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Discharged.

“Take these broken wings
And learn to fly again
Learn to live so free”

“Broken Wings” – Mr. Mister

—–

Today I was finally discharged from hospital. I was an in-patient for five weeks. I feel stronger but not back to peak condition yet. I tire easily and nap repeatedly during the day. To be able to sleep so easily is a pleasure. It is in stark contrast to the insomnia that accompanies hypomania. I am simply working on the considerable “sleep debt” accrued in recent months. It is pay-back time.

My mood is balanced, euthymic. It has been a difficult period. A lot has happened and recovery is slow. The process is on-going and the aim is to prevent any further admissions for the foreseeable future. If I do not learn from my time in hospital then it is all for naught. So what did I learn?

Once more, I have proven my resilience. When my back was to the wall, I came out fighting and beat bipolar disorder once more. I have proven that it is a smaller part of my personality than I sometimes care to think. I have proven that there is always light at the end of the tunnel and that the bad times will pass. It is hard to remember this especially when looking up from the depths of depression. But this essential fact can give me hope in the future and guide the inevitable recovery. I have proven, that against great odds, I can succeed. And so can every individual who struggles with mental illness.

I have learned that I am not alone. There are more people who support me, who care for me, than I can easily count. My wife and family are to the forefront but among my allies are my sisters, work colleagues, my in-laws and college friends. I have rekindled old friendships and strengthened some others. In my time as an in-patient, I never had time to get lonely. There was always someone in contact with me and for that I am deeply grateful.

In addition, this blog went public during my time in hospital and the response has been overwhelming. The messages of support and good-will have been humbling. I hope I can continue to share my experiences with you for some time to come.

The most important lesson I have learned is at once most simple to understand and most difficult to correct. It has become obvious to me that I do not have the luxury of allowing myself to get lonely. Some people are introvert and enjoy their own company. I am obviously extrovert in nature. Any more that one to two hours alone and I start to crave human company, human contact.

I work three days a week. This certainly allows me to recover from the stresses of my job, recharge the batteries and get ready to start again. Once a week, I volunteer with Childline. It’s my way of giving something back and I enjoy doing it. That leaves one day a week when I have a lot of time on my hands. It is important that I find something to do to fill in that time. It might be cycling, playing guitar, reading or some other activity I haven’t considered yet.

The key is distraction. When I get bored and ultimately lonely, my thoughts become negative, I catastrophise, believing the worst possible outcome for any given situation and finally, I get paranoid. I believe that the solution is to keep active, to meet with people, to keep in contact with my friends. I must prevent myself from just sitting and ruminating. The challenge is finding the motivation to do these activities especially when my mood is low. No one said it was easy.

So, my time in hospital is behind me for now. The future looks bright. It’s time to get busy living or get busy dying. I choose life!

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Weekend leave.

“Well, I hear the music
Close my eyes, feel the rhythm
Wrap around, take a hold of my heart”

“Flashdance” – Irene Cara

—–

I haven’t written in my blog for a few days. I didn’t think I had anything much to say. Then I remembered that I met my psychiatrist on Thursday and we decided that I would be discharged from hospital this week. Isn’t that good news and cause for celebration?

My discharge is dependent on how I manage while at home for the weekend. Weekend leave from a psychiatric hospital is more than just a break from the hum-drum of the institution. It is a test. It is officially called “Therapeutic leave”. It is an opportunity to determine how well you deal with the stresses of everyday life when you come home. If you manage well, then maybe you are ready to go home for good. If you find it difficult, an extension in your hospital stay may be necessary.

I’m glad to be able to report that I have been fine, I’m doing well in fact. I feel decidedly “normal”, balanced, euthymic. It is particularly boring.

As I suffer from Bipolar Type 1, my mood swings tend to the hypomanic. This recent admission is an exception as depressive symptoms were a key feature. But mostly, I lean towards excessive energy, grandiose ideas and impulsive spending. The early days of a hypomanic episode can be great fun. It can be exhilarating and euphoric. But the inevitable crash always comes and hypomania is closely followed by depression. Fortunately, my depressions don’t last too long and are relieved by the calm and peace of balanced state, euthymia. Again, this recent admission was unusual, with an extended period of depression. But i feel calm again. Its a blessing.

Sometimes when I am balanced, I miss the energy of hypomania. I miss the excitement and I yearn for it’s return. This is only wishful thinking. It’s easy to forget just how destructive I can become when elated.

So, I have been immersed in the banal this weekend. I brought my youngest son for a haircut yesterday. This was imperative as he attended a teenage disco last night. I collected a suit for my oldest son in town. He is preparing for his graduation from secondary school. It’s hard to remember where all the years have gone. I’ve hardly seen my middle son. He’s a typical teenager and out with his friends all day. He barely talks to me at the best of times. I played guitar quite a bit and I went for a cycle to Howth with my wife. It was invigorating but cold. Last night the two of use had a meal in a local restaurant and we thoroughly enjoyed it.

So that’s it. Nothing special. I have rejoined the world of “normal” people and it feels good. I will be discharged from hospital this week and I must take time to build the defences, to try and prevent a repeat of this episode. It will take time and it won’t be easy but I’ve done it before. And I won’t be alone.

I can feel something new creeping in. Something bright and beautiful. Something I had forgotten about. I can feel healing. I can feel hope.

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Day 28.

