The Brave New World

A much appreciated visitor to my garden this morning.

Well hello, friends. How are you all doing? I hope you are as happy as can be expected and the demons are not on your shoulders. It's a lovely sunny day this morning in East Yorkshire, really beautiful. There is a slight chill in the air; it's starting to feel quite autumnal.

And guess what? Dom has gone back to work. I feel like someone who has just left hospital and doesn't know how she will survive. These are my first faltering steps into my new life, without my lifeline. It's exciting and very, very scary.

From now on, I have to function at a different level. I have to make meals, get the kids to and from school, dressed in the appropriate uniform and equipped for school. I have to keep the house clean and tidy. Do shopping. Live life. My coccoon has gone.

Today I am sacking my cleaner. Weirdly, this feels like a really positive thing. I hate the intrusion of having someone in my house one morning a week, even though she's doing a job that I would prefer not to do. I feel quite bad because my cleaner is lovely, but I really have the urge to stay on top of our own space and actually contribute something to the family now that I am not a businesswoman and school leader.

In this vein, I joined Flylady. I did this before a couple of years ago and it was really successful. I love the idea that just babysteps will have an impact on the bigger picture. It's really helpful to my current situation with the depression. What I am trying to do is think 'I'll just load the dishwasher then I can do some knitting' then, an hour later 'I'll go and sort out the kids toys.' This means I get more done without being overwhelmed and have had a couple of good days this way.

In other big news, I have signed up and paid for a 6 month ceramics course! I can't wait! I may also start AS Textiles, if there is a space for me. That's all day Wednesday. I really am very excited and optimistic about taking time to do some creative things, and give myself some breathing space to heal and work out what I can do with the rest of my life. In a lot of ways I really hope I am not offered any sort of contract from work, as I am excited about the direction my life may take.

Do you mind me putting mundane aims down in here? It would be helpful for me, I believe. It's the day-to-day things I am struggling with the most (probably because I have to do them most often! lol)

My aims for today are:

1. To wash the bedding and remake the beds with clean linen
   
2. To load and unload the dishwasher
   
3. To plan meals for the week
   
4. To do an hour of ironing
   
5. To phone (eek!) about the AS Textiles course (will be very, very chuffed if I do this)
   
6. To complete the sleeve of Charlie's cardigan.

I am feeling overwhelmed and the knot is back in my chest. But I feel positive and hopeful too. I hope you can find the light in the shadows today. Much love xx

The Bonkers Blanket of Madness

I am really enjoying these colours at the moment, they're really hitting the spot. What do you think?

 

I am calling this my Bonkers Blanket of Madness - which I think is appropriate, although it's just a draft name and I may think of something more subtle. It's coming on well at the moment. I have crocheted 50 x 4 round squares; 37 x 2 round squares; 1 x 6 round; 1 x 10 round and 2 x 12 round. And I am l-o-v-i-n-g it. I don't mind a single second. I have even developed a bit of an affinity to the Alibi channel (especially Murder She Wrote and Diagnosis Murder!)

I had a good day yesterday. The knot in my chest seemed to forget to be there, and I just had a warm, fuzzy, lightheaded feeling. Today I am not feeling so positive, but I did loads yesterday, so I guess that is to be expected. I think I have overdone things.

One good thing is that I had an email from work. They will have to have a meeting and make a decision re my contract (which I would be surprised if they renew, to be honest.) Anyway, the tone of the email was friendly, they wished me well, which was a huge relief. HUGE. I hadn't realised how anxious I was about telling them I was sick. I don't really care what happens now, I would prefer to leave it to chance and not worry about it. C'est la vie.

Lovely Dominic is starting to get very frustrated with my illness and I completely understand why. He goes back to work on Monday and is in a mad panic trying to get everything sorted. However, to him this means refelting the shed roof, finishing the wallpapering in the annexe, painting the playroom and sorting out the house - in one and a half days. In order to get this done he wants me to: sort out all the clothes, put everything away for everyone, do the ironing; sort out and box up most of the office, so that he can move the cupboards into the playroom; move all the Ebay stuff into the spare bedroom that I will have cleared; take the stuff to the charity shop; sort out Charlie's toys; sort out the things Jonathan has put out to go to the car boot sale.

