Today started as any normal day; I woke up, ate breakfast, went to work, was inundated by emails, decided I hated my job, had free theatre tickets dropped on my desk, remembered I loved my job, swivelled on my chair a bit and thought about lunch.
Then the not so normal thing happened. My vision went blurry and I started to shake so badly that I couldn't hold my pen.
I took my glasses off and held on to my desk, trying to focus and stop the tremor. I thought perhaps it was a panic attack so I tried to slow my breath, but I was still breathing at an even pace and my heart wasn't racing. I went to the bathroom, really because I didn't know what else to do. My tremor was so severe that I could see myself shaking in the mirror, even through my double vision. I have been warned that with the amount of medication I take there's the potential for the drug levels to become toxic.
I went to my bosses office and when she asked what I wanted, I held out my hands and told her I couldn't stop shaking and needed to get to a doctor. She walked me outside as I tried through shaking hands to call my doctor. I got through and when I explained what was wrong with me he told me to come straight in.
All my obs came back within the range of normal, my pulse rate was up a little and my temperature was higher than usual. I didn't have enough of the symptoms to suggest I have serotonin syndrome, but my doctor couldn't rule out an adverse reaction to lithium or a change to my thyroid or kidney function. I was sent away with the reassurance that I probably wouldn't die and to go to hospital if I developed any other symptoms.
My tremor has now calmed down to an almost undetectable shake and I'm off to get a full panel of blood tests tomorrow morning. I'm worried that this episode is going to mean a change to my medication regime and that is something I'm really not excited about doing a week and a half before I go overseas. There's always the danger with medication changes that my mood will take a dip and I really don't need that when I'm going through the already stressful experience of changing time zones and going through airports. Of course there's nothing I can do but hope symptoms don't progress and that any medication changes are kind to me.
So it's a very shaky sign-off from me tonight.
Wednesday 30 January 2013
Tuesday 29 January 2013
Honk If Your An Aussie
I spent the long weekend with my parents at their beach house. I even went to the beach one day and waded out into the water in my grandma-style, green, striped, skirted bathing suit that I bought at Savers. And everyone on the beach had the good grace not to gasp, point or sneer at my irridescent skin or luscious underarm hair growth.
Australia Day was the Saturday and we had no real plans to celebrate this auspicious event but drove in to Rye to see what was happening. Celebrations were afoot there. A childrens entertainer was singing interactive songs for the offspring of the nearby campers, a sign promised there would be fireworks later and a group of thick-necked Meditaranean looking men were engaged in a game of soccer.
There were also a large number of young people (oh god - how old am I, really? But you know who I'm talking about when I say young people, you know, young people, yoof!) getting about with Australian flag paraphernalia; t-shirts, hats, singlets, crop tops, temporary tattoos and of course the traditional flag draped around the neck as cape.
On the road in to Rye there was a bunch of flag-clad young people camped on the side of the road with a cardboard sign reading 'Honk If Your (sic) An Aussie'. I found the whole thing distasteful, not least because of the grammar gaff or the fact that as a nation we should be able to find a better day to celebrate than the day our genocide of the indigenous population commenced, but also because I wonder what particular brand of Aussie-ness these young people are so fervently in support of. I fear it's an Aussie-ness that embraces sport watching, larrikinism, sportiness, a 'she'll be right' attitude, sportsman idolisation, male dominance, anti-intellectualism or at least dismissal of those considered 'up themselves' and sport. This is tar I do not care to be brushed with. Mostly because I greatly enjoy being up myself.
But I do love Australia and some of the fine things about being an Australian. But my love is a cautious, tempered love and not unerring.
I love that we have an elected Prime Minister who is a woman, unmarried and atheist. Yet I was appalled by the party politics that initially led to her appointment and I consider it a great shame that so much political dialogue still revolves around party politics rather than the issues at hand. And while it's great that she's a female and unmarried we should not see this as a sign that women's struggles for equality are over or that we're shifting anywhere away from a heteronormative society.
It was one of the things I waxed lyrical about in the U.S., my prized affordable education. But I'm angered by the cuts to universities, particularly as they are hitting hardest the Arts and Humanities.I need art, literature, history and philosophy to have any understanding of life. You can get a scientist to tell me about the atoms I'm made of, but I'm more interested in the stories that as people we can make.
I also often discussed our brilliant universal health care system with my friends in the U.S. But mental health is one of the areas of our public health system that desperately needs an overhaul. I have received excellent mental health care for one reason only, money. I'm lucky that I have family that support me and can help foot the bill for my private health insurance, psychology appointments, psychiatry appointments and medications. Most people are not as fortunate as I am. Mental illness impoverishes people and then further frustrates them by being expensive and difficult to access. Beds on public wards are hard to come by and many mental health professionals attest that admission to a public mental health ward can actually exacerbate mental health issues due to the environment on the ward.
I feel guilty sometimes that there are people out there suffering from far worse conditions than I but without the supports that I have. It is only because of these supports that I have any chance of living something that resembles a normal and productive life. I really do wish we had a true universal health care system in Australia, that cares for the health of every Australian, not just those lucky to be born like me.
Australia Day was the Saturday and we had no real plans to celebrate this auspicious event but drove in to Rye to see what was happening. Celebrations were afoot there. A childrens entertainer was singing interactive songs for the offspring of the nearby campers, a sign promised there would be fireworks later and a group of thick-necked Meditaranean looking men were engaged in a game of soccer.
There were also a large number of young people (oh god - how old am I, really? But you know who I'm talking about when I say young people, you know, young people, yoof!) getting about with Australian flag paraphernalia; t-shirts, hats, singlets, crop tops, temporary tattoos and of course the traditional flag draped around the neck as cape.
