Archive for the ‘borderline personality disorder’ Category

I might as well just cut and paste from 3 years ago.

January 29, 2013

Because I’m back there again. I don’t usually re-read old diary or blog entries. Why learn from the past when it’s so much more interesting to make lots of fresh new exciting mistakes? But today I came home from a&e and did a google search on CMHT’s and borderlines (more on that later) and up popped my old friends at Crazy Nurse, which in turn led me to this old blog.

So, A&E. In a bpd nutshell: decline, isolation, low moods,shaved head,worried mental friends,  intervention, a&e visit, sent home, overdose, long lovely day of sleep, mental health support line, emergency doctor on phone, narky GP receptionist, forced trip to a&e, bloods, ecg, Dougie Howser MD lookalike, psych consult, tears, home again, upcoming assessment with CMHT (shitting myself) Emmerdale on TV, new hazlenut chunky kitkat (yum), emotionally drained.

anyway that’s my week.

nice to be back. more to follow from tomorrow i promise. hope a few of my old friends are still about xx


Back from the darkside

September 14, 2009

Doesn’t time fly when you’re a depressive? I can’t believe it’s been so long since I last posted. Sorry to anyone I may have worried by being absent. I’ve been isolating myself from almost all who know me, both on the net and in the ‘real world’. That doesn’t mean that things have been particularly bad. I just started to feel like all I ever talk about or think about is mental health. I’ve begun to feel very bored of myself. Yet I can’t escape it. I think about mental health issues probably as often as a teenage boy thinks about sex. They govern my life. If it’s not anxiety, it’s low moods, or voices, or aggressive thoughts, or pictures of my death. I am scared of being by myself, of having so much free time to sit and ponder where I have failed in my life, to make plans for my early demise, to worry about going completely ga ga, or to look forward to going completely ga ga. In the last few weeks I haven’t been able to cope with downtime. At home I need the constant reassurance of the background noise from the tv, or a book to read, anything to occupy my brain. Because as soon as I don’t have that distraction, the thoughts come back.

Unfortunately I then go through days of not being able to bear the noise from the tv. People’s voices are too loud and irritating. When I try to read the text jumps around and I can’t manage more than a page. Sleep evades me, despite the medication. I feel wound up so tight I’m going to explode. But fortunately this temporary madness seems to disappear just before it gets so bad that I can’t cope with it anymore.

It has been an eventful few months. Dad recently received his all clear from cancer. He is physically very well again but it appears to have left him with Victor Meldrew Syndrome aka grumpy old fart disease.  I lost three stone on the lighter life diet, which is basically a starvation diet which brought on the symptoms of anorexia. Now I’m back to bingeing each day and regaining all the weight. My nuisance neighbour has calmed down after being threatened with court proceedings if he continued to harrass the rest of the street. I spent the summer watching Big Brother and staying up too late, which is probably what has caused my recent relapse. Now I’m looking forward (not) to that time of year where the days draw in again and I start to evaluate what I have acheived in the last year. Of course that makes me feel low again because I’ve done nothing but drift through the year, spending my days shopping, eating and sleeping.

I desperately need some structure in my life. A daily routine which involves more than just trying to get dressed and go out to buy cigarettes. I’m stuck in this rut and terrified of crawling out of it. I’m dreading the upcoming changes in the benefit system where I will most likely be told to get a job. Being around people, dealing with targets, just getting dressed and showering regularly is just too much right now. It’s been too much for several years. But that’s partly because when you don’t have to try anymore, you end up going backwards. I’m far less capable than I was three years ago. But is that because my mental health has deteriorated? Or is it because I have given up? A kick up the backside from the job centre might be good for me. But it might also send me into a BPD spin and end up with another trip to hospital. Now that Dad is better, I feel less inclined to hold on and stay well myself. If it wasn’t for the cat I’d probably have given up months ago. But I know I can combat those feelings by getting out and about and meeting friends etc. It’s just that the 5 yr old in me is screaming ”I DON’T WANNA”.

Oh and I finally got round to having Sky + installed and bought a nice big tv. I have become the stereotypical benefits scrounger. My goal for the next year should be to get pregnant and buy a Staffy.