I *know* it's pathetic, but I literally have 20 minutes max of energy and, even in that time, I can't keep a thought in my head for more than a couple of seconds, so I find myself wandering from room to room forgetting what I am doing. So everything takes so much longer. I *really* want to tell him that his expectations are too high, and that is part of the general problem. He expects too much of us both; we're always striving for some ridiculous ideal, and I am sure that is part of the reason I have become sick. He says that he can't go back to work with the house in the state it's currently in. I despair.

I don't know how to deal with this, to be honest. I guess I should be getting on right now. My guilty voices are on full pelt. On the other hand, I recognise that he expects too much. If I rush around to meet that expectation, will things ever change? I think not.

I completely understand his frustration with me, I feel the same. I wouldn't leave the house yesterday to go to the Post Office and he got quite cross. He's not mean to me, he's frustrated with the illness. But I just couldn't do it. Right now, he's taken Jonny to football and is visiting his Mum. I said I didn't want to go because I couldn't face being there when he told her about my illness. I'm a chicken, aren't I? He left without saying too much.

I'd better get on and get something done. Thanks for listening. I hope you are getting on well too, and your day is a positive one xx

Not believing I am ill

Blimey, two posts in one day! I thought this deserved a little post of its own as it's something that has crossed my mind several times over the past few days.

I find it really hard to accept that I am actually ill. I feel very guilty, lazy and unworthy, but not ill. My brain understands that depression is an illness, but my heart doesn't feel it. My heart doesn't feel much, to be honest.

I'm not sure how common this is, or how to give myself an easier time. I understand that rest is the best cure, but I almost can't allow myself to rest. Each time I sit crocheting or knitting, I feel as though I am wasting time, and I suspect that everyone is pissed off with me. And that makes me feel bad.

Is this part of the illness or am I going mad?

Big Changes

Hello, friend. I hope you are well and getting on OK on your journey through depression. I do think about the people who visit this blog and wonder about their stories. I hope you are doing OK today.

This morning I had another appointment with my doctor. She's very kind, and I feel certain that she understands, but I still get ridiculously nervous - silly isn't it? I have scratched the base of my left thumb until it bled, by digging my nail into the flesh there. I don't realise I am doing it, but it seems to help express the anxiety. I also often find myself gritting my teeth too. Does anyone else do this?

Anyway, having put myself through the indignity of having to explain to the doctor again how I am feeling, she has signed me off work for at least 3 weeks, and has changed my anti-depressant to escilatopram (Cipralex). I am on the maximum dose and, reading the patient information leaflet, am reassured that it's a strong anti-D that hopefully will help. However, I have to go through the 'breaking in' fortnight and that really scares me.

The Babette blanket is a helpful distraction through. I have now completed all 50 of the 4 rounds, and 35 of the two rounds, out of 49, so it's going well. I am still loving the colours and, if anything, I am getting bolder and bolder. Hell, why not?! It makes me feel a bit better and it's for the children, so who cares? I keep thinking of Kaffe Fasset saying "be a slob with colour, and find your own voice." I kind of like that. I also find great comfort in other people's blogs, especially the craft ones. It's a wonderful gift to be lost in someone else's world for a while.

I have had to make a phone call relating to work and found this to be extremely stressful. I have also sent an email to my boss to explain about my illness - again I found this very tough. The weird thing I find with depression is that I worry about doing something, hate doing it, but then find no relief in the fact it has been done. I just feel the same level of worry as before. I smiled to myself as my profile on Yahoo is 'invisible to others.' I wish I could choose that option in life too.

So, essentially, I am signed off work (big relief) and I am taking new medication that might help (which is very positive). I have to wait a couple of weeks for things to improve, but improve they will, I am sure.

