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Who supports the supporters?

“Someone told me long ago
There’s a calm before the storm
I know
It’s been coming for some time”

“Have you ever seen the rain” – Creedence Clearwater Revival

—–

I went public with my blog yesterday to coincide with World Bipolar Day. I thought about doing it for some time and was considering all of the associated  pros and cons. I must admit that I was a little anxious at the prospect and worried about possible negative ramifications. It turns out that I was concerned needlessly and the messages of support and encouragement have been overwhelming. I should have advertised the blog’s content from the very start.

But it got me to thinking, how important it is to have support when I am struggling with my mental illness. For me, a terrible sense of loneliness accompanies my depressions. It is crippling and stems from the belief that I am worthless. Eventually, this leads to thoughts of suicide and the illogical belief that this is a viable option to permanently resolve the situation. If it wasn’t for my family, I do not believe I would be writing this post today.

My greatest supporters are my wife and sons. My wife is a very strong woman. She is intelligent, independent and very loving. She visits me every day I am in hospital and I am truly grateful for it. Some of the other patients don’t get a visitor from one end of the week to the next. She is very resilient and has been down this path many times before. But that doesn’t make it any easier.

I am impossible to live with when I’m ill. I am agitated, restless and easily anger. I can start an argument over anything and, in my temper, my response is always excessive. I have been known to make myself hoarse from shouting so loudly. I have brought tears to my wife”s eyes.

The guilt associated with this is immense. I have said and done things in anger that haunt me to this day. I find it hard to forgive myself, hard to let go.

But at least I get to be admitted to hospital, get medicated, find recovery. Who will rescue my wife. As I speak, she is holding down her career, minding my children and running the family home. I’m pretty sure she worries about me as well. I normally play my part in these activities but now I’m out of the equation. It must be stressful for her.

And no-one is keeping her in the loop. Since my admission, no psychiatrist nor nurse had a conversation regarding my progress or lack of it. She is dependent on what I tell her and what she can see for herself. Nobody has enquired how she is coping.

My illness has affected my sons over the years. Suffice it to say that I have reduced them to tears aswell. More commonly, they recognise when I am unwell and walk on egg shells around me. It impacts on them in so many subtle ways and even determines whether they will bring friends around to the house.

All of my children have had counselling. It helped them to deal with the turmoil that my bipolar disorder visits on our home. Not every family can afford therapy for their children and I am reminded of how fortunate we are that we could.

I am aware that I need support to survive this illness but equally that my family do too. Spare a thought for them too.

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Racing thoughts.

“Wherever it may take me
I know that life won’t break me”

“Angels” – Robbie William

I was home for the Easter weekend. A brief respite from the drudge of hospital life. It went well although it started badly. I had an argument with my wife immediately we left St. Patrick’s. That’s not uncommon for me. I think there is so much expectation surrounding weekend leave that I get stressed and take it out as anger. However, we snatched victory from the jaws of defeat and enjoyed the rest of my time at home.

There was a few lovely moments. We went for a brief IMG_0587stroll along the promenade in Howth one morning. The weather was beautiful and the air was crisp. Mostly people were still wrapped up in their beds and we had the place to ourselves, shared only with the cackling seagulls. We started the day well.

On Easter Sunday, we visited the family of my wife’s brother for dinner. The food was good and they made us feel very welcome. Unfortunately, my form was low but I made the best of it.

But what has this got to do with racing thoughts I hear you ask? Well here is the thing. Since I began playing the guitar again, I have been thinking about buying a new one. Once this thought took hold, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. The ways in which I could achieve this goal spun around in my head the whole weekend. It became an obsession.

Racing thoughts are a recognised symptom of hypomania. It is hard to describe but it involves thinking about something so much and so repeatedly that it becomes uncomfortable. The same thought can be on my mind from the moment I awaken to the time I try to sleep. The thoughts are so intrusive that sweet slumber becomes elusive.

I thought about getting an electric guitar all weekend. I spent time trying to discover if any music shops were open during the holiday. I considered ways of beating the traffic restrictions to get into town. I drove myself crazy.

It became clear that the music shops were open on Eater Monday at 12.00, midday. My wife came with me and we were at the shop almost as the doors opened. The tension was palpable. I was compelled to buy a guitar In the end, my wife bought one for me. I hadn’t expected that!IMG_0590It was a very loving gesture on her part. She showed the deepest understanding of my discomfort. She reasoned that I would only be thinking about it all week and she was right. The idea was rooted in my brain. It wouldn’t go away. I couldn’t turn it off.