The policeman is your friend (unless you’re diagnosed mentally ill of course)

March 9, 2009

I’ve not had much contact with the police over the years. That’s more through luck than judgement if I’m honest, along with an ability to run fast when I was younger. As a child, the local bobby was a fatherly type man, who came to school and told us not to get into the car with the stranger. On the betamax video he showed us, the car was easily visible as it was flashing red. For years I thought that all the bad men had flashing red cars and I’d be safe as long as I avoided those. I’ve since grown up and learnt that bad men are usually to be found in nightclubs on over 25’s night, or perhaps that’s just sad men?

As a teen I did once trip over a police dog whilst protesting against the Poll Tax. Rather than being arrested I ended up sleeping with the dog’s trainer on his next shift off. Oh the joys of bpd inspired one night stands. Waking up next to someone who looks and smells a lot less appealing than they did after ten pints. Or in this case, halfs, as Mr Copper didn’t think women should be seen with pint glasses. It’s not feminine apparantly. I didn’t see him again.

Anyway, back to the point in hand. The policeman is your friend. I always thought that to be true. I grew up on a fairly middle class estate, where a visit from the police was tantamount to social suicide, and the Turkish family who moved onto the street were suspected to be terrorists because they had natural yoghurt delivered with their milk. I always thought that if someone committed a crime against me, one phone call would have them promptly arrested, charged and sent to prison, whilst I would be commended by a tearful Judge for my outstanding bravery in giving evidence in court!

Then 10 years ago I moved into my first council flat. Oh the joy to be given those keys. The knowledge that in one quick move I had disappointed my father (who still had a lingering hope I would get my head together and become the next Poet Laureate or Nobel Prize winner), annoyed the hell out of my Tory brother by paying a subsidised rent whilst he worked 24/7 to pay his mortgage , and finally got out of the horrors of shared accommodation (myself and 4 aussie men, all of whom I’d slept with at one point over the years). I’d only been on the waiting list for 5 months. There must be a catch surely? Oh yeah.

Meet bad neighbour number one. A scrawny, ponytailed, jobless lout who spent his days playing Emimem on his stereo and having his friends round to get stoned. Obviously his days weren’t fun filled enough because within weeks of my moving in he realised the lone female in the flat below him was easy prey. Cue two years of harrassment in the form of death threats, vandalism, loud music and eggs. Yes, eggs. Remarkably difficult to scrape off the front door. I gave up in the end and just revarnished it. It took two years for the police to arrest him. At first I put it down to the intricacies of the law and the lack of evidence. It was my word against his as none of the neighbours were brave enough to give statements. Eventually he was arrested, and the discovery of a drugs factory in his flat helped add to the charges. Harrassment, Threats to kill and producing cannabis. I fully expected him to be sent down or at least evicted.

But then the police found out that I had a history of depression. Overnight my credibility was shot. The threats to kill charge was dropped with the excuse that I was ”too mentally unstable to give evidence in court”. The neighbour ended up with a fine and a years restraining order. I had to move home. That in itself was a battle, and only the threat of going to the press would make the council agree to a transfer. Ten years on and I still feel bitter. No one asked if I felt able to give evidence. No one suggested that I make use of the services of Victim Support, who would have helped me through the trial process. When I went to make a further statement at the station, there was a noticeable difference in the way I was treated. Sympathy and a promise to help became raised eyebrows and condescension. Officers became unreachable on the telephone to me. No one even saw fit to keep me up to date with the court appearances. I only found out the outcome when I opened my door to find the neighbour coming up the path with his belongings. He’d been forced to live with his father until the case was over. Once he pleaded guilty he was allowed to live above me again.

I try not to think about bad neighbour number one anymore. Shit happens after all, and he did cite depression as the reason for his anti social behaviour. I’ll take that with a very large pinch of salt if I’m honest. Anyway it’s in the past. I didn’t even realise it was ten years ago until I started to write this post. Another reminder of how I’ve drifted in recent years. However, I’m currently embroiled in the ongoing saga of Bad Neighbour Number 2. I’ve posted about him previously and did hope to have something more positive to report by now, (perhaps his sudden death from chronic nastiness) but nothing has changed as yet.

