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Readmission.

“I Am The Damned

I Am The Dead

I Am The Agony Inside

The Dying Head

This Is Injustice

Woe Unto Thee

I Pray This Punishment

Would Have Mercy On Me”

                                     “Who is it” – Michael Jackson 

                                  ——-

It was too good to be true. It didn’t last. The burst of energy I experienced a few weeks ago is gone. Certainly, I felt better for a while but not for long. The fog drifted down over my eyes again, the lethargy reappeared and the black ball is stirring within. 

When I left hospital I was full of enthusiasm. I got back to work (which took a significant effort to begin with), I was doing all the right things: taking medication, getting exercise, watching my sleep and spending time with my wife and family. We had some lovely days out together and all was good. I even signed up for guitar lessons. 

But over a period of weeks, everything began to slow down. Work became a drag, exercise reduced to nothing and the guitar lessons died a death. Conversation became laboured and I started to isolate more and more. I would spend long hours in bed on my days off work and entire afternoons lying on the couch listening to sombre music. Even the simplist of tasks became troublesome chores. 

More recently, my wife, obviously aware of the deterioration, encouraged me to contact my psychiatrist. But I refused. I didn’t want to admit defeat. I was foolish. Instead I languished until my mind finally turned to thoughts of ending the pain. That was the final straw. 

So now I’m back in hospital again. It’s only been a few months since my last visit and I feel like I’ve failed. But that idea will pass and slowly my reserves will be replenished and, with the right help, I will recharge body and soul. 

I am surrounded by people who are dealing with their own personal torment. Men and women from all walks of life trying to get better. Guidance, medication and the passage of time can allow them all to improve and live fulfilling lives. And so can I. 

It seems this bout of depression isn’t finished with me yet but I’m not finished either. 

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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.

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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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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.

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Day 7.

IMG_0345I had the best sleep in days last night. I got about six hours, infinitely better than previous nights. Sleep deprivation starts to unhinge the mind and when you add a mood disorder the result is very volatile.

I feel I have more energy but I’m going to need it. Two old friends have come to visit. Paranoia and racing thoughts.

I have touched on paranoia before. Essentially it is rooted in fear. Fear of threats where no threat exists. It is often directed at the most benign thing. Occasionally, the focus is someone I love.

The perceived threat gives rise to feelings of anxiety and panic. Tremor in the hand, pallor of the skin and even chest tightness. It is important to keep reminding myself that the danger is imaginary.

Racing thoughts are more difficult to explain. Imagine taking the verse of a song you like – say “Masterplan” by oasis. The verse gets into your head and repeats in a never ending loop in your brain. You might sing the words but it doesn’t bring relief. It is an irritating idea isn’t it.

Now, imagine every thought you have has the propensity to go around and around your head in a perpetual cycle. Imagine the thoughts are negative, upsetting or bizarre. I can’t even fall asleep to escape them. I can’t shut down my brain. It drives me crazy.

So I’m exhausted, depressed, paranoid and my thoughts are racing. It’s not very pleasant. But the reality is that this isn’t one of my worst days. Not even close.

The good news is that all of these symptoms will settle as I get better. Strap yourselves in. It’s a long flight and the Captain expects turbulence.

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Day 4.

“Turn, turn away

From the sound of your own voice,

Calling no one, just a silence”

“Turn Away” –  Beck, Morning Phase.

—–

Life is getting easier. I don’t feel so miserable this morning. I’m up since 5.00 and there have been no tears so far. It’s an improvement. That’s not to say I can get complacent. I might feel good today and wake feeling shite tomorrow. It’s early days.

Hospital is like a cocoon. They build a scaffolding around you to support and protect you, they erect a force field. There is nothing to be worried about except your recovery. Everything else is taken care of for you.

But they do treat you like a baby. Over the sink in my room is a little sticker on the left reading “Caution – Hot Water”. That drives me mad. But then I remember that the poor bastard next door might not be able to remember which is the hot tap. It’s sobering but I know I’ve scalded myself on previous admissions.

You need a sense of humour to survive this place, a twisted black sense of fun. The other day, one young man was complaining that there wasn’t enough activity for men in the hospital. He asked another patient’s opinion. He answered that he would like to do woodwork. I thought that seemed sensible. He asked me what I’d like. Is said lap-dancing. I’m still smiling. I’m thinking of starting a petition 🙂

Routine is mandatory. I wake, eat, take medication and sleep according to predictable timetables. It’s easy to become institutionalised. But routine is important. It reduces anxiety. I wake early these days and try to establish my own patterns. Shaving is important – quintessentially masculine. Washing, brushing your teeth, just remembering to use aftershave. All these little actions, little victories, serve to make me feel more human. They help me face the day.

But I also need to maintain an element of control. I skip a meal every now and then or turn up late for my medication. I like to mess around a bit, fuck with their heads. I’m depressed, no one said I was dead.

I’m lucky. There are plenty here in worse condition than mine. But, I have to accept that I need to be here too. No one sends you in here for a holiday (it would need a pretty awful travel agent). You have to earn it. I think we all fight our demons differently in here but the suffering is just the same.

The ward is quiet. Many of the patients are on weekend leave. But I don’t mind. I have my music and enough sparkling water to supply the ward. My eldest son is coming to visit soon. I want to be in good form for his arrival. I want him to know I’ll be okay.