[we’re all mad here] on the other side of now

It’s August 2014, and as I write, for the first time in my life my mental illnesses are countable as being in remission.

I’ve more or less abandoned this blog of late. It’s a shame, and I shouldn’t have, but the girl who wrote the other [we’re all mad here] entries feels like a different person. I don’t recognise her voice. I remember writing them, but six months out of the trenches and I feel like I’ve left her behind.

The past is a foreign country.

I’ve mentioned a few times, to the friends who’ve only known me as being well, that for the last five years or so I’ve felt like half a person. Clearing out my old folders last night – preparing to move cities for uni – I was struck by a powerful sadness at all the things I’ve missed; all the things I half-remember. I was so absent from my life. The first half of my twenties more or less disappeared into the fog, and the people I’ve loved and lost only got parts of me. I was so unaware of how ill I was. I was so unaware that it was even possible to live differently.

I’m not kidding myself that I am free and easy in the land of the mentally healthy. Not until recently have I dared to describe this as remission, and as for the other r-word – recovered – you won’t find me saying it any time soon. That would be invoking the Wrath of the Whatever from High Atop the Thing. It will come back. I know it will. I just feel like now, I know it can be different. I can let it wash over me, but I know that it need not necessarily consume me. For the first time I understand that the power struggle does not have to end with my concession.

It’s been awful. But I’m here. I’m alive. I’m enjoying people. I’m nervous, excited, but not petrified about starting another degree, and I’m attached enough to my life and my friends that moving is bittersweet. I need to stop starting stories with the phrase ‘so that was after my mental breakdown – well, one of them…’ – but on the other hand, it’s my history and I’ll keep talking because openness is the only way to show that it’s not shameful. Painful and at times, embarassing, but not shameful. Just one part of who I am.

Thanks-Offering for Recovery, by Robert Lowell

The airy, going house grows small
tonight, and soft enough to be crumpled up
like a handkerchief in my hand.
Here with you by this hotbed of coals,
I am the homme sensuel, free
to turn my back on the lamp, and work.
Something has been taken off,
a wooden winter shadow –
goodbye nothing. I give thanks, thanks –
thanks too for this small
Brazilian ex voto, this primitive head
sent me across the Atlantic by my friend…
a corkweight thing,
to be offered Deo gratias in church
on recovering from head-injury or migraine –
now mercifully delivered in my hands,
though shelved awhile unnoticing and unnoticed.
Free of the unshakeable terror that made me write…
I pick it up, a head holy and unholy,
tonsured or damaged,
with gross black charcoaled brows and stern eyes
frowning as if they had seen the splendor
times past counting… unspoiled,
solemn as a child is serious –
light balsa wood, the color of my skin.
It is all childcraft, especially
its shallow, chiseled ears,
crudely healed scars lumped out
to listen to itself, perhaps, not knowing
it was made to be given up.
Goodbye nothing, Blockhead,
I would take you to church,
if any church would take you…
This winter, I thought
I was created to be given away.

overlookable blogging about blogging

I realised after I’d published my last post that the title, pulling a boat over a mountain, is one that looks very obvious from my perspective but may need explanation.

It comes from the Werner Herzog film Fitzcarraldo, which is about a mad Irishman with a plan to build an opera-house in the Amazonian rainforest. Fitzcarraldo is an eccentric, violently passionate doer-of-odd-things, which must have been nice for Klaus Kinski to play (he couldn’t have gotten a role as close to real life as that again unless they hired him to play himself in his own autobiography). An Irish band also wrote a rather lovely song inspired by the film.

but I’m not going down here//this journey isn’t over//it’s a long way to the house of Fitzcarraldo

It seemed apt for my DIY final year and the heaping piles of stress I’ve put myself under.

Fitzcarraldo (the film) is one of those classics that in retrospect, I’m very glad I’ve seen, but that I’m in no hurry to watch again. I seem to remember wondering, about two-thirds in, if I’d be eligible for a pension before it ended. That’s symbolic of the whole thing to me, I guess – long and arduous projects, roads to nothing apart from personal pride, and the feeling that you may end up standing screaming off a bell tower if things don’t. Go. Bloody. Right. For once.

If it’s not immediately obvious from the overextended reference, my mind has gone south for the summer. I’m kicking around things to write about, although I’m currently am in the early phases of A Depression (capital letters entirely justified) so I’m mainly just attempting to flail/sleep that off for now. Maybe I’ll get something useful done this week. Maybe I’ll just get some sleep.