My local bobby is fantastic when it comes to giving out assurances. Unfortunately, actually visiting either myself or the neighbour seems to be beyond her capabilities. The estate I live on is fairly rough I suppose, but not quite a no go area yet. The local teens do like to play chase the community support officer on occasion, and my culdesac has become the in place to abandon the stolen car on a Saturday night, but other than that we’re a pretty friendly lot. Think ‘Shameless’ with a Yorkshire accent and no pub (shut down for frequent brawls on the street outside).

It seems that my local plod can only communicate via email at the moment. In other words, I send them frequent updates (as requested) on the notes my neighbour is still placing in his window. In return I get the occasional reply saying how shocking it is and how we must come down hard on him, but unfortunately we’re off shift for the next few days.

Perhaps I’m a little paranoid here, but I have a suspicion that my name has been run through the computer and the Mental alarm has gone off. Either that or my council estate manager has warned the police of my past problems. I nearly got evicted prior to hospitalisation after forgetting about things like paying rent or letting workmen in. As before, nothing I say seems to carry any weight anymore. It seems that this is regarded as a problem between two nutters and the police are happy to step back and take bets on who cracks first. I wonder if they would react in the same way if I lived on a middle class street or didn’t have a number for the crisis line stuck on my fridge. Yes ok, I should have taken that down before she came to take my statement.

So we’re in limbo at the moment. He puts up the notes. I write down a copy. His wife gives me dirty looks and I check that neither of them are out in the street before I leave the house. Dad thinks I should just ignore him and I know he might be right, but be fair, could you walk past that window and not read what rubbish he’d put there? My whole reason for going to the police was that he hassles my other neighbours who are elderly and good friends of mine. And as the weather gets warmer and we go back to sitting in the garden again, I know from experience that the situation will escalate again. He can’t stand to see us out there. But I still feel sorry for the guy. There’s something very wrong going on in that flat and, whilst I don’t fear him (I will not become like the general public and assume mental illness equates to violent sociopath), I do fear for the well being of his young daughter, who hasn’t been seen by anyone for weeks. But the more I complain the more I feel myself getting sucked into an obsession. He is starting to be the focus for all my low moods and angry feelings. The person I can blame for why I have trouble getting out of bed or doing the washing up. And that’s not right. Perhaps I need to step back from the situation, but I hate losing! But really that’s what I should do. I have enough to worry about at the moment.

An update on Dad. He was hospitalised for a few days last week, after his blood tests showed a low platelet count and he also had a temperature. He’s back home now but it did mean he couldn’t have his chemo, and will have to have a milder dose of it from now on. So it’s a knock back. His hair also started to fall out this week, which has really brought it home to me that he is frail. I’m trying to play the role of attentive daughter, and it does feel like an act, because cancer doesn’t delete all the crap from the past. Something which Jade Goody should also realise. But I think I’m doing a fairly good job of hiding how I feel from him. I limit the visits to a couple of hours which helps me to rein the feelings in. It’s bloody tiring though.

So that’s what’s going on with me right now. I’m coping ok, if drifting through the days without any real sense of purpose. I take my meds. I behave myself. The fact that I don’t feel like a real person most of the time is incidental. Tomorrow I will be interviewed by some doctors, after agreeing to take part in research into BPD and psychosis. A chance for me to feel listened to for once. I know I crave attention, but honestly, most days I only have the cat to talk to and he doesn’t like me very much. 

And lastly, a shout out to Fairy’s mum, who I understand likes to read this blog. Your daughter hassled me into posting again. Hope you enjoyed it lol xx

The unneccessary heirarchy amongst the mentally ill.

February 5, 2009

Firstly, let me say in advance that I know this post will piss some people off. I’m writing it whilst in the middle of a bpd funk, having being riled by someone else’s musings on mental illness. So I guess I’m just passing those feelings along lol.

So, there are plenty of different mental illnesses. Or rather, plenty of different diagnosis. One in four people will experience mental distress sometime in their lives. That’s a fact. It can range from grief induced depression, postnatal depression, an eating disorder etc, to psychosis, bi polar, schizophrenia etc. And there’s the bit which has made me angry.