On the road in to Rye there was a bunch of flag-clad young people camped on the side of the road with a cardboard sign reading 'Honk If Your (sic) An Aussie'. I found the whole thing distasteful, not least because of the grammar gaff or the fact that as a nation we should be able to find a better day to celebrate than the day our genocide of the indigenous population commenced, but also because I wonder what particular brand of Aussie-ness these young people are so fervently in support of. I fear it's an Aussie-ness that embraces sport watching, larrikinism, sportiness, a 'she'll be right' attitude, sportsman idolisation, male dominance, anti-intellectualism or at least dismissal of those considered 'up themselves' and sport. This is tar I do not care to be brushed with. Mostly because I greatly enjoy being up myself.
But I do love Australia and some of the fine things about being an Australian. But my love is a cautious, tempered love and not unerring.
I love that we have an elected Prime Minister who is a woman, unmarried and atheist. Yet I was appalled by the party politics that initially led to her appointment and I consider it a great shame that so much political dialogue still revolves around party politics rather than the issues at hand. And while it's great that she's a female and unmarried we should not see this as a sign that women's struggles for equality are over or that we're shifting anywhere away from a heteronormative society.
It was one of the things I waxed lyrical about in the U.S., my prized affordable education. But I'm angered by the cuts to universities, particularly as they are hitting hardest the Arts and Humanities.I need art, literature, history and philosophy to have any understanding of life. You can get a scientist to tell me about the atoms I'm made of, but I'm more interested in the stories that as people we can make.
I also often discussed our brilliant universal health care system with my friends in the U.S. But mental health is one of the areas of our public health system that desperately needs an overhaul. I have received excellent mental health care for one reason only, money. I'm lucky that I have family that support me and can help foot the bill for my private health insurance, psychology appointments, psychiatry appointments and medications. Most people are not as fortunate as I am. Mental illness impoverishes people and then further frustrates them by being expensive and difficult to access. Beds on public wards are hard to come by and many mental health professionals attest that admission to a public mental health ward can actually exacerbate mental health issues due to the environment on the ward.
I feel guilty sometimes that there are people out there suffering from far worse conditions than I but without the supports that I have. It is only because of these supports that I have any chance of living something that resembles a normal and productive life. I really do wish we had a true universal health care system in Australia, that cares for the health of every Australian, not just those lucky to be born like me.
Thursday 24 January 2013
Things I am allowed
Today 3 things happened; I had a moment of supreme, radiant happiness, I had a rush of euphoria and I did something quite impulsive.
In bipolar terms these things should ring alarm bells. They're like chest pain radiating down the left arm for someone who has heart disease. They would definitely be looked upon as signs that I'm heading towards hypomania or mania. But I'm going to allow them.
The first thing happened as I was on my way from work to my appointment with my psychiatrist. I had caught the tram to the corner of Bourke and Swanston St. On the corner some members of the Socialist Alternative party were set up advocating for Aboriginal rights. My ex-boyfriend is a socialist. Indeed I recognised one of his housemates amongst the bunch but instead of feeling the usual turmoil of emotions I have felt when reminded of my ex-boyfriend, I just felt kind of, well, fine.
I walked to the tram stop on Bourke St and sat waiting for my tram. A young girl and her friend were sitting on the seat behind me and the young girl said to her friend, "I can tell my heart's broken, I can feel it, right in here." And suddenly it struck me that my heart is not broken. I'm actually happier now than I was then and I had a moment of supreme, radiant happiness. The sun was shining on me, I was happy that the socialists were out there fighting for rights, I was happy that my ex-boyfriend was out there somewhere living his life, I was even happy that this broken-hearted girl had a friend she could talk to.
The rush of euphoria came later when I was at the gym. It may have come across that I find the gym quite a slog. And I do mostly. I start working out and my brain decides very quickly that it's bored and then I have to cajole it with thoughts like 'it's good for you, brain' and 'afterwards, we can get icecream!'. This evening wasn't much different until a moment when I was on the exercise bike, keeping a steady pace and the Girl Talk song 'Oh No' came on to my iPod. I shouldn't like this song since, as a feminist, I dislike the word bitch being used in a derogatory fashion, and the lyrics 'move bitch, get out the way' are repeated about a billion timws, but I really started pedalling and feeling driven by the song. After cycling hard for a few minutes I had a rush of euphoria. Hello endorphins! I also became aware that my body is so much stronger than I give it credit for. If only my brain would stop telling it it hates exercise.
When I got home from the gym, glowing with virtue and also dripping with it too, I went to take a shower and saw some purple hairdye in the bathroom. My last trip to the hairdressers resulted in me receiving a colour job called balayage. Basically my hair is darker at the roots and gradually gets lighter towards the ends. Some people have told me they like it on me but personally, I just don't feel I'm the sort of person to have pretty hair. It makes me feel like I should do other things to my hair like blow dry it or style it or brush it or wash it. And that's not really my thing.
So, anyway, I suppose you can guess what my impulsive decision was. I dyed the ends of my hair purple and I kind of made a hash of it, but now at least my hair looks like it matches me more. And if I decide I don't like it in a few days or weeks I can always dye it again or chop it off.
So yeah, these things happened today but I think I'm just going to clock them up to having a good day. May it be the first of many!
In bipolar terms these things should ring alarm bells. They're like chest pain radiating down the left arm for someone who has heart disease. They would definitely be looked upon as signs that I'm heading towards hypomania or mania. But I'm going to allow them.
