Tag Archives: Thoughts

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?

Well, Well, Well, What Do We Have Here Then?

19 Mar

Dear Diary,

I don’t know where to start really, my mind is racing at such a speed, I feel like my neck is going to break. This morning I had an appointment with a psychiatrist and I was finally given an answer. I guess I should see this as a positive experience because the lady was lovely, but I didn’t really receive the answer I was hoping for. Somewhere deep in my heart I knew it was always a possibility because my moods aren’t stable and haven’t been since November, yet when those words left the woman’s lips, I couldn’t quite believe it. Me? I thought, but I have depression! I’m depressed! The doctors I’ve spoken to have always told me I suffer from depression! 

When I left the stark white office I didn’t have the time to digest the information because I had to rush to the Jobcentre. Yes, all that trouble I caused myself when I snapped at the sullen faced advisor has been dealt with now. My local Jobcentre relented and I’m still searching for a job. But now I have this niggling feeling inside me because Christ, who the hell would want me to work for them?

After the Jobcentre, I went to Mind and I sat in another office, but this time I was in front of a computer. I like my volunteer job, I really do. It’s helping my confidence and brick by nervous brick, I’m beginning to shed my terror at holding another job.  And the brilliant people at Mind helped me snatch my benefits back after I lost them due to no fault of my own. Well, those snappy words did leave my lips, the depressed tears did roll down my cheeks and I did have a little breakdown at my local Jobcentre, but now I have a reason for that!

I left Mind early today because I felt like the walls were closing in on me. I knew I needed to go home and put everything I had learnt today into perspective. Of course with me being my usual disorganised and clumsy self, I’m still trying to come to terms with the tsunami in my head. My brother did take me out to lunch though, which was a sweet gesture and the baguette was beautiful. But back to the main point I’m trying desperately to explain before my head implodes…

The psychiatrist said I was currently in a Hypomanic state. Add the severely depressed episodes into the equation and what do you have? A mood disorder, possibly Bipolar.

Well, fuck.

FUCK.

FUCK.

FUCK!

Why does this have to happen to me now!? I was beginning to really understand my depression, the triggers and what I could do to make myself feel a little better. But now my life has another twist, a turn and everything is up in the air. I know there are different types of Bipolar disorders and I don’t know what I have. To be honest, I think it’s difficult to diagnose in the first place and I just want to tear my hair out. Although there is one side to this illness I’m quite taken with: The creativity. I’m being doused in flames of words, thoughts and ideas to the point where I’m jumping from one thought to another. It’s a constant rush and it’s making me feel queasy but compared to depression, this is a walk in a pretty, little park with ten foot flowers and a famous Beatle on every corner.

I love the creative side to this, even though I just stopped myself from decorating the house the other week. There are these small tubes of paint downstairs and I really wanted to splatter the walls with bright colours and express myself like a true artist. I should probably note here that I’m not an artist and I can’t paint, draw or create masterpieces. Although if I tried… You see what’s happening?  My thoughts are so pure, happy and fluffy they’re telling me I can do anything or be anyone! It’s only when I write these things down do I wonder if my brain is trying to get me in trouble.

Oh, bollocks. I don’t know what to do right now.  I slept about four hours last night, I fell asleep for at least an hour and a half earlier and although my body tells me I need sleep, my mind is hurtling away from me and I don’t want to wrangle with it. This isn’t depression and I don’t want to die. There are no deep, dark, bleak, black thoughts so why should I be trying to calm myself down? This is a much needed and loved run of happiness and long may it continue!

My Father

12 Feb

Dear Diary,

While I’m on a writing roll this evening, I might as well continue to air my deepest, darkest thoughts in the hope it will make me feel better. There’s nobody in my life I feel like I can talk to about these things, so right now you will have to feel the full brunt of my thoughts and I don’t even feel the slightest bit apologetic about that.

I don’t know where to start when I try to describe my dad. He has so many sides to him and he’s adept at keeping certain ones close to his chest. He can be loving, helpful and caring, but he also favours sticking his head in the sand and keeping his distance when things become too difficult for him.