We, all of us have had to endure discrimination from the general public. Whether it be a job we haven’t got, or not being invited to a party. A relative who tells us to grow up and cheer up, or a doctor who blames our moodswings on being fat. You’d think though, that within our mad community, we’d be able to get along. But no. Because my mental illness is worse than yours. So there! Or maybe yours is worse than mine? I used to have a diagnosis of depression. Then it was BPD. Now it’s BPD with psychosis. Does that mean I’ve moved a few rungs up the ladder? Do I now look down to mock the depressives? And should I look up and feel jealous of the schizophrenics?

When I was an inpatient I noticed a definate heirarchy in the smoking room. You received kudos for having multiple stays. Total respect was offered to those who’d spent time upstairs on the infamous Ward 3 (plastic cutlery and no matches allowed).  Superficial self harm injuries were laughed at. Cigarette burns were oohed and aahed over. You didn’t say no when the person who’d thumped a nurse asked you for a cigarette. Gossip about diagnosis was rife. The schizophrenics were special. Cool people. Ours had a guitar and nipped outside to buy dope whenever he was allowed off the ward. Then came the manic depressives. After that the depressives, although they generally stayed in bed all day and didn’t make it to the smoking room. Bottom of the pile were the personality disordered. It was almost considered an insult to whisper that another patient just had a pd. Perhaps the patients picked up on the negative vibes from the staff? We were definately regarded as taking up a bed which didn’t belong to us that’s for sure.

I spend quite a lot of time over on the Rethink forum. Rethink used to be a charity specifically for people with schizophrenia. It has since modernised and now campaigns for the rights of all people suffering from a severe mental illness. But the forum is still mostly run by the schizophrenics. And boy do they like to hammer it in that they are the most poorly, the most discriminated against, the most misunderstood. I don’t think that does them any favours. This perceived longing to be special, to be held up there as completely different to any other mental illness. Yes I don’t doubt that schizophrenia is a hellish illness. But so is bpd. So is bi polar. So is post natal depression. So is any mental health condition which causes you severe distress. Why do we get so hung up on diagnosis? Surely we should concentrate instead on how the symptoms make us feel? How they affect our ability to function? Whether recovery is possible and to what extent. Yes it’s true that the general public still mistakenly associate schizophrenia with violence, but having said that, the general public still mistake a diagnosis of mental illness as meaning the same as schizophrenia. I’ve been called a variety of things over the years. Schizo, mong, nutter, wacko, retard,fuckwit (i quite like that one), weirdo, madcow. We’re all lumped together so perhaps we should all stick up for each other and stop this infighting.

Yes there is a massive difference between a short lived, one off spell of depression, and a life long condition like Sz, bi polar or a pd. But the majority of the public won’t experience the latter. The closest they can come to understanding what it is like to be us is when they themselves experience depression or a relative or colleague does. The ad campaign called Time To Change is currently trying to change people’s perceptions of mental illness. I applaud them for doing so. Yet they are criticised this week by The Times, who’s columnist is angry that their ad does not include schizophrenia and is too positive, focussing as it does on recovery. In my mind this ad campaign is long overdue. There are still generations who’s understanding of the mentally ill is that we are all loons who used to be locked up for life but are now roaming the streets like rabid dogs. Anything which changes that view is a good thing.

So please, schizophrenics, stop putting yourself on a pedestal just because your condition has an organic cause. Times column on schizophrenia and Time To Change  Time to Change Ad

Quick update

January 20, 2009

Well, as expected, Dad will have to start chemo at the beginning of Feb. He’ll stay overnight for one night in the first week, attend once as a day patient the second week, then have the third week off. Providing he can handle it, they’ll repeat the cycle three times. First of all though he needs to have tests to check his remaining kidney is functioning well enough to cope with the chemo. He is remarkably fit for a man in his seventies though, and has been out walking five miles a day in the last week, which is amazing given that it’s less than three months since his operation. If anyone can beat it he can.

The people who are running the research into BPD’ers with psychosis phoned me today. I’d forgotten to send in my consent form for them to look through my records. We’ve arranged for me to be interviewed on March 10th so that should be interesting. Fortunately the fact that I haven’t experienced any psychosis for several months doesn’t matter, as they want to hear about the last year. It all seems a bit hazy now though, so I’m not sure that I’ll be much use to them. Any research into BPD is useful though so I’m glad to be able to help. And lets face it, I’ll love the attention!