The first thing happened as I was on my way from work to my appointment with my psychiatrist. I had caught the tram to the corner of Bourke and Swanston St. On the corner some members of the Socialist Alternative party were set up advocating for Aboriginal rights. My ex-boyfriend is a socialist. Indeed I recognised one of his housemates amongst the bunch but instead of feeling the usual turmoil of emotions I have felt when reminded of my ex-boyfriend, I just felt kind of, well, fine.
I walked to the tram stop on Bourke St and sat waiting for my tram. A young girl and her friend were sitting on the seat behind me and the young girl said to her friend, "I can tell my heart's broken, I can feel it, right in here." And suddenly it struck me that my heart is not broken. I'm actually happier now than I was then and I had a moment of supreme, radiant happiness. The sun was shining on me, I was happy that the socialists were out there fighting for rights, I was happy that my ex-boyfriend was out there somewhere living his life, I was even happy that this broken-hearted girl had a friend she could talk to.
The rush of euphoria came later when I was at the gym. It may have come across that I find the gym quite a slog. And I do mostly. I start working out and my brain decides very quickly that it's bored and then I have to cajole it with thoughts like 'it's good for you, brain' and 'afterwards, we can get icecream!'. This evening wasn't much different until a moment when I was on the exercise bike, keeping a steady pace and the Girl Talk song 'Oh No' came on to my iPod. I shouldn't like this song since, as a feminist, I dislike the word bitch being used in a derogatory fashion, and the lyrics 'move bitch, get out the way' are repeated about a billion timws, but I really started pedalling and feeling driven by the song. After cycling hard for a few minutes I had a rush of euphoria. Hello endorphins! I also became aware that my body is so much stronger than I give it credit for. If only my brain would stop telling it it hates exercise.
When I got home from the gym, glowing with virtue and also dripping with it too, I went to take a shower and saw some purple hairdye in the bathroom. My last trip to the hairdressers resulted in me receiving a colour job called balayage. Basically my hair is darker at the roots and gradually gets lighter towards the ends. Some people have told me they like it on me but personally, I just don't feel I'm the sort of person to have pretty hair. It makes me feel like I should do other things to my hair like blow dry it or style it or brush it or wash it. And that's not really my thing.
So, anyway, I suppose you can guess what my impulsive decision was. I dyed the ends of my hair purple and I kind of made a hash of it, but now at least my hair looks like it matches me more. And if I decide I don't like it in a few days or weeks I can always dye it again or chop it off.
So yeah, these things happened today but I think I'm just going to clock them up to having a good day. May it be the first of many!
Wednesday 23 January 2013
Hiccuping along
I forgot to take my medication the other day.
I felt fine throughout the morning but in the afternoon I felt tearful and when I tried to shake it off it wouldn't shake, it just slipped and sat in my stomach like a lump of lead. I was talking with my aunt and I was pleased by what she was saying but when I tried to smile it felt like my face was contorting. I went to my bedroom and saw my pill box (one of those ones old grannies have with the days of the week and compartments for morning and night) and I couldn't remember touching it that morning. I looked through the little blue plastic window and sure enough there were my pills, the things that stand between functional me and a quivering mess.
The next day was still average, the half life of all those psychotropic little circles having expired with my skipped dose. At least I knew what the problem was. But it was sad to get a glimpse of what my unmedicated self is like right now. I'm fiercely independent so the acknowledgement of my dependence on drugs, albeit legal ones, made me a little flatter than my already flat self.
I also haven't been sleeping all that well the past few nights. I lie awake ruminating about my trip and that somehow leads to ponderings on ex-boyfriends and the scenarios surrounding how they became ex, deep thoughts on whether I will ever finish my uni degree and last night, the mystery of which Gilbert and Sullivan musical the song 'Modern Major General' is from (at 1am I caved and googled it - it's the Pirates of Penzance. Of course.)
I've also been waking during the night, sometimes too hot, sometimes too cold and last night from a nightmare that my Mum had been diagnosed with cancer. She's been in hospital for a few days with a mysterious GI infection and while she, my Dad and all of her doctors had been reassuring that it wasn't anything serious, it was obviously weighing on my mind.
The good news is that she's out of hospital now and she and my Dad have gone down to our beach house. I'm joining them on Friday evening and it's honestly been one of the things that has been dragging me through the week. I'm looking forward to lounging in my pyjamas, doing jigsaw puzzles, reading a book (I'm without a current book! I finished the one I was reading, A.M. Homes' May We Be Forgiven, and it was brilliant. I've got this book hangover now where I'm still in the world of my last book but also fearful that the next one will not be as good) and I'm also looking forward to eating fish and chips. I suppose I could go to the beach too. It's not really my thing though. Too much sand.
Not everything has been bad this week, but nothing has been particularly good or noteworthy either. I'm still liking work, my psychologist is back from holidays, I made a good laksa for dinner tonight. I'm just getting along with these little hiccups.
I'm hoping that things will smooth out a bit over the next few weeks as I'd hate to fly off to the U.S. feeling unsettled. I've almost done all the possible planning I can do for my trip too so it's just a matter of waiting for it to roll around now.
Anyway, sleep now and in the morning I must remember my medication. Goodnight.
I felt fine throughout the morning but in the afternoon I felt tearful and when I tried to shake it off it wouldn't shake, it just slipped and sat in my stomach like a lump of lead. I was talking with my aunt and I was pleased by what she was saying but when I tried to smile it felt like my face was contorting. I went to my bedroom and saw my pill box (one of those ones old grannies have with the days of the week and compartments for morning and night) and I couldn't remember touching it that morning. I looked through the little blue plastic window and sure enough there were my pills, the things that stand between functional me and a quivering mess.
