Tag Archives: sadness

Searching, Always Searching

20 May

I’m sorry I’ve been so utterly unreachable and quiet this past month or so. First the crushing defeat of depression was nipping at my heels and running me ragged, and then I went on a month long trip to America. I visited friends, I met my half brother, but still I couldn’t shake the drunken, depressive devil free from my shoulder. I think he must have talons the size of fifty states because whatever I did the bastard and his friends wouldn’t leave me alone. But I’m home now, I have been for weeks. Has anything changed though? No, nothing apart from the sights, sounds and silence I’ve surrounded myself with.

Last week I had another appointment with the psychologist. In my previous appointment I was what she described as “hypomanic”.  This time around I was anxious, in floods of tears, incredibly depressed and apparently I looked “ill”.  Yes, that would be because I had ventured out the day before and spent the better part of a lazy afternoon in the pub. I was self-medicating on alcohol because the thoughts, the feelings, the paranoia, it was impossible to live with.

The woman, the psychologist as she calls herself, tried to palm my symptoms off on drinking. I was sitting there stunned, alone, crying and wondering if there would ever come a time when somebody would listen to me. I mean really listen. Listen to what I have to say about the way I feel and respond in a manner that tells me you understand and you’re going to do everything in your power to help me banish this fucking illness from my mind.

She then murmured on about me needing to stop drinking because that’s why I was feeling so terrible. Fine, I understand alcohol can be a depressant because I’ve been told that a million times before. But no, feeling that way was what led me to the local pub in the first place. I’ve been feeling like this without drinking, goddamn it! I drink because I can’t stand myself and I don’t want to be left alone with my thoughts!

My mind scares me when I leave the house and I’m convinced the two people ahead of me on the pathway are conspiring to murder me as I pass them by. I’m worried when I overhear people talking close to me and I think they’re discussing how ugly I am or why they don’t like me. I don’t even think I can return to my volunteer job now because I spent the best part of three weeks drowning myself in thoughts of how everybody in that office wanted to make me leave because they didn’t want me there anymore.

I saw that my local Mind office (The place I volunteer at) had released their first newsletter. I read it, scanned the pages and when I saw another man had joined the ranks and was doing the same job as me I was convinced it was a conspiracy. That was their way of telling me I wasn’t wanted, I thought. They haven’t mentioned me and I’m now reading between the lines. I came to the conclusion so quickly and the feelings were so powerful I’m still having trouble processing them. I know its paranoia now, but at the time I didn’t. It was real to me and I started to frantically think of what I could have done wrong. Why did I do that made them want to cut me loose? I wrote charity letters for them, I did everything they asked! Were they just using me for a while? Were they planning on doing this all along?

Thankfully these feelings have subsided since and I’m no longer caught so tightly in the grip of paranoia. I deleted facebook friends because I was convinced they were gossiping about me, I’ve hidden myself away in my room, I refused to listen to my iPod as I walked home in case somebody attacked me, I’ve done all these things because of incessant worrying and fears.

Is this another symptom of Bipolar disorder? Does paranoia go hand-in-hand with the manic stages, the crashing lows and this strange tingling across my skin when my mood begins to skyrocket?

The psychiatrist continued her appraisal of me and said I needed to start a course of anti-depressants. Her tone of voice was dull, lackluster and made me think I was either the most boring individual she had ever had the misfortune of meeting or her mind was elsewhere. As in, ‘Oh God, when I left the house this morning did I lock the door?’ I’m pretty sure that was where her mind was at.

My mind was on an entirely different level though. “Anti-depressants?” I said, staring at the woman with red rimmed eyes. “But… What happened to Bipolar?

I know I need anti-depressants to keep the low moods at bay, but the way she was announcing this I had a feeling she was sweeping the whole Bipolar diagnosis under the carpet.

“Who said you had Bipolar?” The woman, allegedly a psychiatrist, asked me.

Well, she did. But my counselor was the first person to broach the topic so I told her he had suspicions that I could have it.

“Hmm,” She drawled, looking through her notes. “What anti-depressants have you taken before?”

It went on like this until the meeting was thankfully over.

“Do you want me to ring and let you know what’s happening?” The alleged psychiatrist said to me after she had informed me she would talk to a colleague about what depression medication I needed to take.

“Uh, yes.” I answered, dragging my feet to the exit and willing myself not to break down and cry.

“Okay, I will.” She replied, stopping at the exit for a spilt-second. “Goodbye.”

I didn’t bother to watch her walk away; I just left as quickly as I could and swallowed the lump in my throat. The tears started running down my cheeks and I was so frustrated at the meeting I’d just encountered I dialed the number of my counselor. My God, I was standing in the street by a busy NHS walk in centre and I was crying for all to see.

I talked to him, all but begged for an appointment that same day and was told he had a free slot in an hour and a half. I walked to town, not wanting to sit on the bus and cry. It was a slow walk and I was falling into paranoia over the alleged psychiatrist. I couldn’t understand why she was doing this to me! Why was she suddenly not taking me seriously? And why wasn’t her colleague in the appointment like she was supposed to be? I’d been told that she would be there and it was even in the letter I’d received.  Did they think I was pretending to have all these symptoms? But I wasn’t doing this for attention, I was actually ill.

