fighting to wash some dishes or to have some fun with friends we don’t need judgmental bullshit to add to our burden. 
Your reward for reading me venting my frustrations is the cutest cat in the world.

The time is now…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves ~ 3 Comments

I’m lying on my bed with the sun streaming in my window having a lazy morning. I’m planning dinner in my head & pondering what colour to paint my nails, when it happens. A vivid flashback, of a day like this, but 16yrs ago. 

  
Like today I am resting on my bed observing the sunny world outside. Unlike today, back then I had a life growing inside me. I can smell the incense I used to burn in the flat & see the steeple of the church at the the end of the street. I feel the warmth on my face, the ache in my back & the love pounding through my veins. 

As fast as it strikes, it wanes. Part of me wants to cling to those sensations, the rest still finds these memories tender. I’ve been having these flashes a lot lately. They’re not new to me; I’ve been living with PTSD for a long time. This wasn’t a bad one, but it still leaves me feeling sadder than I did before. I’ve been thinking about why these bolts into the past have become so frequent of late & I think I know the answer.

For the first time in a very long time I am making baby plans. I have always wanted to be a Mummy. The loss only increased that desire. For years I’ve watched friends & family create beautiful little people. It’s never been the right time for me. Well, I’m 35 now and life never really gets any simpler. There is no right time. There will never be a perfect set of circumstances. So, the time is now. 

  
Or the time for planning is now. I’m getting my self and my life in shape for baba. It’s a little scary, but I don’t have any doubts. My life will never feel complete without children. It’s going to be a long campaign, but Operation Baby is go.