The next day was still average, the half life of all those psychotropic little circles having expired with my skipped dose. At least I knew what the problem was. But it was sad to get a glimpse of what my unmedicated self is like right now. I'm fiercely independent so the acknowledgement of my dependence on drugs, albeit legal ones, made me a little flatter than my already flat self.
I also haven't been sleeping all that well the past few nights. I lie awake ruminating about my trip and that somehow leads to ponderings on ex-boyfriends and the scenarios surrounding how they became ex, deep thoughts on whether I will ever finish my uni degree and last night, the mystery of which Gilbert and Sullivan musical the song 'Modern Major General' is from (at 1am I caved and googled it - it's the Pirates of Penzance. Of course.)
I've also been waking during the night, sometimes too hot, sometimes too cold and last night from a nightmare that my Mum had been diagnosed with cancer. She's been in hospital for a few days with a mysterious GI infection and while she, my Dad and all of her doctors had been reassuring that it wasn't anything serious, it was obviously weighing on my mind.
The good news is that she's out of hospital now and she and my Dad have gone down to our beach house. I'm joining them on Friday evening and it's honestly been one of the things that has been dragging me through the week. I'm looking forward to lounging in my pyjamas, doing jigsaw puzzles, reading a book (I'm without a current book! I finished the one I was reading, A.M. Homes' May We Be Forgiven, and it was brilliant. I've got this book hangover now where I'm still in the world of my last book but also fearful that the next one will not be as good) and I'm also looking forward to eating fish and chips. I suppose I could go to the beach too. It's not really my thing though. Too much sand.
Not everything has been bad this week, but nothing has been particularly good or noteworthy either. I'm still liking work, my psychologist is back from holidays, I made a good laksa for dinner tonight. I'm just getting along with these little hiccups.
I'm hoping that things will smooth out a bit over the next few weeks as I'd hate to fly off to the U.S. feeling unsettled. I've almost done all the possible planning I can do for my trip too so it's just a matter of waiting for it to roll around now.
Anyway, sleep now and in the morning I must remember my medication. Goodnight.
Saturday 19 January 2013
Trip planning
I've been having a wild time searching for hotels on Expedia!
I really do love trip planning. I'm quite the planner so there's always a spreadsheet for the itinerary and hours spent scouring the Internet for reviews, ideas and bargain accommodation. I knew nothing about Bloomington, Indiana, except that my friend Andrea lived there, a couple of weeks ago but now I'm familiar with the layout of the town thanks to google maps, I've yelped for the best places to eat brunch and I've even looked up tattoo parlours and their ratings in case I finally get around to getting my long talked of tattoo while I'm there.
A lot of planning has also had to go into my bipolar management while I'm away (I know, I said I wasn't going to talk about it). I need to calculate exactly how much medication I need to take with me, a complicated matter with the amount I take. I also need to take an extra weeks worth in case I end up stuck somewhere unexpectedly (or "forget" to get on my plane back home - mwah ha ha!). I also need to take copies of all my prescriptions and a letter from my doctor explaining that while I may be carrying a quantity of drugs that make me look like a drug mule, it is in fact all legitimately for a medical condition.
When I've told a few people that I'm going overseas (including both parents) they've asked what my doctor thinks. I imagine that for other people with serious medical conditions, say if someone had diabetes, they would tell their doctor that they were going overseas, but it's somehow implied that I should ask my doctor, check that he thinks it's an ok idea and not the wild drivel of a crazed woman. For the record my doctor thinks its a fantastic idea.
He suggested I work out in advance when I'm going to sleep and when I'm going to take my medication so tonight I got to sit down and draft up an exciting spreadsheet (that 'exciting' is not sarcastic - I just love spreadsheets and planning!) of when I'm departing and arriving and when the optimum time for sleeping is as I cross time zones and when to take my medication so that I don't miss a dose as I travel forwards in time on my return.
There wasn't much left to plan until I had a thought for my well being in New York. New York is my favourite place in the world. If you've never been, the praise you hear for it is not at all superlative, it really is the greatest city in the world. It's also the city that never sleeps which is a bit of a problem for me as sleep is of extreme importance to me right now. It's the difference between a good day and a bad day and I imagine I'm going to be tempted to spend long hours into the night catching up with all my friends there. It occurred to me that if I'm tired in Orange County or Bloomington or Hudson I can just say I need to take a nap but if I'm staying with one of my friends in New York I'm really bound to their schedule and they all work during the day. So I've decided I'm going to stay in a hotel while I'm in New York. It gives me that option, plus I get to run my own schedule that way. And hence I've been scouring Expedia. I'll let you know what I turn up.
I really do love trip planning. I'm quite the planner so there's always a spreadsheet for the itinerary and hours spent scouring the Internet for reviews, ideas and bargain accommodation. I knew nothing about Bloomington, Indiana, except that my friend Andrea lived there, a couple of weeks ago but now I'm familiar with the layout of the town thanks to google maps, I've yelped for the best places to eat brunch and I've even looked up tattoo parlours and their ratings in case I finally get around to getting my long talked of tattoo while I'm there.
A lot of planning has also had to go into my bipolar management while I'm away (I know, I said I wasn't going to talk about it). I need to calculate exactly how much medication I need to take with me, a complicated matter with the amount I take. I also need to take an extra weeks worth in case I end up stuck somewhere unexpectedly (or "forget" to get on my plane back home - mwah ha ha!). I also need to take copies of all my prescriptions and a letter from my doctor explaining that while I may be carrying a quantity of drugs that make me look like a drug mule, it is in fact all legitimately for a medical condition.