Just watched Obama’s inaugaration speech. Have to say that I was slightly disappointed. There wasn’t any stand out line for which he’ll be remembered, and more importantly, we still don’t know which puppy they’ve chosen! I liked the way he messed up his lines though. Perhaps a homage to Bush? Give him a week and the backstabbers will start circling.


January 14, 2009

Looks like my mood has stabilized again thank goodness. I slept through the day and woke feeling refreshed and calm for the first time in days. I did have a rather strange dream though, which featured an old therapist, some ex friends and a large shopping centre! I argued with everyone, became violent and was dragged off by the police. A very strange dream, but it looks like I worked all the anger out in it because none spilled over into waking hours.

I received a letter from the pct today, asking me to take part in some research into bpd and psychotic symptoms. Naturally it has made me reflect on the last year, in particular the strange thoughts and voices I was experiencing in Summer. I’m in two minds as to whether I should participate in the research. Am I really psychotic? The seroquel has removed whatever symptoms I had and with hindsight I wonder if they were just the product of an over active imagination. They do seem very distant. I do definately experience paranoia when I’m stressed and perhaps I then imagine weird and wonderful things which become true. Shadows in mirrors etc. Are the voices I hear just my low self esteem talking to me? I guess that at the basis of these thoughts is the fact that I feel like a fake. A wannabee patient who receives extra attention for those extra symptoms? But then I do vaguely remember the mocking voice which followed me round for weeks, telling me I was deformed, or that I was going to be arrested. I did hear it. But I always knew deep down that it was just my insecurities voicing themselves. It’s been a while since I’ve had any of the visual hallucinations and I’m so happy about that. Again though, I think they were more the release of angry feelings than actual psychosis. I just don’t like that word. Psychosis. When I read my medical notes they said ”no sign of mental illness” so why hadn’t the symptoms been picked up on over the years? I suppose because I kept quiet about them, fearful of a schizophrenia diagnosis. But surely someone would have noticed if they were real?

Arrgghhh I hate this self doubt. I wish doctors could just see inside our brains and tell us what was wrong, because I sure as hell don’t know.

Anyway, today I am calm and relaxed and happy. I’ll enjoy this current mood and try not to tie myself up in knots with something I can’t solve.

Shopping on no sleep. Not the best of ideas.

January 12, 2009

Oh bollocks I’ve done it again! I should never ever go near a shop when I’ve been awake all night and still don’t feel tired. It’s a basic no no for me. I only went in to post some parcels (presents to friends, because I’m Lady Bountiful when high) and came home £200 lighter. On the plus side I did open a savings account, but I also bought two massive jazz singer ornaments, which don’t go with anything in the house. I felt sorry for the shop lady because her shop was empty, so I coudln’t leave without spending some money. Also came home with three bracelets, some more jeans, a huuuuuge candle, and am already sat here thinking about what else I could get if I went back in.  In the last four days  I have also purchased a smoothie maker, 8 dvd’s, 40 bananas, a cd tower, one of those posh room fragrancers with twigs in, and some new boots.

I’m not in the slightest bit tired. I’m not diagnosed bi polar but I do get these occasional mixed episodes where I don’t sleep and usually shop or cut or give money away. Well I haven’t cut, and I’m determined not to. I’ve been giving money away to every charity collector or big issue seller I’ve come across in the last few days. Why do I never recognise the signs? Because I’m a fuckwit that’s why lol. Btw I’m in a swearing mood today. I love that word; fuckwit. I have this massive urge to hang out of the window and shout it to passers by.

Well at least the self pitying mood from last night has gone for now. Can’t wait to see what the next mood is going to be. It’s like playing on a slot machine. Ooh that reminds me. Must buy a lottery ticket too.

Can’t sleep and the monster wants to come out to play.