“I don’t ever want to feel
Like I did that day”

“Under the  Bridge” – Red Hot Chilli Peppers

——

Four weeks have passed since I was admitted to hospital. A lot has happened. It has been a rough ride.

I’ve had to deal with depression, dysphoria, mania, hallucinations and paranoia. It has been a hell of a fight and I wasn’t able to battle without help. So many people have been with me on the journey. Foremost of course is my family. Their support has been unerring. The medical team that care for me have been exemplary. The nursing staff superb. And with all their help, I have survived yet again. I am still alive. I am victorious.

I have rekindled friendships along the way. I’ve made contact with old college friends to whom I hadn’t spoken in years. There have been encouraging words from work colleagues and the successful public launch of this blog. My parents have helped enormously in minding my children while they were on school holidays at Easter. My sisters have helped to keep me going, my oldest sister and her husband are stalwarts in particular and regular visitors. They kept me supplied with Pringles and sparkling water. In short, I have not been alone and I am truly grateful.

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One of the nicest side effects of my stay in hospital is that I got to know my youngest sister better than I ever had before. There is an age gap of nearly two decades between us. I was away in college when she was born and she grew up without me sharing any life experiences with her. As she grew older, I became like a distant uncle who would visit intermittently and offer a few quid as a treat. I really had a weak relationship with her. She is in her twenties now and I have been delighted to discover that she is a beautiful, intelligent, spiritual and empathic young woman. She is happy and well balanced and sends me humorous messages on a daily basis and I have come to depend on them to brighten my day. I look forward to them. I hope she has enjoyed coming to know me better too.

I have learned a great deal during this admission. I have learned to appreciate what I have. I went for a walk in Phoenix Park at the start of the week and was struck by the beauty of the blooming flowers and I attach a few photos to share the experience.

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I hope I have learned to ask for help a bit sooner and not let my health deteriorate to the extent that I need to come to hospital. I’ve learned that sometimes a man needs to cry and that’s okay. The tears will stop when I need them no longer. I think that will be a while coming.

I like to think that my sons can learn from me. I hope they understand that all men have demons, have worries, have suffering. I hope they see that the mark of a man is in how he faces them. I hope they comprehend that you can not easily face them on your own. Maybe they see me kiss my wife, hold her hand, give her a hug and know that as a couple, we are strong. We have been together twenty years now and we have defeated bipolar disorder many times. We beat it every day. I hope they know we can deal with whatever life has to offer. I really hope they understand the power of love!

I am feeling much better. I am sleeping longer at night. The black ball is quiescent but I’m aware of it in the background. I feel calm and peaceful, something I haven’t been blessed with in a long time. I’m on the mend and I feel a renewed vigour. Today I have a date to go shopping with my eldest son and I’m looking forward to it. I’m proud that he asked me to join him.

I’ll be discharged in a few weeks. I can feel it. Look out. I’m coming home!

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Day 23.

“Oh the sisters of mercy, they are not departed or gone.
They were waiting for me when I thought that I just can’t go on.”

“Sisters of Mercy” – Leonard Cohen.

—–

Yesterday was one of peaks and troughs. I slept through until 7.00am and awoke feeling refreshed and that was a bonus. But during the morning, my mood was low and my head felt heavy, fuzzy. I felt like I was overly-sedated from my medication. I tried to attend a presentation for the course I am now enrolled – the Psychosis Programme. I made my excuses and left after fifteen minutes. I left partly because I was uninterested and partly because I couldn’t concentrate on the content.

When I am hypomanic, I become restless and find it hard to concentrate for any length of time. It is one of the more irritating effects of my illness. Sitting quietly in front of a television, to enjoy a single episode of any programme, becomes difficult. Reading a book beyond a few pages become impossible. However, my span of concentration becomes an indicator of progress. In time, I will be better able to watch TV and read, play guitar or watch a movie in one sitting. Then I will be ever closer to discharge fro hospital. IMG_0609

In the afternoon, I met with my consultant psychiatrist’s Registrar. My consultant is on leave this week. It was a very useful review. I was able to attest to the facts that the auditory hallucinations and the paranoid delusions had resolved. My sleeping pattern had improved. He agreed with me that I was probably over-medicated and was feeling a residual hangover during the day. So, he reduced my regular medication slightly. This is of huge significance. The smallest reduction in medication is an admission of inching ever so slowly closer to going home for good. It is a step in the right direction.

I addition to altering my prescription, the Registrar also granted me leave to go home at the weekend as expected, but even more importantly, granted me day leave to wander about town unaccompanied. This is a huge advance on my current state of enforced incarceration.

I took advantage of my new key to freedom almost immediately. I strolled from St. Patrick’s Hospital to the Irish Museum of Modern Art (IMMA) in Kilmainham and had a look at an exhibit by Irish Artist, Patrick Hennessy. The feeling of the sun and crisp air on my face was exhilarating . I was light-headed with excitement.IMG_0611

I know very little about art but I appreciate bright colours and distinctive styles. Apparently, Hennessy was a Realist. That doesn’t mean a whole lot to me but I know I enjoyed perusing his work. It was all the sweeter because admission was free. I returned from the gallery tired but considerably satisfied.

Today is another day. I’m up early but I don’t feel tired. This evening, my wife will collect me and take me home for the weekend. I’m looking forward to it already. I must make every effort to ensure it goes well. No arguments.

I have definitely turned a corner in the last few days. Let’s hope it continues.

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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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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.