When I've told a few people that I'm going overseas (including both parents) they've asked what my doctor thinks. I imagine that for other people with serious medical conditions, say if someone had diabetes, they would tell their doctor that they were going overseas, but it's somehow implied that I should ask my doctor, check that he thinks it's an ok idea and not the wild drivel of a crazed woman. For the record my doctor thinks its a fantastic idea.
He suggested I work out in advance when I'm going to sleep and when I'm going to take my medication so tonight I got to sit down and draft up an exciting spreadsheet (that 'exciting' is not sarcastic - I just love spreadsheets and planning!) of when I'm departing and arriving and when the optimum time for sleeping is as I cross time zones and when to take my medication so that I don't miss a dose as I travel forwards in time on my return.
There wasn't much left to plan until I had a thought for my well being in New York. New York is my favourite place in the world. If you've never been, the praise you hear for it is not at all superlative, it really is the greatest city in the world. It's also the city that never sleeps which is a bit of a problem for me as sleep is of extreme importance to me right now. It's the difference between a good day and a bad day and I imagine I'm going to be tempted to spend long hours into the night catching up with all my friends there. It occurred to me that if I'm tired in Orange County or Bloomington or Hudson I can just say I need to take a nap but if I'm staying with one of my friends in New York I'm really bound to their schedule and they all work during the day. So I've decided I'm going to stay in a hotel while I'm in New York. It gives me that option, plus I get to run my own schedule that way. And hence I've been scouring Expedia. I'll let you know what I turn up.
Thursday 17 January 2013
Bipolar is expensive and time consuming
I broke with routine this morning and got up early to get to work early so I could leave work early to make my appointment with my psychiatrist. After my $220 appointment I went and spent $66 on medication and it looks like I'll be doing it all over again next week! Oh yeah, because that $66 is for only 2 of my 5 medications and I'm running low on others now. One of them costs $50 a month!
Yesterday I had an appointment with one of the counsellors from the Outreach program at The Melbourne Clinic. Those are fortunately covered by my private health insurance but she wanted to know when I had another hour free next week. The simple answer is I don't.
I have work and appointments with my psychologist and my psychiatrist plus I'm trying to minimise running around so that I actually get some time to rest. The counsellor seemed highly unimpressed, like I wasn't prioritising my mental health but I really don't know what to do.
I feel like my life is overrun by the logistics of bipolar disorder. I have to carefully plan my time so that I have at least 2 hours plus travel time per week to see various health professionals. I constantly draft up budgets to make sure I have the funds available at the right times when I need to see one of my health professionals or refill prescriptions. It's a job in itself.
And now, I have something wonderful and big to look forward to and it's feeling like this trip is going to be really positive but I find myself fretting about how many hours I'm going to need to take off work and how much money that is that I'm losing out on so I can go and spend more money on dealing with bipolar disorder.
I'm tempted to put a stop to the Outreach visits. My experience has been that they're not there to build a long-term therapeutic relationship, they're heavily based on CBT and mindfulness which I know enough about and find to be of limited value and quite frankly they're taking up time which I would rather be spending at work or taking a walk or reading my book or just not thinking or talking about bipolar disorder.
I think the easiest way for me to become a lifelong victim of bipolar disorder, like some of the people I met in hospital, would be to let it overrun my life and at the moment I feel a bit like that is happening. I might even ease up on blogging about bipolar related shit and instead treat you to lyrical prose about other things, like my memories of and cravings for American hamburgers or my sudden desire to get a dog. I want to be more than just bipolar Katie. Perhaps I should have thought of that before I named my blog.
Yesterday I had an appointment with one of the counsellors from the Outreach program at The Melbourne Clinic. Those are fortunately covered by my private health insurance but she wanted to know when I had another hour free next week. The simple answer is I don't.
I have work and appointments with my psychologist and my psychiatrist plus I'm trying to minimise running around so that I actually get some time to rest. The counsellor seemed highly unimpressed, like I wasn't prioritising my mental health but I really don't know what to do.
I feel like my life is overrun by the logistics of bipolar disorder. I have to carefully plan my time so that I have at least 2 hours plus travel time per week to see various health professionals. I constantly draft up budgets to make sure I have the funds available at the right times when I need to see one of my health professionals or refill prescriptions. It's a job in itself.
And now, I have something wonderful and big to look forward to and it's feeling like this trip is going to be really positive but I find myself fretting about how many hours I'm going to need to take off work and how much money that is that I'm losing out on so I can go and spend more money on dealing with bipolar disorder.
I'm tempted to put a stop to the Outreach visits. My experience has been that they're not there to build a long-term therapeutic relationship, they're heavily based on CBT and mindfulness which I know enough about and find to be of limited value and quite frankly they're taking up time which I would rather be spending at work or taking a walk or reading my book or just not thinking or talking about bipolar disorder.
I think the easiest way for me to become a lifelong victim of bipolar disorder, like some of the people I met in hospital, would be to let it overrun my life and at the moment I feel a bit like that is happening. I might even ease up on blogging about bipolar related shit and instead treat you to lyrical prose about other things, like my memories of and cravings for American hamburgers or my sudden desire to get a dog. I want to be more than just bipolar Katie. Perhaps I should have thought of that before I named my blog.
Tuesday 15 January 2013
My bipolar body
My body has become a battleground.
In theory, bipolar disorder only affects the chemicals in my brain, but like a cancer it has insidiously spread to other parts of my body.
It's in my left leg which spasms and jolts in response to the barrage of pharmaceuticals assaulting my nervous system.