So after I had bought the amplifier and necessary accessories we spent a little time shopping and went home. The guitar is all set up and sounds great. It is evermore special because it was a gift from my wife. I will think of her every time I play. I’m a lucky man.

I came back to hospital last night and boasted about my new instrument and the one who purchased it. I didn’t sleep very well. I kept thinking about playing the guitar. And thinking, and thinking. It never ends.

 

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Day 16.

“Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be this hard”

The Scientist – Coldplay

——

I’m feeling a bit better today. I’m on the mend. It has taken over two weeks to get to this point. Recovery is slow but then, I easily forget that I was significantly ill. What makes matters worse is that I’m not really sure what happened this time. I can’t decide on a trigger. May be I’m not meant to know.

IMG_0172The voices in my head are gone, a huge relief. I’m simply left with my own usual deliberations tending to the sarcastic. That’s normal for me.

The paranoia has settled greatly. I no longer hear messages from the radio, nor receive instructions on how to dress and what to do. The greatest relief is that I am no longer paranoid around my wife. That was upsetting.

Unfortunately I still have night terrors. I wake repeatedly during the night screaming, covered in sweat, heart racing. I can remember one of the nightmares I had last night. The clown from Stephen King’s “IT” was stalking me. I wrote down the first thing that came into my mind in that fugue immediate upon waking. This morning I read it- “Self-loathing/fear”. I don’t know what that means and exactly what I’m meant to do with it. Sounds like a job for my psychotherapist.

I’ve been accepted onto a course while here for the next few weeks. It’s called the “Psychosis Programme” and is meant to help me cope with the hallucinations and delusions I’ve been suffering. I’ll bet the other participants will have some interesting ideas. Should be fun!

I don’t have much more to say today. The accompanying photo was taken during a short cruise last summer. I was relaxing, taking it easy, with my feet up. That’s what I’m going to do now. I suggest you do the same.

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The Black Ball.

PalantirBipolar Disorder affects you mentally, physically and spiritually. I heard that many years ago and often since but only recently do I begin to accept it. It is true of many conditions but especially true of mental illness. Treating the mind and body is not difficult to understand but only when I grasped the spiritual effects could I start to heal holistically.

Many before me have chosen to characterise or embody their psychiatric illness in a way that had significance for them. Niall “Bressie” Breslin named his anxiety, his mate Jeffrey. Churchill referred to his depression as the “Black Dog”.  “The Black Ball” is how I visualise my suffering,  characterise my demons. It is about the size of a bowling ball, solid but with smoky wisps visibly toiling under its shiny shell where the demons writhe.

I think I stole the image from The Lord of the Rings movies. The Palantir or “Seeing Stone” allowed Sauron to telecommunicate with the hobbit, Pippin, in the final instalment of the trilogy. Gandalf recognised the danger, swallowed the Palantir in his cloak and sped away to safety with the unfortunate half-ling.

Despite my plagiarism, the image is still useful. I envision all my negative traits, negative thoughts and negative actions stem from the black ball. It is the condensation of all my pain, fear, guilt and self-loathing.

The black ball is not an earthly entity. It resides in my soul where it sits in my abdomen and feeds on my life’s blood. It is mostly solid, hard, dense and heavy. It is so very heavy. It is almost indestructible and has no natural enemy. Except for one, my wife.

When I am suffering, in deep pain, I can meditate and imagine the black ball feeding on my spirit. If I really focus, my wife arrives to help me. She holds my hand and carries the black ball for a little while. Maybe a few minutes, but I get the chance to catch my breath and siphon some of her energy.

I’m not always aware of the black ball but I know it’s lurking in the background. However, when I’m depressed, the window to my soul opens up and allows the horror to surface. Then, as now, the shell of the sphere becomes softer, semi-permeable and the demons can escape and reach for my heart. I know that feeling. I know the pain, and I have no choice but to call for reinforcements. I can field an impressive army, I have many allies. But leading the charge is my wife, strong, bold and brave. She has always managed to subdue the beast in the past. This time will be no different.

The fight seems never ending and the black ball is older than me. Many of the demons have been inherited over generations.  I don’t think it will ever disappear but I hope someday to liken it to a “Black Snooker Ball”. That would be easier to wield.

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The Guitar.

“Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses”

“Desperado” –   The Eagles.

—–

When I was young, I woIMG_0579uld watch my aunt enviously as she played her guitar. I was a beautiful Yamaha model with a wine, floral Pick Guard hugging the Sound Hole. It belonged to her brother before her but was passed on when he died in a tragic accident at a young age. I had to wait until I was ten or twelve (I don’t remember exactly) before I was gifted a guitar of my own on my birthday. I remember the excitement, the desire to learn how to play and the over-sized white case that came with it.

I spent the next few years calling to my aunts house, at every opportunity, on the route home from school. I learned slowly to play with a degree of skill and accomplishment. Mostly we played folk music and country and western. It didn’t matter, I loved it all. There was a very close bond between me and my aunt and her husband. He, unfortunately, passed away prematurely. I think of him sometimes. He was a gent.

As I got older, my taste in music expanded, and I wanted to play rock music. So I took a job working in my uncles barber shop and saved to buy a second hand electric guitar for Xmas. It cost £60 which was a lot of money at the time. My parents provided the necessary amplifier as a gift.

I played that guitar all through my college years. It was the only entertainment I had in my flat, save for a small radio/cassette player. It accompanied me through good times and bad and I never tired of playing.

They say that when you buy a child a book, you give them the gift of reading for life. Well, it is exactly the same if you buy a musical instrument. The rewards of creatively mastering an instrument are life-long.

I find playing the guitar therapeutic. It calms me when I am anxious and afraid. When angry I can belt out a tune. The sounds I make can drown out the voices in my head and bring me some hard-earned peace.

Before I was admitted to hospital, I hadn’t strummed the guitar in a long while. Now I play every day, usually more than one sitting. Playing has become part of my recovery. I need to make a regular daily habit of it.

There is a music room in the hospital which is well stocked with instruments and free to use. Rumour has, it that U2 donated the instruments. It seems plausible and adds a certain charm to playing them.

I’m obsessed with the idea of buying a new one. I’m never satisfied with what I’ve got. When I’m elated, I always overspend on things I don’t really need. I already have a perfectly good guitar at home. But it is like a spending obsession. I try to resist but normally I fail. We’ll wait and see what happens.

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Day 12.

“Miracles will happen as we trip,
But we’re never gonna survive unless,
We get a little crazy”

“Crazy” – Seal

——

Well, I’m still here and not due to go anywhere for some time yet. I was home over the weekend and that went well. But I found myself getting tired very easily. A short walk with the dogs and I was wrecked. Fatigue is a well known symptom of depression so I might as well get used to it for a while.

Of course adding to the fatigue is the simple fact that I’m not getting enough sleep. I am chronically tired. My eyes burn and so does my brain but I just can’t switch off. I’m taking sufficient medication to sedate a large donkey but it is to no avail. Despite the inability to doze off, side effects of the medication are becoming troublesome. My hands shake, my mouth is dry, I’m suffering heartburn and constipation is a daily problem. Some of these can be treated but mostly they must be quietly tolerated.

The delusion of voices in my head is abating. They are not as intrusive nor distressing. I still hear them at night and during the morning but, as the day passes, they abate. When I am aware of them, they are distressing. The content is always negative and derogatory. Occasionally, it is bizarre.

The paranoid delusions are going strong. They are vivid and all centre on the notion that I need to be taught a lesson. That I have become too big for my boots, too cocky. I am trying to fight them but sometimes its easier just to give in and do what they want. By the way, I don’t know who they are and I’m not particularly keen to find out. But I do know that they scare the daylights out of me and I spend my nights in terror.

The worst paranoid thoughts are the ones that derive from the members of my family. They are particularly upsetting and inhumane. Let’s hope they leave soon.

It’s tough. It’s hard to survive. Sometimes I feel sorry for myself and deeply sad. I can feel the energy draining away. That’s when I turn to my wife and she recharges my soul. Just a bit. She is like a Duracell bunny, she lasts longer than everyone else. She can afford to give me a little of her life-force. She has plenty in reserve. And anyway, I will pay her back before long.

IMG_0566

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Home.

“Maybe, there’s a world where we won’t have to run, and
Maybe, there’s a time we’ll call our own,
Living free in harmony and majesty,
Take me home,
Take me home.”

Theme tune to “Grizzly Adams”

—–

IMG_0523I’ve been in hospital over a week and I was allowed out overnight this weekend. Allowed home. Allowed freedom. How quickly we forget and overlook the gifts we have until they are withdrawn.