Financial support is one thing, but when it comes to the emotional kind I’m left high and dry. We can sit down and chat about The Beatles or what we think about the latest movie releases and I enjoy that type of chatter, yet when it comes time to discuss anything else about my life or his there’s silence. Silence at both ends, followed by a brick wall shooting up from the ground and driving us further apart.

Somewhere along the rocky path of life we’ve lost the skill to interact at any level above that of two friends meeting for a causal chat in a pub. I feel like I don’t want him to know any of the thoughts I lay out on these pages because they’re personal, they’re mine and I would rather share them with the rest of the world then him. He doesn’t understand or perhaps he does, but struggles to put his feelings into words?

I don’t want him to sigh heavily and shake his head at me when I say things close to my heart. I just want him to be my dad and tell me everything will be fine and promise me I’ll get through this storm.

Maybe I expect too much from my parents? I’m old enough now to weather my own depression and fight until I’m crowned champion of the world.

But a little support wouldn’t go a miss. Really, it wouldn’t.

– Tasha

My Mother

12 Feb

Dear Diary,

Sometimes I wonder if I scare my mum. When I break down into tears and sob my heart out, she doesn’t hug me, she doesn’t ask me what’s wrong, she stands there and acts like I don’t even exist. She won’t even look at me and I can almost hear the cogs turning in her head as she tries to find something to distract herself from me: The biggest disappointment of her life.

I often wonder what I did to her in the past that was so terrible. Was it because I was firmly planted on my dad’s side when the arguments used to erupt in the family home? Perhaps all the years I spent at school bored and uninterested, forever in trouble and always skipping classes pushed her a little too far away from me? It can’t be easy giving birth to a child and having such high hopes for her, only for the girl to never reach her true potential or even make a mark on the world.

At times I’m left wondering if there is any point at all in me trying to forge a relationship with her. We fight like crazy and I feel like I’ve ruined her life. I’ve heard the line,” We’re too alike,” being uttered before but if I ever had a daughter who was hurting as badly as I am right now, nothing would stop me from comforting her until the pain started to lift and the sun began to shine.

I don’t need words or the moments when I overhear her saying she doesn’t want to spend time with me because I don’t help myself and I’m too negative. Tonight my heart broke for the very last time and the conclusion I reached is I’m in this fight alone. My family are background characters and I’m the main act. I might be an emotional wreck sometimes, there can be snatches of pain so deep I feel like I’m being buried alive, but I’ll conquer this fucking illness and then I will sit down and think about this properly.

The possibility my mum is frightened by what I might end up doing to myself haunts my very thoughts. If that’s the reason she’s pushing me further anyway, then I can understand it. But it still hurts having to fight this all alone. It hurts and I’m so tired of it.

– Tasha

I’m Plagued by Thoughts

21 Jan

Dear Diary,

I’m at my most dangerous when I begin to think and I’ve been doing just that over the past couple of days. It’s strange how I can avoid listening to my thoughts and feelings because I have gotten into a habit of waking up each morning and wanting to cry. Depression has the power to strip your personality down to the bone; it knocks your confidence more roughly than a Tsunami and leaves you with little more than a shadow of your former self. Only now with the help of counselling am I beginning to piece together my thoughts and learning to stand my ground when a problem arises. It’s all too easy to curl up in my bed, tug the covers over my head and hide from the world when I feel like I’m falling apart, but I want to grow as a person and I above all else I have to succeed.

Everything I have ever touched has fallen apart whether it was my family unit, hopes of an education or my mental health. I blame myself continuously for everything that has ever happened because isn’t it my fault I’m depressed? I’ve heard so many clichéd responses to a depressed person, I’m sure I could write a book on it. But common sense usually prevails and I remind myself Depression is a treatable mental illness, I’m seeking help at long last and I don’t wish to be smothered by this black cloud for the rest of my life.

It’s far too simple to allow myself to be labelled as the “Depressed Girl” until the end of my days and if I did that, what would I achieve? And furthermore, wouldn’t I have wasted my life fluctuating between being miserable and downright drowning in my own tears?

Sometimes I can’t help but think it would be easier that way. If I remained depressed and feeling like an outsider each time I stepped out of my front door, I wouldn’t have to deal with the pain and stir up memories I don’t want to deal with. When I hit the age of eleven I was already a master at bottling up my own misery, sealing said bottle and hiding it under my bed. Before I knew it I was sleeping on a mountain of bottled tears and the tip of my nose was greeting the clouds.