I willed away some time in McDonalds with a Diet Pepsi and I stared into space for what seemed like forever. Soon I caught the bus and was ranting away in my counselor’s office about what had just happened. He wanted to ask how my holiday had gone but I was more interested in venting my fears.

It’s actually thanks to him I have now started a course of medication. He was unhappy with what had happened and said he would contact the alleged psychiatrist if she hadn’t contacted me by Tuesday. I rang him on said Tuesday letting him know I still hadn’t heard from the woman, even though she had been saying she would fax the prescription of anti-depressants to my doctors the very same day. He couldn’t get in touch with her either, but had my file opened, the prescription found and it was finally sent to my doctors where I could pick it up.

The strange thing is I’m not taking anti-depressants…

My medication, Quetiapine: a Bipolar med.

I don’t understand how I was prescribed this when the alleged psychiatrist spent a lovely amount of time going through different anti-depressants with me. Does this medication also work as an antidepressant or just as a mood stabiliser to stop my hypomanic phases? I have absolutely no bloody idea either way. What I do know is I would love a string of answers for once. A sharp, solid answer I can digest and then I won’t have to Google my questions in hopes I will find some closure.

I think I have Bipolar, the people around me think I have it, so why can’t the alleged psychiatrist put me out of my misery? I have another appointment with her later next month and I’m in two minds not to go. A definitive answer means I can work on myself and strive to fight this illness and all it throws at me while on medication. No answer leaves me swimming blind, alone and with a severe cramp in every limb. The woman, let’s call her ‘Alleged’ doesn’t contact me when she says she will, doesn’t fax my prescriptions to my doctor, seems bored when I speak, can’t give me a definitive answer, leaves me feeling unsure of myself and rather paranoid… The list goes on!

Perhaps I need to kick Alleged to the curb and ask for a new psychiatrist or maybe even a new brain?

Wine O’Clock

15 Nov

Dear Diary,

I’m weak. There, I’ve admitted it and its now out in the open. I’m so fucking weak and I don’t care. I want to sleep tonight, I need to sleep and I know what I’m doing right now will help.

Don’t look at me like that when I’m doing what’s best for myself, okay?

Look, I tried to stay sober today, I truly did but it’s impossible. My mood is at a low and I’m struggling to find the positives in my life. I didn’t sleep well again last night and I blame myself. It’s always my fault and I can’t break away from the depression. Shit, it’s destroying me and I have nowhere to run. Wherever I go there is a black cloud hanging over me and I feel like I’m suffocating.

The pain in my heart hurts so badly, but it’s my friend. I’m used to it being there now and if I ever lost it I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.

A few years ago I remember I went through such a bad episode of depression I actually prayed. I don’t believe in God, but I lay there in bed, curled up and sobbing uncontrollably and begging for death, physical pain, anything but what I was going through. A month later I got my wish when I was rushed to hospital vomiting and in so much pain I thought I was dying. I was passed from pillar to post before the doctors discovered I had an ovarian cyst. I couldn’t lay down, I couldn’t walk and I could hardly move without leaking tears. That was the worst physical pain I had ever felt and it was all my fault. I’d asked for a different kind of pain and I had received just that.

The consultant said I was the strangest patient he had ever had… I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not but I took it as one. He told me most people wouldn’t have been walking around with a cyst my size and I had no answer to that. There had been short bursts of pain but I’d thought nothing of it, I’d been too consumed with my emotional pain to question anything else.

The man had said I would be in surgery for an hour and a half. They finally wheeled me out four and a half hours later. The team had drained five litres of fluid from my cyst and I was told I was lucky it hadn’t burst. I also lost a fallopian tube and an ovary to gangrene. The only thing I was thankful for at the time was the morphine. Sadly it was taken away from me the next day for apparent ‘misuse’.

I learnt my lesson after the surgery, even if I still bathe in the beauty of atheism. I’ll never ever beg for a different type of pain to what I hold close to my heart.

I now have half the chance of conceiving and I have yet to confront that fear. I don’t know if I want to have children because there is this worry I’ll damage my child’s mind and happiness with my gloomy moods. It would kill me to know I was responsible for causing a little boy or girl’s pain.

Now back to today…

Sleep is still foreign to me. It has been for the past two nights. I’m tired right now, I have been all day but I can’t sleep for longer than a couple of hours. I just feel exhausted and tearful, that’s why I’m drinking.

My wine beside a picture of me before I was destroyed by life.

More often than not I feel like I’m slowly dying inside and that’s why I drink. I know I shouldn’t be making excuses but I will until the day I die. This is just the frame of mind I’m in right now.

The drink is going to my head because I haven’t eaten since six o’clock this morning and my mind isn’t on food at the moment, not at all. You know it isn’t too, just take a look at the title of this entry.

I don’t like wine and I never have done. Why am I drinking it if I don’t like it you ask? Right now, as I sit alone in the house with a crippling darkness the focus of my thoughts, I need it. I need the pain to die for a little while until I can fight my corner again.

I raise a glass to you, my diary. I’ll toast you as I sip another drop of rose because you give me a place to vent without ever speaking a word.

– Raindrops