I just wanted to take the chance to review to book 'Depressive Illness: The Curse of the Strong' by Dr Tim Cantopher.

I don't know Dr Cantopher personally, but this book has been a real comfort to me whilst I have been in the depths of depression, and it's never very far away. I re-read short excerpts in a regular basis. Dr Cantopher is kind, wise and sympathetic; the book is authortitative enough to not patronise, but isn't indigestable for those in the throws of a depressive episode. He feels like a sort of Depression Buddy.

Dr Cantopher takes the view that depressed people become ill because they persist in difficult situations when others don't and this leads directly to them "blowing a fuse" in the limbic system of the brain. He argues that depression is a physical illness caused by the lack of two chemicals and these control mood. People do not get clinically depressed because they are lazy or weak; quite the opposite.

I have re-read chapters 1 and 5 so many times I can almost quote them parrot fashion. I have read the rest of the book but, to be honest, most of it hasn't sunk in. I find his advice to only read a few pages at a time very comforting.

This is a fantastic book, and I would highly recommend it for anyone undergoing clinical depression, or anyone who wants to understand the illness better.

Okey dokey, I'll leave it there for today I think. Big hugs to all those who are suffering. See you soon xx

Colour Therapy

If I had a little welcome mat, I'd put it here (actually, I Googled and found a funny one that made me smile. And smiling is positively encouraged around here. In fact, I might actually buy one of these for my hall!)

Welcome back friends, I have missed you. I am touched that so many of you checked in whilst I was away in Bromsgrove - I usually convince myself that the page opening figures are actually just mine, but I didn't check in at all for the whole time away, so I am now *finally* convinced that other people are reading. I am getting quite a few people come from Google and other search engines - if you are Googling depression, then please let me send you my love and warm wishes ((hug))

It's been a really weird week, bloggers! But, before I start to talk about the depression, I want to show you what I am working on at the moment:

Aren't the colours an absolute joy?! Now for some, admittedly, they may be a little migraine inducing. However, I have so enjoyed working with colour this week. I'm crocheting the Babette Blanket, inspired by Kaffe Fassett, whom I love. Every second of creating these brightly coloured jewels has been enjoyable, even in the depths of depression. I started by doing a lot of plain black and grey squares and they didn't help my mood any. The colour, however, has worked it's magic. I wonder whether there's anything in that? I don't know much about colour therapy, I'll have to do some research.

The blanket is for the playroom. My boys both really love blankets and are as tactile as I am (as in, we enjoy the feel of things as much, if not more than, the look of them. Not that we invade your personal space, no sir. I hate that too.) The other fun thing is that, as this blanket is for the kids to play with, and will hopefully be dragged on the floor, into the garden, be played on and under, be made into a den and so on, I've not felt bad about buying cheap acrylic wool. In fact, it's perfectly sensible. Which is a let up from the cost vs provenance yarn debate that wrangles through my head most days. Please tell me I am not the only one that has this?

So, the weird week. I have felt quite unwell all week, which was strange and uncomfortable at someone else's house when all your behaviour was observed. I slept as much as possible during the day - but the beta blockers helped, as I felt tired and dizzy at first. I also had chest pains, dry eyes and headaches, although these have passed now. Nights were difficult as I didn't sleep - the first night I got up, and my Dad was most concerned at I sat on the floor and not the chair. You could see that neither of them were in their comfort zones.

Dad was lovely. He didn't say too much, but he did offer to sit with me at night if I couldn't sleep (which, although a lovely gesture, felt horribly intrusive.) He conveyed his love with the odd look or squeeze of my shoulder. He respected my space, didn't ask questions and, on the odd occasion he noticed me looking lost, he silently offered me one of his toffees. He's ace, my Dad.