Refusing to be drawn on my feelings worked for me at the time and I stuck with that very way of life until the age of seventeen when I became absolutely terrified of my own thoughts. When I look back now it’s obvious to me I became severely depressed by the time I reached eighteen. I was suicidal and wanting nothing more than to leave full stop. I self harmed, I cried myself to sleep, at times I even felt like I was losing my mind because I was in so much pain, but I’m still here now and whenever you hear the phrase “Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” take heed, because it’s true.

When I’m faced with another wave of depression now, I see the oncoming signs and I know when to hunker down. I avoid getting into situations that will drag me down further, I cry when I need to shed tears because bottling things up is dangerous and I type my innermost feelings out and post them here. There are many reasons why I do the latter, but the most important aspect is this: I would never want anybody to feel as alone as I once did.

Overall and with almost eight years of depression behind me I know I’m okay right now. I’ve been better and I’ve certainly been worse, but feeling “okay” gives me a foundation to work from and with the correct tools, I will construct a life around me before the year is out.

– Raindrops

I Want to Shower Grapes With Sunshine

16 Nov

Dear Diary,

I knew drinking wine would work and I’m even smiling to myself as I write this. I slept for over fifteen hours straight thanks to two bottles. You have no idea how better I feel after a good nights sleep. I need to sleep or I feel like I’m losing my mind. Even the headache I have right now isn’t bothering me because it’s keeping the bad thoughts at bay.

My brother is trying to kill me with kindness. Look what he made me:

A cheese toastie and crisps. It did taste better than it looks.

I’m already tired and I don’t know why. I also still feel detached from the world and everybody in it… But that’s okay, it’s fine. Detached equals less pain and no tears.  I only like crying when I’m alone at night curled up in bed. I’ve found it releases the pain I keep bottling up inside my heart. If I don’t let the tears fall, I’m afraid one day my heart will shatter and I won’t want to glue it back together. That really is my biggest fear, waking up to realise the day has come where I give up my fight.

That day has come before, three times in fact, but I feel as though they were only rehearsals for the final act.

No, I don’t know why I’m thinking this way either. I should be used to these feelings by now. Seven years I’ve felt this way. Seven fucking years and I’m still here and hanging on to what little life I have. My chipped nails have had more than their fair share of practice and I’m gripping onto the edge of life, my feet dangling over a hazardous drop.

I feel better than I did yesterday and I’m thankful for that. Sleep truly is the master of all healers and alcohol is its accomplice.

On that note, I find I have nothing else to say.

– Raindrops

Restless

14 Nov

Dear Diary,

It’s five to six in the morning and I’ve already been awake for a couple of hours. Why? I guess I just don’t know. There’s so much I can’t explain and I sometimes struggle to wade through my many thoughts on a daily basis.

I’m having one of those moments again. It’s times like this when I wake up far too early and it’s still dark outside. I feel like the silence is slowly eating away at my soul and sleep is escaping me like smoke billowing from an industrial sized chimney, coughing my depressive thoughts into the atmosphere.  If I lived in a country which exercised the death penalty, I would be the first woman to suffer such a fate for melting polar icecaps with my bleak, black thoughts.

In the song Pennyroyal Tea, Kurt Cobain uses the line, ‘I’m so tired I can’t sleep’ and that pretty much sums up how I feel right now. That and the numbness deep inside my soul is starting to wake. It’s being poisoned by sadness and the unhappiness is making my heart sink.

I can literally feel my mood dropping, sliding down a slippery slope and no matter what I tell myself, what I promise to do, I can’t seem to overthrow my feelings. My depression never takes my challenges seriously and the hurt expands inside me until the tears erupt from my eyes. But this is my life and I try my hardest to hang on while I promise myself one day I’ll be happy.

Well, I think I need to try and fall back to sleep. I’ve turned on the heating hoping the heavy warmth will lull me into unconsciousness. Do you think it will work? I’ll let you know if it does.

This is goodbye for now, thanks for giving me a place to collect and house my thoughts without bias.

– Raindrops