Maybe I’ll avoid nightmares about Klaus Kinski and useless blog posts.

Probably not.

pulling a boat over a mountain

About nine months ago I did something very foolish, and now I’m just waiting for results.

Unprotected optimism, kids. Not even once.

In recent years, I’ve had a lot of health problems. I’ve suffered from depression for a long time, but about four or five years ago it ramped up from occasionally awful to totally debilitating for long periods. I got through some bits of uni with the help of deadline extensions, accommodating lecturers, and the best counsellor I could have had. In fourth year I started having real problems. I signed up to do a dissertation, then totally cracked up not long before the hand-in date and had to pull out of the year. I tried fourth year again the following academic year but had another breakdown in the spring.

I went on medical leave not long after, and tried to do the work in my own time to be ready to sit the exams.

You can guess how well that one went.

The past year or so has been better. My doctor switched around my meds to the most helpful combination I’ve had yet; I put in serious mental-health-related work; I applied for and was granted disability benefit, allowing me stop worrying about finding and being unable to do full-time work. And I decided to finish this degree for once and for all.

I did warn that this probably included too much optimism.

So in September I confirmed to college that I was going to sit the goddamn exams in May and breakdowns be damned. I don’t think I swore in the emails to my tutor, but I wouldn’t blame him if he did on receiving them. He is seriously great, but I’ve been the most annoying tutee I can imagine. I contacted all my lecturers and got the reading lists, then I bought textbooks. Any resurgence in the Irish economy last autumn was down to me and my dealings in Hodges Figgis. I could build a small house with the stacks of books, paper, and folders in my room – and they’ve probably cost me about as much as that small house would.

Then I looked at the calendar, saw that May was a long way off, and applied myself sort of patchily to work.

Autumn was fine; winter less so. I fell into a bad depression from about the middle of January until the start of March, and woke up out of it to find that I had two months until exams and quite a lot of stuff to do.

The rest is unfortunate history, and anyone who’s had me on Twitter over the last few months has seen the process. Insomnia, blasphemy, the odd midnight anxiety attack, far too big a reliance on tea and Diet Coke to substitute for sleep, and having to find and stream all of this season’s Doctor Who because I kept reading too long and missing it.

I’m being light-hearted, but teaching myself final-year law is probably the craziest thing I’ve ever undertaken. I keep forgetting that it’s a pretty exceptional thing to do and giving out to myself for not reaching the standard that my pre-mental illness self would have wanted. I’m not going to get a 1.1. I’d be happy with any honour, to be honest, but at this point I’ll take what I get. I’m just glad it’s over.

I don’t really know what baseline anxiety is for people without anxiety disorders. My friends say I’m knurd – so far past sober that I need two drinks just to be normal. Even so, I don’t recommend taking on a large and mostly unsupervised project like this. In general, too! Getting through this with my small claim to my sanity intact has required an iron grip on my brain. I did mindfulness therapy last year and, while at the time I thought it was a bit of a waste of time, I think some bits of it stuck. A grounding exercise, reminding myself that I only have to take care of this point in time and not all of the other, dreadfully intimidating, points, was useful.

(The bit of me that thinks it’s codswallop kept pointing out that that current moment was pretty hopeless too, but I mostly managed to keep her mouth shut.)

I sat the exams in the past few weeks, and did mostly okay. There’s only one I’m worried about, but I think that just about hit ‘okay’ too. I’ll know in a few weeks. I had one bit of coursework, which I handed in on time and pretty okay also. I came home from the last exam on Monday, drank a lot of wine, and have been as much asleep as awake ever since. It’s bloody lovely. I’d forgotten how nice books were when I don’t have to memorise them.

I think I’m going to be prouder of this when I know the results. I find it hard to see just getting there as an accomplishment (as I said to a frustrated parent, passing is the point – I could walk into my boyfriend’s college, sit his quantum mechanics exam, and fail it). Still, learning six subjects in a generally self-directed manner, fighting off several mental illnesses, and still having a partner, friends, and family speaking to me at the end of it is pretty good.

I can see that much.

A quick thank-you: you bunch of lovable [space] oddities on the internet have been a wonderful source of support. My Twitter friends and acquaintances have done more than they know to keep me sane(-ish) over this year. The 24-hour revolving pub door of Twitter is a support system and a distraction mechanism all at once. Twitter friends, you are bloody brilliant.

2013: Year of Getting Shit Done. And how.