Early last year it spread to my right thigh when in a deluded state I thought I could spare my life by offering up a blood sacrifice. Taking a knife to my thigh I felt a rush of euphoric relief. The sense of control it gave me made the behaviour a daily ritual and I felt I was recovering rapidly. It was only after one of the cuts became infected that I was forced to see my doctor and the whole trick unravelled.
I'm left now with puckered, purple lines, like tiger stripes, adorning my thigh.
I have tiger stripes elsewhere on my body from bipolar disorder. The wavy indents of stretch marks on my breasts, stomach and arms. A rapid increase in medication made me swell in size; fluid retention, disturbed metabolism and the particularly nasty trick of Zyprexa, suppressing the thing in my brain that lets me know when I'm full.
I walk around now in my puffed up body and feel torn between the disgust I'm conditioned by society to feel towards my own fatness and the acceptance I really need to let my body be at peace while my brain is piecing itself together again.
At the gym one of the trainers looked at me and told me I could set a weight loss goal. I should have explained to her that my goal at the gym was to keep my dopamine levels up. I should have but I didn't. I just felt ashamed.
Feeling shame is a big part of being fat. I'm now incredibly conscious of what I eat in public, fearing if I'm caught with a mouth full of fries that somebody will jump out at me and tell me I'm disgusting. I also quietly accept that my body will be in pain. My back aches and aches from carrying around these excess kilos but I feel that it's my penance for not prioritising my weight loss.
So you see, there's this feedback loop where taking care of my brain has caused me to put on weight, which is causing me to house negative thoughts in my brain.
One solution would be to go on a grand weight loss journey. I could go hard at the gym five nights a week, count my calories, or worse, and I'm ashamed to say not unthought of, just stop eating altogether. I did it once before after a horrible breakup. People kept telling me how terrific I looked when inside I felt miserable and empty.
The other solution would be to stop waging war against my body and accept and love it as it is. Because my body is doing some remarkable things. It's putting one foot in front of the other to get me out the door each day, a previously insurmountable task. It's adjusting to the large doses of chemicals ingested into it each day and not letting them poison me. It's housing a fragile mind that is healing itself.
And maybe it's not such a bad thing for me to be carrying extra weight. It's a physical reminder to go slowly right now.
Most importantly, to the people who love me I am not a body shape. Thank you for loving me just as I am. I aspire to do the same.
Saturday 12 January 2013
Some good news and some more good news
Yes enough of all the gloom, this is a blog by a bipolar girl, shouldn't there be ups as well?
Fortunately this is not a report from the grips of hypomania but a post of relief and excitement.
Firstly, I'm not sure it has come through in my blog but for the last two months I have been tired. The sort of tired that is in your bones and doesn't go away no matter how many hours I've slept, how many naps I'd take or how many pyjama days I spent at home. It was affecting my work, my social life, my mood, everything.
But yesterday I went to see my psychiatrist (who is back from holidays- hooray for having one of my mental health support crew back!) and he told me plainly that being on 6 different medications was lunacy. He was unsurprised that I've had such a dizzying array of side effects and thought he could address the most prominent one immediately by taking me off seroquel. So last night my drug regime was sans seroquel and I woke up this morning after 8 hours sleep feeling alert and clear headed. This then lasted throughout the day to the extent that by this afternoon my overwhelming feeling was one of boredom (oh archiving, you are a tedious beast) rather than soul draining fatigue!
So that's the first bit of good news, the second is far more exciting; I've booked flights to the States!
I have been homesick for that second home and all the good friends I made there for so long now. 383 days to be precise. But in less than a month I'm going to be there!
I'm flying into LA where I'll be spending some time with family in Orange County, then on to Indiana where I get to see my most sorely missed friend, Andrea, we're then going to fly to New York together and head upstate to see her gorgeous hometown of Hudson, we'll take a trip out to New Paltz to reminisce about our good old days there and then down to NYC to drink in that big city. Oh, I can't wait!
It's feeling incredibly good to have something big in my life which isn't mental illness. With all the medication and appointments and side effects it has felt a bit like my life has been overrun by it. But now there is something outside of that which I can put my energies towards.
I will of course need to be mindful of my mental health while I'm over there; ensuring I treat my jet lagged body with kindness, stay on top of my medication, don't overexert myself and probably stick to a fairly sober schedule (though I would like maybe one or two boozy nights - ending up at Rudy's and eating their hotdogs was such a tradition of mine in New York!)
I'm also aware that I'll probably experience a slump on my return. Saying goodbye once was hard enough, saying goodbye again could break my heart all over again. Plus there's always that dull ache you experience when you return from a holiday and have to return to your boring, familiar routines. But I have my mental health plan handy and knowing I should be ready for a slump will hopefully give me good experience at activating my relapse prevention strategies (on a side note, I hate mental health jargon, I think it's bullshit and dehumanises what is a very personal and painful experience. For a human.)
But let's cross that bridge when I come to it. For now I'm looking forward to more days with the stamina of a normal person and what promises to be a brilliant trip.
Fortunately this is not a report from the grips of hypomania but a post of relief and excitement.
Firstly, I'm not sure it has come through in my blog but for the last two months I have been tired. The sort of tired that is in your bones and doesn't go away no matter how many hours I've slept, how many naps I'd take or how many pyjama days I spent at home. It was affecting my work, my social life, my mood, everything.
But yesterday I went to see my psychiatrist (who is back from holidays- hooray for having one of my mental health support crew back!) and he told me plainly that being on 6 different medications was lunacy. He was unsurprised that I've had such a dizzying array of side effects and thought he could address the most prominent one immediately by taking me off seroquel. So last night my drug regime was sans seroquel and I woke up this morning after 8 hours sleep feeling alert and clear headed. This then lasted throughout the day to the extent that by this afternoon my overwhelming feeling was one of boredom (oh archiving, you are a tedious beast) rather than soul draining fatigue!