Mum, on the other hand, found it much harder to deal with. She was clearly irritated at times - she rolled her eyes and chewed her finger and tutted under her breath, and made comments about women who had everyone "run around after them." She was convinced that I don't have any sort of mental illness, that it's a thyroid problem. Sadly, it isn't. Clearly, though, the belief that it was a physical illness rather than a mental one was easier for her to deal with - or, as she suggested more than once, it was just a few "down days" that everyone experiences, including her. She really found it hard to accept that I couldn't use the phone and, when I said I didn't feel up to meeting certain relatives, she was incredulous. However, to give her her credit, she didn't force me to do anything at all. She looked after Charlie, and she cooked us all meals, and generally gave everyone (especially Dominic) a break. I am very grateful to her.

I had a lot of strange feelings over the time - and felt quite seriously suicidal each day. I even worked out how I would do it. However, it still felt like a detatched part of me thinking these thoughts, so I didn't take out any action. I do wish this part of the illness would pass; I frighten myself.

I re-read an amazing book - The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath. I originally read this when I was 21 and at university. I related to Esther Greenwood on a very deep level and found it a powerful read. What was especially interesting was re-reading the notes I had made at 21 and realising that I had completely missed the point, in a blithe and rather arrogant fashion. I critiqued her rejection of the female roles offered to her (housewife and mother, fashionable young thing, bad girl, lesbian) and didn't realise that I was critical of her opinion of the roles of women because I was still full of optimism about them. I thought I would be enhanced, saved by motherhood. Actually, much as I love my boys (very much) I have found it the opposite. I have felt restricted.

Moments that stick in my mind are when Esther tries to drown herself, but she keeps bobbing back to the surface; wearing the same clothes and not washing for three weeks because 'what's the point, we're all going to die?' (I completely relate to this: I do wash, however, dear reader, but no longer wear make up or make any effort with my clothes, or shave my legs etc etc.) I was appalled when Esther's boyfriend, Buddy (a rather flaccid but ultimately all-American boy of social standing)  asked "I wonder who you will marry now?" (that she had been into a mental institution.) It still shocks and upsets me. I cried when Joan hanged herself and Esther sat in church and realised that it could have been her. I was also grateful that there was no obtusely happy ending; I realise that success is choosing to survive rather than to die and working at it. More than anything, I was amazed that someone was experiencing something so close to what I am.

I recommend it as a thoroughly enjoyable and thought provoking read about mental illness, although it is extremely dark and deals frankly with mental illness, prejudice, expectation and suicide.

I'll see you tomorrow. Take care x

Internal Server Error

I got this message on my mobile today when I tried to look at Facebook, and I thought it very appropriate.

Today has been tough. Read: really tough. As soon as I tried to start actually doing something (packing to go to my Mums) I completely broke down. I was crying uncontrollably for a couple of hours, and couldn't stop jittering - I literally couldn't keep still. I just cannot cope with having to think logically. Dom was clearly very concerned and wasn't sure what to do. I was sure what to do either.

In the end, Dom did two things, both of which were very helpful. Firstly, he rang my Mum and told her the whole story, from the beginning. I hadn't even told her there was a problem in the first place, much less that it had been going on since Charlie was born. I did try to talk to her once, and she pleaded with me not to go to the doctors and "get into all that." I assume she had problems with depression and/or valium in the past. However, ours is not a family that will discuss such matters openly. My Dad has also said to me before that he had "several breakdowns" and I do remember periods of my childhood when he acted rather oddly, but it's not something that is ever discussed. I suspect that I have a pretty high chance of hereditary depression but, as it's so stigmatised in our family, I can't imagine it's something we'll discuss.

So, now my Mum and Dad know my secret. It is a huge relief. However, I am really nervous about being away from home. I don't know how they will react. I am sure they love me and they are concerned, but as mental illness is something "we don't do," even though it has been fairly evident throughout my childhood, how will they react to my mental illness? Will they tell me to pull myself together? That it's all in my head? The other thing that frightens me is not having anywhere to go in the night. My sleep is shocking at the moment and, at Mums when we stay, someone sleeps in every single room. Now thankfully my Dad is also an insomniac and he often gets up in the night at our house, so there is something of a precedent set. However, the idea of not being able to go anywhere during those long, dark hours makes me feel very claustrophobic.