[we’re all mad here] reading material

Yesterday I read Brain on Fire: My Month of Madness by Susannah Cahalan, which is an excellent book and thoroughly recommended. It got me thinking about my predilection for psychiatric memoirs (despite not, in the end, being a psychiatric case history at all – but spoilers, sweetie).

I read a lot of first-person abnormal-psych accounts, and I think I have maybe three main reasons for it.

Firstly, somewhat obviously, in search of kinship. Often when you get several people with mental health problems together, we tell war stories. Therapy courses, hospital stories, destructive behaviours: talking it out is both entertaining and reassuring. Despite feeling very alone in my head, I find it helpful to know that I’m never alone in my illness. When I don’t feel able for friends and sociability, books are always there and they are undemanding in a way that no conversation, even between the closest friends, can be.

Secondly, I find the phenomenon of self-reportage entirely fascinating. You and I may be united under good old 296.30, but your experience could be totally unlike mine. No two depressions are the same; no two depressives are the same. A good writer can convey the destruction involved in the tornado of a depressive episode, but a skilled writer on mental illness can also discuss how their behaviours relate to the diagnostic criteria and how their illness manifests itself.

The need for a bit of inspiration at times is my final reason: it’s good to know you can succeed even with chronic mental illness as your personal albatross. Kay Redfield Jamison is one of my favourite authors. She’s written some of the best mental health writing I’ve ever read – Touched With Fire, on bipolar disorder and creativity, and Night Falls Fast on suicide. She’s a professor and an honourary fellow at several universities, and she’s dealt with bipolar disorder type 1 since she was younger than I am now. Her personal memoir, An Unquiet Mind, shows her to be an amazing lady who’s evolved her own methods of dealing with and fighting her illness.

Oddly, I don’t read an awful lot of depression memoirs. I would probably read more anxiety-related books if there were many (I cried my way through The Woman Who Thought Too Much by Joanne Limburg because she describes the horrible thought-spiral of anxiety disorders better than anything I’d ever seen). Depression, though, seems to cut too close to home. I find stories ending in ‘and I’m fine now!’ trite – and I’m entirely aware that that judgement comes from a keenly felt envy of anyone whose depression cleared up and went away after one or more major episodes, while mine drags on in a horrible dysthymic* malaise that feels like it’s going to last forever. Good writing about depression is a gut-punch to one who knows the state. For instance: I’m currently reading Darkness Visible, by William Styron, and this early section floored me in its stark truth:

The most honest authorities face up squarely to the fact that serious depression is not readily treatable. Unlike, let us say, diabetes, where immediate measures taken to rearrange the body’s adaptation to glucose can dramatically reverse a dangerous process and bring it under control, depression in its major stages possesses no quickly available remedy: failure of alleviation is one of the most distressing factors of the disorder as it reveals itself to the victim, and one that helps situate it squarely in the category of grave diseases.

Sing unto me a new song, Bill, for I fear I know all the bloody words to this one already.

* Dysthymia: a chronic depressive state, often described as ‘low-grade’. Sometimes it’s described as being like a cold as compared to the flu (a major depressive episode). This is rubbish. Dysthymia is to major depression (and cyclothymia to bipolar disorder) what a grindstone is to an avalanche: its nature is insidious and lasting, not sudden and violent, but eventually it wears you away.

creativity for the unwilling mind

Creativity terrifies me.

I may as well get that out in the open before I start. I’m a pathologically obsessive perfectionist. I have a life-ruiner of an anxiety disorder. Those two things combined make a horrible vortex of fear and pessimism. Creating things opens the shell I keep around me for my own (shrinking) sanity. It exposes me to criticism and rejection. It’s entirely scary.

I’m here, anyway. Writing, anyway.

I read this Cracked article yesterday. I was in a bit of a depressive funk last night, and I read that article and hated it. Today, I thought I’d go back and read it again.

And I still hate it.

So I thought myself around in circles for a bit, and figured that if lots of people were reading it and getting good things from it, I was probably the one who was wrong. But it wouldn’t go away. Then I read this post by Gia (who had been the one to post the Cracked link yesterday), and thought YES. I am behind this one 100%. I thought about the other speeches and articles about creativity that I really loved. Neil Gaiman. Salman Rushdie. Kurt Vonnegut. Terry Pratchett – actually, I went to look up a Pratchett quote, forgot what one I wanted, and lost fifteen minutes reading everything. That man inspires just by waking up in the morning.