So that's the first bit of good news, the second is far more exciting; I've booked flights to the States!
I have been homesick for that second home and all the good friends I made there for so long now. 383 days to be precise. But in less than a month I'm going to be there!
I'm flying into LA where I'll be spending some time with family in Orange County, then on to Indiana where I get to see my most sorely missed friend, Andrea, we're then going to fly to New York together and head upstate to see her gorgeous hometown of Hudson, we'll take a trip out to New Paltz to reminisce about our good old days there and then down to NYC to drink in that big city. Oh, I can't wait!
It's feeling incredibly good to have something big in my life which isn't mental illness. With all the medication and appointments and side effects it has felt a bit like my life has been overrun by it. But now there is something outside of that which I can put my energies towards.
I will of course need to be mindful of my mental health while I'm over there; ensuring I treat my jet lagged body with kindness, stay on top of my medication, don't overexert myself and probably stick to a fairly sober schedule (though I would like maybe one or two boozy nights - ending up at Rudy's and eating their hotdogs was such a tradition of mine in New York!)
I'm also aware that I'll probably experience a slump on my return. Saying goodbye once was hard enough, saying goodbye again could break my heart all over again. Plus there's always that dull ache you experience when you return from a holiday and have to return to your boring, familiar routines. But I have my mental health plan handy and knowing I should be ready for a slump will hopefully give me good experience at activating my relapse prevention strategies (on a side note, I hate mental health jargon, I think it's bullshit and dehumanises what is a very personal and painful experience. For a human.)
But let's cross that bridge when I come to it. For now I'm looking forward to more days with the stamina of a normal person and what promises to be a brilliant trip.
Sunday 6 January 2013
Home Alone
It has just been me and the puppies home the last few days. And I don't mind that at all.
While I wouldn't call myself a misanthrope, I do certainly love a bit of alone time.
I like to think that with my alone time I'll clean and tidy everything without interruption and read books in single sittings and write interesting and integral beginnings to plays or essays. In reality I read bits of books before putting them down to wander off to snack or check Facebook, I create huge piles of dishes for myself by cooking overly elaborate meals for one and I waste hours prostrate on the couch with the remote in one hand and most of the time no idea what it is I'm watching on television.
I sometimes think that loving my alone time too much leads to poor mental health. For instance, it has just gone past midday as I type this, I'm still in my pyjamas, in bed and I don't have plans to move very far from where I am right now for the rest of the day. So if I happen to reflect at the end of the day on what it is I've achieved or what purpose there is in my life, the answer is a little depressing.
But I love these days while I live them. I exert so much energy the rest of the time trying to be intelligent and personable and interacting with others. Even when I'm well I routinely feel exhausted by just being in the company of others. Perhaps I need to reframe the way I view these days and not think of them in the context of how little I have achieved but instead think of how much energy I have conserved.
I've become acutely aware that I need to pace myself at present and I think that is something I'll need to be mindful of for the whole year since I'll be juggling study and work throughout the year. In the past I thought nothing of organising two things to do after work on a Friday night where as now one thing is taxing enough. I need to make sure I don't get busy so that I have enough energy for the important task of recovering and staying well.
But we live in a culture of busyness. It's seen as a symbol of your importance to be rushed off your feet, it's validating to have your time so demanded and sought after. Taking it easy can feel like laziness and mental decay.
I have to push past this idea and become comfortable with the concept of days of self nurture and care. I will embrace my pyjama clad self and wrap myself in a blanket of contentment as I eat whole punnets of cherry tomatoes while watching a Sex in the City marathon. I will tell myself it's ok to feel tired and respond to that by resting. I will be kind to myself because that sets a good example for how others should treat me.
So, so long blog (which is practically work- pfft! What was I thinking!), the couch needs me.
P.S. Apologies if this is rambling and nonsensical - I'm taking it easy today so didn't even edit!
While I wouldn't call myself a misanthrope, I do certainly love a bit of alone time.
I like to think that with my alone time I'll clean and tidy everything without interruption and read books in single sittings and write interesting and integral beginnings to plays or essays. In reality I read bits of books before putting them down to wander off to snack or check Facebook, I create huge piles of dishes for myself by cooking overly elaborate meals for one and I waste hours prostrate on the couch with the remote in one hand and most of the time no idea what it is I'm watching on television.
I sometimes think that loving my alone time too much leads to poor mental health. For instance, it has just gone past midday as I type this, I'm still in my pyjamas, in bed and I don't have plans to move very far from where I am right now for the rest of the day. So if I happen to reflect at the end of the day on what it is I've achieved or what purpose there is in my life, the answer is a little depressing.
But I love these days while I live them. I exert so much energy the rest of the time trying to be intelligent and personable and interacting with others. Even when I'm well I routinely feel exhausted by just being in the company of others. Perhaps I need to reframe the way I view these days and not think of them in the context of how little I have achieved but instead think of how much energy I have conserved.
I've become acutely aware that I need to pace myself at present and I think that is something I'll need to be mindful of for the whole year since I'll be juggling study and work throughout the year. In the past I thought nothing of organising two things to do after work on a Friday night where as now one thing is taxing enough. I need to make sure I don't get busy so that I have enough energy for the important task of recovering and staying well.
But we live in a culture of busyness. It's seen as a symbol of your importance to be rushed off your feet, it's validating to have your time so demanded and sought after. Taking it easy can feel like laziness and mental decay.