January 12, 2009

I didn’t expect to still be awake at 5:30am. For some reason the pills haven’t worked their magic tonight and I’ve spent the last few hours curled up on the sofa staring at the cushions, and latterly, laughing to myself whilst trying to remove the fixed grin on my face. I hate those mini highs, when my eyes feel like they’ve been glued together through lack of sleep, yet I can’t keep still and the thoughts are racing through my head. I’m still smiling now, though there is a maniacal edge to it. The me who is smiling is also the me who wants to slice into my skin just for the hell of it. She wants to dance round the room then go play on the railway line. Go down to a&e and chat up a few doctors. Bounce off a few walls. Sing out loud then stab a few pensioners. You get my drift. She’s not a particularly nice person.

I think there are at least two of us. The first is the gatekeeper. She takes her meds because she knows it’s the sensible thing to do. The grown up. The square. God I hate her, she’s so bloody boring. She reminds herself constantly of the coping strategies she has learnt in therapy. She plods along in her boring life, acheiving nothing apart from her most important job. Keeping the gate locked and the monster on the other side of it.

Because that’s the other me. The one who no one sees. The one who puts pictures into my mind of violence and rape and rage. I think she does it to taunt me. To remind me she is still there. She wants to be let loose to cause havoc. She is emotionally a child, but with the strength of ten men. All my life she has been lurking there in the background, grumbling and complaining and wanting to be set free. She’s never quite managed it. The boring me has usually gone to the doc and asked for more pills. Or taken an overdose to kill us both.

And then I suppose there is the me who is writing this down. The one who just wants it to be over. This constant fight between the other two. The one who wants to let the monster out, but only if I can disappear at the same time. That way I don’t have to take responsibility for the carnage. The relief of just letting fate take its course. Why am I taking pills to put off the inevitable? Surely therapy and meds are for people who can aim to lead decent lives. Why don’t the doctors and therapists see through my disguise to the evil underneath? If I was a decent person I would kill myself, rather than risk ever hurting someone. But I am a coward. I put it off day after day, living a pointless existence because I’m too scared to die and too scared to live. My head gets so full of thoughts I wish I could get my fingers under my skull and pull them out.

I don’t know why I feel like this tonight. It could be pms or it could be because my gp remarked that I’d been doing well for the last few months and therefore, I have to prove him wrong. It could be worry over my Dad but in that respects I am never happier than when involved in someone elses crisis. I take other people’s misery and use it to garner sympathy for myself. You know what I spend hours imagining these days? Getting cancer and all the attention that goes with it. I am one truly sick bitch.

Freezing, frantic and fat.

January 7, 2009

God I hate January. Especially January in northern England. In past years I’ve escaped to sunnier climes, but state benefits don’t stretch to a week drinking Ouzo and flirting with Greek waiters, so  coffee from a spotty youth in my local Mcdonalds will have to do. It’s been a strange start to the new year. I’ve been out and about a lot more than usual, due entirely to a mania induced shopping habit, and a refusal to miss even the slightest bargain. This week saw the final closure of Woolworths stores in the UK. A very sad time for the 30,000 staff who will start 2009 signing on at their local job centre. For me it was an opportunity to buy a lot of tat at 90% off. I now have enough lightbulbs to see me into the next century (5p each), which means I can’t OD for a while as I’d hate to waste them. Shopping in my three nearest woolies this week felt uncomfortably like grave robbing. With the news today that M&S are to close some of their stores too, I wonder what my high street will look like this time next year. Probably like that episode of the Simpsons where every store was a Starbucks. Hey ho, at least I’ll have somewhere to get my coffee. How this government still intends to get all us workshy off incapacity benefit and into jobs is beyond me. Would you hire a mad person if there were ten norms applying at the same time as her?

Speaking of benefits, it appears that the numpties at the DWP were wrong to send me the IB50 form. As a recipient of high rate care on DLA I am apparantly exempt from the PCA (personal capability assessment). Unfortunately the computer at my local job centre doesn’t know that I’m on DLA , so I have to wait for that computer to speak to another one and then someone will phone me to say I don’t need to fill in the form. They were meant to call me yesterday. Of course that didn’t happen. I hate answering my mobile if I can’t see who is ringing me, but not answering it could result in my benefits being suspended. Added to that is the dilemma that if I do answer it, some bright spark at the DLA office may see it as proof that I am not as mad as I used to be, and stop my benefits anyway. It’s a no win situation really, especially as the office I need to speak to doesn’t appear to have a phone, so I can’t ring them at a time that suits me. They really do make it easy for us don’t they?