The second thing Dom did was to phone the doctors and explain his concerns and, for the first time I think, took it seriously that I couldn't use the phone. We were asked to go in for an appointment an hour later and, when we did, the doctor was very sympathetic and understanding. He said that my brain was currently liked cooked spaghetti, that thoughts weren't getting to where they needed to, they just got all jumbled up and made me confused, and would make me more confused the more I tried to work it out. He told me not to worry about anything (easier said than done, but nice to hear it from a professional) He said not to think about anything, and to go to my Mums and just have a break from life for a few days, without having to deal with anything, especially work. He has also prescribed me a beta-blocker, Propranolol, which I have to take every day for a month. It apparently works by reducing the heart rate which calms you down. I have taken one this evening, but I am not sure I have noticed any different yet. I am pleased, and optimistic, that the new medication will improve things for me. At one stage today I imagined they were going to come and put my in a psych ward and I didn't know whether I was scared or relieved. The suicidal thoughts persist and, today, I was sorely tempted to pour a kettle of boiling water over my hand. You know how it feels when you have a mosquito bite that you know you mustn't scratch, but you know for a moment it'll also feel delicious? That's the exact feeling I had. It was the first of the kind, and it frightened me. I haven't told the doctor about it.

I may not be able to post much over the next few days as I'll be away, but I will take a paper diary and write in there. Hopefully, then, I can add the words when I get back. I rather enjoy a bit of typing. Which may be the maddest thing I have written in this blog yet.....

I. Am. Not. Well.

Why is telling people about depression so tough? I've had a rough weekend, I'll be honest. I have done very little but crochet and sleep, and shout at the children. Bless him, Charlie keeps climbing all over me and trying to kiss me. He knows Mummy isn't well and, in his 4 year old way, he's trying to make me better. Jonathan knows too. I had a chat with him about the depression the other day, and he was very understanding. I explained that, since the day when I couldn't stop crying, I had been feeling very unhappy and I couldn't cheer myself up. I said that I still loved him, Charlie and Daddy very much and that sometimes I was OK and others I felt very sad and a bit frightened, but I had no control over it. I explained it's called depression and, like breaking your leg, you are ill and need to have treatment that will help you get better. He was sympathetic and really accepting, like children are. Since then he's tried really hard to help look after his little brother, he's bought be breakfast in bed and even did a bit of spontaneous hoovering (I know! I couldn't believe it either - although his bedroom still remains a pit, so normality still reigns, I am reassured.)

Work, God, work. I had an email today from work and nearly had a panic attack. I came over hot and cold, sweaty and clammy and started hyperventilating. Pathetic, isn't it? I know, in my heart of hearts, it's very unlikely I will be well enough for work in two weeks. I also know that, in the long run, it will probably be better for me if I do maintain some sort of normal routine. The problem is that my contract runs out in 7 days. Either I let the contract expire, or I have to commit to a new one. Or, I commit to a new one, and then go on sick leave. Great choice! Choice a) let my contract expire means that we will be seriously struggling financially. This is not fair on my family, and was the cause of much anxiety before I got the job at Longcroft. Choice b) means that I gamble on the fact I will be well enough and potentially put myself through panic attacks etc - none of which feels very alluring at the moment. Choice c - Dom's favourite - renew the contract and take sick leave if necessary - feels like the worst of all worlds. Banking on being well, having a public breakdown, then letting everyone down right when they need me.

Tomorrow we are supposed to be going to my parent's house for a few days and I really don't want to go. I don't want to be on show, I just want to be at home. However, it's the only chance the family have of a holiday and, as Dom says, it might do me good. Same dilemma, really.

I hope tomorrow I will be able to post something more positive. I feel completely lost at the moment x