I have to push past this idea and become comfortable with the concept of days of self nurture and care. I will embrace my pyjama clad self and wrap myself in a blanket of contentment as I eat whole punnets of cherry tomatoes while watching a Sex in the City marathon. I will tell myself it's ok to feel tired and respond to that by resting. I will be kind to myself because that sets a good example for how others should treat me.
So, so long blog (which is practically work- pfft! What was I thinking!), the couch needs me.
P.S. Apologies if this is rambling and nonsensical - I'm taking it easy today so didn't even edit!
Tuesday 1 January 2013
The New Year
Yesterday morning I saw my doctor. He commented that there must be some superstitious part of me that wanted the rotten year that was 2012 over.
This was partly true. Part of me worries though about what may come next. This illness has sharpened it's teeth since the last time it reared it's ugly head and I worry I may not have even seen the half of it yet. I'm used to this level of rotten and while it's hard, it's familiar and I can deal with it. Something new and different, even something like the year 2013, is unknowable and holds unknown episodes of what?
My doctor also deemed it necessary to take my blood. I don't think he realised I was using my blood but I must have been, for after the blood was taken I felt quite dizzy and bereft. I spent the tram ride back into the city with my head feeling like it was full of clouds, my eyes tearing and my vision dropping in and out of grayscale.
Then there was work and after work I made my way to a party in Northcote.
I had my usual social anxieties involving unfounded scenarios that lead to my mortification, playing in my head. Plus there was the new anxiety that comes from seeing people for the first time since the psychotic episode.
But these really were unfounded anxieties. Besides being hugged a little tighter than I'm used to and searching stares into my eyes following the question, "How are you doing?", everything was relatively normal.
I say relatively because this was the first New Year's Eve in over a decade that I have been stone cold sober.
I had toyed with the idea of having a few drinks and seeing how I fared but when I imagined myself hungover with a pounding headache on top of the usual medication related fatigue, shakes, headaches and wobbliness, it just didn't seem worth it.
We left the party just before midnight to convoy to the top of the hill at All Nations Park. We lit our sparklers and counted down then bellowed at the top of our lungs "Happy New Year!" before collapsing into each other's embraces.
The vista we were afforded was stunning. We could see the fireworks go off over the Yarra, at the Bolte Bridge and some presumably illegal fireworks exploding further out north. As I stood and watched the sky lit up in colour and smoke I felt a wave of sadness come over me. When I'd yelled, "Happy New Year!" I'd really meant 'please fuck off 2012, you've been too horrible for words and you nearly killed me'. This wasn't so much about welcoming the future as it was about putting some distance between me and the past. And when I really allow myself, even for a second, to think about what has happened to me and what I've been through, I feel incredibly sad for myself.
But I know that feeling sad for myself does nothing, so let's look to the future a bit, hey?
2013 is not going to be a big year. I cannot hope for that for myself this year. 2013 needs to be about continuing my recovery, taking small steps, sticking to routines and building my resilience so I can manage whatever may be ahead of me. There will be work and uni and gym and appointments and therapy and blood tests and medication and bad days and challenges and hopefully some days when I feel unencumbered by my illness and free to enjoy life. And blogging. There will be blogging.
This was partly true. Part of me worries though about what may come next. This illness has sharpened it's teeth since the last time it reared it's ugly head and I worry I may not have even seen the half of it yet. I'm used to this level of rotten and while it's hard, it's familiar and I can deal with it. Something new and different, even something like the year 2013, is unknowable and holds unknown episodes of what?
My doctor also deemed it necessary to take my blood. I don't think he realised I was using my blood but I must have been, for after the blood was taken I felt quite dizzy and bereft. I spent the tram ride back into the city with my head feeling like it was full of clouds, my eyes tearing and my vision dropping in and out of grayscale.
Then there was work and after work I made my way to a party in Northcote.
I had my usual social anxieties involving unfounded scenarios that lead to my mortification, playing in my head. Plus there was the new anxiety that comes from seeing people for the first time since the psychotic episode.
But these really were unfounded anxieties. Besides being hugged a little tighter than I'm used to and searching stares into my eyes following the question, "How are you doing?", everything was relatively normal.
I say relatively because this was the first New Year's Eve in over a decade that I have been stone cold sober.
I had toyed with the idea of having a few drinks and seeing how I fared but when I imagined myself hungover with a pounding headache on top of the usual medication related fatigue, shakes, headaches and wobbliness, it just didn't seem worth it.
We left the party just before midnight to convoy to the top of the hill at All Nations Park. We lit our sparklers and counted down then bellowed at the top of our lungs "Happy New Year!" before collapsing into each other's embraces.
The vista we were afforded was stunning. We could see the fireworks go off over the Yarra, at the Bolte Bridge and some presumably illegal fireworks exploding further out north. As I stood and watched the sky lit up in colour and smoke I felt a wave of sadness come over me. When I'd yelled, "Happy New Year!" I'd really meant 'please fuck off 2012, you've been too horrible for words and you nearly killed me'. This wasn't so much about welcoming the future as it was about putting some distance between me and the past. And when I really allow myself, even for a second, to think about what has happened to me and what I've been through, I feel incredibly sad for myself.
But I know that feeling sad for myself does nothing, so let's look to the future a bit, hey?
2013 is not going to be a big year. I cannot hope for that for myself this year. 2013 needs to be about continuing my recovery, taking small steps, sticking to routines and building my resilience so I can manage whatever may be ahead of me. There will be work and uni and gym and appointments and therapy and blood tests and medication and bad days and challenges and hopefully some days when I feel unencumbered by my illness and free to enjoy life. And blogging. There will be blogging.
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