Another phone call I need to make this week is to my pdoc. I believe I have an appointment with her at the end of Jan but can’t remember when. The appointment was made in October, so it’s not surprising that I’ve forgotten. Again, my turning up is probably a test of how capable I am lol. (I’m slightly paranoid this week in case you haven’t guessed). I’m just going there to have a chat about the meds, in particular how I’m getting on with the Quetiapine. Well the answer to that is not too bad. For the most part it has removed my angry moods and voices. However it only seems to work on a normal stress free day. If anything unusual occurs my anxiety levels spike again. I only need to look at the arrival of the IB50 form for that, as it brought back a lot of self harm urges and strangely, an urge to shave my head! However, I didn’t cut. Perhaps without the quetiapine I would have done. I’m also still waking up in a panic each day. I feel jittery until I take my first pill. It makes me feel like an addict and I hate being reliant on medication. Personally, I feel that it is the thought of hurting my dad which helps me behave at the moment. I’m not suicidal at the moment but I have to admit that dad has become my reason to continue. Without that link I think all my impulses would have free reign and that’s scary.  

I’m not sure that I am always honest on this blog. I was extremely chuffed to receive an award from that crazy lot over at mental nurse for best personality disorder blog. They mentioned my irreverent attitude. I’ve always used humour when talking about my mental health. Nothing bores me more than those people who are forever complaining about how bad their life is, how few friends they have, what a bad person they are etc. I have all the same thoughts as them. I know how much it hurts to be us. But I have a huge brick wall behind which I store all my emotions and it’s only when I’m at my worst that I let anyone look over it. I find other people’s emotions overwhelming. Boredom isn’t the right word really. The negativity scares me because it’s too close to home and I can’t cope with it. To be honest, I’ve been struggling this week. A mixture of high and low moods, several days without sleep, a need to get out of the house for hours each day, rather than be on my own. I’ve even lost my appetite, which is normally a sure sign that I’m close to breakdown. But this time I think I’m going to be ok. The meds are definately taking the edge off it. I just wish I could cope without them.

A quick update on Dad. He’s due to have a scan next week, after which he will see the consultant about whether or not he should have chemo. To look at him, you would think he was completely healthy. We went for a walk together and I was puffing away behind him, struggling to keep up. He has some problems with back pain, which may not be a good sign, but he’s determined to be positive. On the downside, he has bought the ugliest hat in ugly hat making history, in anticipation of losing his hair. Fingers crossed that he won’t need chemo, in which case his wife can burn it.

Hugs and best wishes to all my fellow bpd’ers. Here’s to the coming of spring. xx

I miss my mood swings

November 30, 2008

Didn’t think I’d ever say that but I do. Usually at this time of year I’m feeling low. Usually a late bus or a long queue at the checkout will make me feel murderous. Usually having some money in my bank account will send me into shopping overload. But here I am, nice and calm. How bloody boring!

The pills have taken away the aggression and panic. I know I should see that as a good thing but I have nothing to replace those feelings with. Everyday is the same. I still have no motivation to change things. I think about getting a volunteer job or going for a haircut or making a nice meal. But instead I veg out on the sofa or go back to bed. And it’s not depression which is making me hide like this. It’s sedation. I’m beginning to wonder what the point of my existence is, but have no energy to do anything about it. I want to tap into those negative feelings so that I can overdose or cut, but I can’t be bothered. There is a whole side to myself, a negative angry juvenile reactive side which I can’t access. I miss it.

Yet I vaguely remember how horrible it was to be me before Quetiapine. I would have done anything to make those feelings go away. So it surely makes no sense to want them back? To those of you who are struggling at the moment, I must seem ridiculous, even ungrateful. I can’t really explain it. I’ve lost who I am and at least the old me existed. Now I’m just on the periphery, watching life pass by but completely unable to engage in it. Yet if I read through some of my old posts I would know that isn’t always true. It’s how it feels right now though. I know I should be looking at positive things I can do to make life interesting again. But I don’t want to. It all seems so shallow and is only masking the bad underneath. I want to let the monster out again for a while.