What was the difference? It wasn’t just that I don’t want to take life advice from someone who thinks Alec Baldwin in Glengarry Glen Ross is anything other than an odious jerk. It wasn’t wounded pride. It nagged at me all afternoon, and I was about this far into the first draft of this post when I realised why.

The tone I get from the Cracked post is the same attitude that friends and counsellors have spent years trying to ease away from me. The world demands its pound of flesh. If you can’t provide anything to the world, you are useless. I’m considered ‘unfit to work’, and there are days when all I can do is manage to eat and sleep. There are days when I can’t eat or sleep. I think I’m useless, mostly. I feel like the world is a treadmill turned up too fast and all I ever manage to do is just barely stay abreast. Like if I run really fast and write loads and get great exam marks and have a brilliant relationship and and and… then maybe I might be worthy of citizenship in society.

For the first time in a long time, today, I had a feeling of intense discomfort in this role I’ve built for myself. I’ve slowly been learning that I don’t actually believe the world is an uncaring objective surroundings. The world is what we do. If you do nothing, the world will continue on regardless. If you do something, you’ve changed it. Infinitesimally, yes, but truthfully. If you do nothing, you don’t lose. You just stagnate – which is okay, I suppose, and lots of people manage to live contentedly without engaging their creative gears too much. But it’s not the only option.

Here’s my point: you don’t have to create for your life to be worthwhile. You create because you want to, and it makes your life better.

For me, that’s the difference between forced labour and fulfilling work.

Somewhere over the past few months I’ve gone from abject terror at the thought of showing anything imperfect to the world, to – well, to mild queasiness. Miracles don’t happen overnight, after all.

But it’s a start.

Everything’s a start.

Go read some of the links here. (Take the Cracked one with a large bag of salt, if you’re one of my fellow mentally interesting types.) You might find yourself flinching at the thought of showing the world your broken insides, and thinking that you don’t have anything to contribute. You’re getting that backwards. You don’t have to contribute anything. You do have something to contribute.

And if I can believe that, you absolutely can too.

(I wish I could do this damned posting on different subjects without doing the mental illness etc routine over and again, but until I figure out how to divert referrals to single posts through a big sign that says ‘watch out for irrational thinking, 500 words on the left’, you get to read the explanation many times. Aren’t you lucky?)

[we’re all mad here] keep on keeping on

I write a lot about mental health. I do so for a few reasons: the ever-prescient advice to write what you know; the fact that I’m declared generally unfit for the real world by virtue of illness; sometimes, a feeling that there’s a dearth of information on a particular topic.

But mostly, I write about mental health because I don’t have a lot of it.

I’m chronically mentally ill. I’ve been in treatment for depression for six? seven? years, and experiencing symptoms for a long time before that. I deal with levels of anxiety that are only offset by a carthorse-stunning amount of anxiolytics. I’m on my third species of antidepressant – not third brand, third type of drug. I’ve been therapied into the middle of next week and back.

And I still operate at only about two-thirds of ‘normal’ functionality on a good day.

I write about mental health and mental illness because they take up a lot of my thoughts. My own, clearly: but also my friends’, my role models’, the people in the books I read, the PhD I someday want.

I write about mental illness because I just can’t relate to a lot of the dominant discourse in mental health writing.

For example: I don’t believe that a so-far treatment-resistant set of problems dooms me for life, but nor do I believe that I can snap out of it or work it off with exercise and vitamins.

I can’t relate to the unbearably trite ‘sunshine and showers’ metaphor. There are lots of people for whom depressive episodes come and go a few times in a year, and I can see the value of comparing it to April showers if that’s your experience of your illness. Mine feels like a wet month’s holiday in North Wales, personally. Drizzly. Grey. A neverending trickle of rainy annoyance down the neck of your coat.

I can’t relate to the advice to ‘talk about it’ or ‘start an art journal’ because yes, thank you, I’ve thought of that by now. Lots. After a while you bore yourself and you bore everybody else too. Starting out on the path to recovery from a first, or a first diagnosed, episode of mental illness? Talk about it all you want. Write awful poetry and rip it up and enjoy the catharsis and my god, paint or shout or whatever you need to to get yourself past that first awful hurdle. It’s just that after years, depression doesn’t feel like something you can exorcise from your system. It feels like turning up at a dead-end job.

