Footloose

Another week has passed, and I'm still limping.
I can just about get around, but it's a real trial, and it still hurts so much.
I always thought a sprain was a little namby-pamby thing that footballers made a fuss about for nothing, but it really hurts!
So most of the school holidays are being taken up with me in bed or sitting with my foot up, still waiting for the swelling to go down.

Texting and emailing he who left me is going ok.
We are still trying to sort out some of the mess we are in -- all the things that have caused hurt and misunderstanding really need to be addressed before we can even think about being friends.

My head is still not great.
I have had a couple of up patches -- very up -- but I landed safely from those.
Downs have been difficult. It's like someone pushing at the door and I'm trying really hard to keep it shut, but when I'm tired I know it's going to be too much.

My sleeping is bad -- up until 3 or 4 a.m. most nights, and then sleep until 10 or 11a.m.
I think maybe I'm nocturnal, like a bat.

I realised this week how bad my paranoia is, and that scares me.
I understand psychosis to be when one's reality differs from everybody else's, and mine certainly does that sometimes.
I think people are lying to me -- I am so sure I am right and nothing can convince me otherwise.
And yes, it could just be stubbornness rather than paranoia, but I had the most massive row with number one daughter because the dishcloth went missing and I was utterly utterly convinced she had hidden it from me with the deliberate intention of upsetting me.
Ok, so the cloth was found and the next day I could see that she hadn't done it, but at the time, I couldn't be told otherwise.
And that's just one silly example, and it scares me.
I have no psych lady anymore because I accused her of lying, and rather than seeing it as part of my problem she just said she wouldn't work with me.

So I have no psych lady, no psychiatrist, I can hardly walk and my mood is still up and down like a whore's drawers.

Apart from that, it's been a good week.

What a Difference a Week Makes

Its exactly a week since I last posted on here.

Its been a funny week.

Last Saturday and Sunday were pretty good, as far as I can remember. Church on Saturday, a birthday on Sunday. We ate cake and Chinese food.
Fine.

Then Monday it all went pear-shaped.

Its hazy in my head.

Psych lady phoned and spoke to number one daughter.
It didn't go well. Number one daughter spoke to the crisis team, briefly. They couldn't offer much advice.
I was getting more and more distressed, and I wanted to sleep.
I used up the secret supply of pills I had -- the ones I don't take when number one daughter hands them over.

I drank some vodka.

I really really really wanted to hurt myself.
I remember that clearly.
I wanted to cut myself.

And the pills weren't making me sleep and I was getting more and more agitated so I did what I thought was the most sensible thing I'd ever done in this situation.

I called a taxi and went to the hospital.

We arrived in A & E, and they asked what I'd taken. They asked if I'd spoken to the crisis team, and agreed that they were useless.
'Don't worry,' the nurse said. 'We wont send you home tonight.'
And they didn't.
I spent a quiet night on a medical assessment ward, and waited to see a psychiatrist.

'It's your choice,' she said. 'Clearly your meds aren't working, else you wouldn't be here. It's all your choice.'

She left, and I came home. Depressed, scared, rejected, insecure and wondering what the fuck I should do.

I did what she said, and stopped taking my meds.

By that evening I felt a bit better. I got out of bed, and typed up all the things I wanted to talk to psych lady about.
Off of meds, my mood was high. And I had some good arguments. I rushed downstairs to show daughter number one.

And I fell.

I remember wondering where the ground had gone, and then reaching out with my toes for something solid. The next thing I remember was hitting the ground and screaming.
Boy, did I scream.
I thought I'd broken my ankle -- it was massively swollen and hurt like nothing on earth.

I couldn't face calling an ambulance that night, so I slept on the sofa.
The next morning it was still swollen and hurting and I couldn't walk on it, so an ambulance had to be called and I ended up back in A & E.
X-rays were ok though, so we got to come home again.
Crutches on the bus was not as fun as it sounds. All in all, we were gone about 4 hours.

I made it back home and slept. I think later that night I ate supper on my bed with the kids, and then I slept right round to the next morning, Thursday.

Pretty much as soon as I'd woken up the phone rang.
Psych lady.
She had come round soon after I'd left in the ambulance, and my son had given her the notes I'd typed up.
She said she didn't think we could have a therapeutic relationship anymore.
She said she was reporting me to social services, for leaving my kids alone.

That was two days ago.
I'm still waiting for social services to descend, I'm still waiting to be able to walk.
My mood is ok -- thanks are due to he who left me, for talking to me and texting me and keeping me calm and giving me strength, and for talking a lot of sense which sometimes we both doubt that he can do.
Thank you.



It's been a rocky week.
But I'm back on meds and I'm trying to be optimistic -- at least I can pee in the bathroom again.

As if by magic...

... I'm back up again.

These mood swings are a fucker.

I'm not quite as high as I was before. The world doesn't seem quite so rosy.
But no alcohol, and meds only in their prescribed doses.
Its a big improvement on yesterday.

I don't know what caused the turnaround. It just sort of happens.

It's very confusing.

But I'm glad to be back.

Vodka and tears, on the rocks.

In the blink of an eye, I have hit the bottom.

I cant remember at the moment what put me here. Something about being refused benefits and psych lady lying to me.

I'm drunk.

I'm tired.

I don't want to be here any more.

At this moment, I want to kill myself.

You make me feel like dancing (the speed queen remix)

Just walked home from the supermarket in the rain, and got soaked.
It wasn't so bad -- it was good to see the sea.

I'm having a bit of a headrush at the moment.

I think it's a trade-off.

I need this level of meds to keep my mood from slipping again, but at this level I can so easily become... what? I don't know what they would call it. I don't think I'm bad enough to call it manic, but something certainly happens.

Its like my brain speeds up.
I read a lot more -- loads of books at the same time.
I buy a lot more books -- Jesus fuck, I've bought six books today alone, and I really can't afford it.
And make-up, and magazines, and stuff for the kids and the house and anything else I can find to spend money on. That all goes up.
I listen to more music, I want more sex.
Sleep is screwed -- very little at night, some in the day, sometimes hardly any.
I talk at a million miles an hour and I rarely finish a sentence.
At the moment I think I'm psychic, and I worry that I might have started hearing voices.
Last week I could hear Leo Sayer singing "you make me feel like dancing" in short bursts. Apart from the fact it was Leo Sayer, it wasn't as bad as it might sound.

So that's where I am at the moment.
No Leo Sayer (thank God), but some general all round speediness.
It's preferable to the alternative -- a high mood is much more fun (if that's the right word) than a low one is -- but it's still hard work.

Excuse me, I have a book to read.