Going home after a period of time as an in-patient can be very stressful. I become institutionalised very quickly. I am removed from the diurnal stresses of life and encouraged to accept routine. The hospital becomes a safe haven, a source of respite.When I arrive home, I am usually irritable and exhausted. What is meant to be a happy occasion can easily turn sour. I also act quite selfishly. Everyone is getting on with their daily lives and I want all the focus to be on me. But, after a few hours, I can relax back into a semblance of normality.

Mental illness gives me a window to my soul. It allows me to feel more deeply, to be more sentimental. A visit home is like finding lost treasure. I can make coffee whenever I wish. I can eat when I like. I can go for a walk. Simple things.

I crave human contact. At home, I can toss my sons’ hair, talk to them, give them a hug. I can hold my wife, take her hand, sleep beside her and smell the unique scent of her hair. These acts recharge my soul and give me hope. They give me life. They can see me through the worst depression.

Our home is such an integral part of life and yet we take it for granted so easily. Tonight I lose my freedom and return to hospital. It is a bitter pill to swallow. But, all going well, I will return home next weekend for a while. Eventually, I will return for good. My memories of home will help sustain me. My memories will help me heal.

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The Glue That Keeps Me Together.

“In our darkest hour

In my deepest despair 

Will you still care?

Will you be there?

In my trials

And my tribulations

Through our doubts

And frustrations

In my violence

In my turbulence

Through my fear

And my confessions

In my anguish and my pain

Through my Joy and my sorrow

In the promise of another tomorrow

I’ll never let you part

For you’re always in my heart.”

Michael Jackson – “Will you be there”.

—–

Earlier this year, in February, my wife and I were in London. We went to see the West End show “Thriller”. It was superb. I have some lovely memories. I don’t feel like sharing them. They belong to my wife and I. They rest in my heart. It’s personal.

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Psychosis.

“I don’t remember, I don’t recall,

I have no memory of anything at all”

Peter Gabriel – Shaking the Tree

—–

When I was 24 years old I became psychotic. I believed that the IRA were trying to recruit me. Their medium of communication was the radio. Certain songs had subliminal messages embedded in them and I would have to act according to their(IRA) orders. It went on for months and was the most terrifying experience of my life. I was finally admitted to hospital and the symptoms regressed.

I think I am psychotic again. I say that with a very heavy heart. I am hearing voices in my head. I think it is my own voice primarily but I’m not sure. The voices shout insults at me and try to order me perform certain acts. I am doing my best to ignore them but it is difficult.

This morning I was sure that some sort of transmitter had been placed in my left ear during mastoid surgery in 2006. This is how the voices were talking to me inside my head. This afternoon, that idea seems a little far fetched and as the hours go on, it seems to be less and less logical or probable.I haven’t given up on it completely.

I am very paranoid and think that the nurses and patients are trying to give me subliminal messages. I’m not even 100% sure that my wife isn’t in on the act. I just don’t know.

I don’t know what happens from here. If I completely lose my grasp on reality, I will be transferred to a lock-up ward. It is the most undignified place I have ever been and, yes, I was there before. It might be a while before I get to write again. Keep your fingers crossed for me…

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Day 9.

“Stuck in a moment, and I can’t get out of it”

U2

——-

 Today I feel better. I slept well last night. I was a bit sedated this morning but that’s just the increase in medication kicking in. The sense of paranoia is not as bad but still there. It’s uncomfortable but it will pass. I’m convinced it will.

It strikes me that mental illness is a very private disease. It is isolating and lonely. My family support me and know I’m in hospital. A few colleagues have been very helpful in organising time off work. But that’s it.

I use Facebook all the time in here. It is like a connection to the outside world. I’ve noticed that people will “Like” the most trivial of posts. They are often meaningless. When I post about bipolar disorder or a piece of music which is helping me to cope, I am lucky to get two or three acknowledgements. It’s very disappointing. Is mental illness not important enough, or is it just embarrassing?

I know it may be my paranoia taking over but it feels like no one cares. Not really or deeply. Loneliness is crippling and by staying silent about my bipolar disorder, I am simply propagating the stigma.

I am inclined to shout it from the roof-tops. I want to break free. I want to be seen.

If you read this post, give me your opinion. I won’t go public until I’ve given it some consideration.