So maybe, the real reason I write so much about mental illness is this: there isn’t much of a voice for people who’ve long since accepted mental illness as part of our lives. Creating awareness, and offering avenues and outlets to people who need help for the first time, is so important, and it’s probably right that most of the media around these Awareness Days focuses on that. Articles aimed at removing the stigma of mental illness, actions taken to open people’s minds to the possibility that their friends and family may be suffering and may need help – wonderful. Seriously. I’ve written a few.

It’s just that there’s a lot of us around for whom awareness is unavoidable.

So here we are. It’s World Mental Health Day. It’s not just for people who’ve never navigated the choppy waters of seeking therapeutic help before. Rather, it should give the rest of us a kick in the backside to remember to ask for help when we need it, and to try lift ourselves from a routine-shaped rut, and to keep looking outward. Someday we’ll be able to look back at this and laugh.

(And someday, I’ll be able to look back on my Eeyore-like blogposts and laugh, too.)

[we’re all mad here] are you nuts, or something?

A couple of months ago I tweeted about having been waiting, somewhat impatiently, in a psychiatrist’s office, most of the morning. I wasn’t expecting a response aside from ‘doctors, eh?’ sympathetic irritation. It’s not like I keep it a particular secret that I have mental health difficulties. I often find myself having to self-censor to avoid annoying the bejesus out of my Twitter followers on a bad night – the temptation to fire 140 characters of misery into the ether is great, and mopey tweets are the gateway to mopey blogposts, and after that, I may as well give up and become a one-woman misery machine.

Checking my replies later on, I was shocked/amused/a bit of both to find one that just said ‘psychiatrist? are you nuts or something?’

And I cracked up laughing, first, and then sent a serious reply that perhaps the tweeter might want to refrain from calling psych patients ‘nuts’… and then resumed laughing.

Am I nuts, or something? Well, a bit of both, I suppose.

It’s hard not to feel a bit stereotypically nuts on a day like today, when I’m writing through a meds-induced fog and having trouble remembering synonyms for most words. Mind you, it’s better than yesterday, which I spent alternately asleep and wishing I was asleep, because wakefulness was hurting too much to be kept up for too long.

Right now I’m trying to work myself up to go for a run, but I’m afraid I might lose my way. On a treadmill.

I am lucky enough to have friends who understand all this, who’ve been there themselves or been around me long enough to understand that this sort of decreased functioning comes and goes by the day. That depressive episodes happen, but that they end eventually. That sometimes I cancel plans because I’m feeling too agoraphobic to leave my room. That, if they’re reading this, they’ll forgive the dreadful writing.

Part and parcel of that familiarity is that we speak about mental illness among ourselves in a way that would seem very irreverent, even ableist, to an outside onlooker. Sorry, having a crazy day. Are you having a BPD moment? The brainbats are acting up. Can’t go out right now, too much Outside already today. It’s not my fault I’m mentally interesting. Did you take your meds today?

Like most minority groups, those of us with mental health issues reclaim the words that in other circumstances would be insulting or dismissive (coming from outsiders) and add them to our own vernacular. Not everyone, of course: some of those who’ve experienced discrimination will always associate the slang around mental illness with bullying and fear, and that is both a very understandable and a very sensitive matter.

In first-year torts class we learned about the eggshell-skull plaintiff.  The legal definition isn’t particularly relevant here, so, in real-world terms: if you do something negligent, like dig a massive hole without putting up a warning sign, or fail to secure a heavy sign on your property, you are liable to be sued if your negligence causes somebody else harm. However, you don’t get to say ‘well, a grown man wouldn’t have been injured by the sign that fell on the little old lady, therefore I shouldn’t have to pay her compensation.’ If Mrs Murphy in all her frailty is the one injured by your negligence, then you’re liable for whatever injuries she has. Poor Mrs Murphy.

I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this. When you’re talking about mental illness, you never know who’s going to hear your words, or what state of mind they’ll be in on the day. Something that on a good day wouldn’t hurt me (haha, yes, I am a bit nuts) could, on a bad day turn in to ‘I’m not nuts, I’m ILL, and it’s RUINING MY LIFE’ followed by a certain amount of invective about the goddamn internet. Unless you know the person very well, you just can’t tell what sort of day it is, or what amount of mental resilience they’ve got.

So, summing up:

– Good friends who understand you are like hen’s teeth. Rare, amazing, and just a bit weird.

– In the case of H. Dumpty v R, the liability would fall entirely on All the King’s Men, and the egg would make bank in compensation.

– Don’t ask strangers on the internet if they’re nuts. Please.