I started this blog with the brave intention of chronicling everything that was going on, charting my moods, sharing my wisdom and all the rest of it, and it didn’t happen. There are a number of reasons, all valid in their own ways, but mostly it was just due to me being totally knackered by having to deal with being unwell and all the accompanying rubbish that’s come with it.

I’m in a weird situation. I don’t know if I mentioned this already, but I’m a nurse, and I work in Wales for the NHS as a ward sister on a busy hospital admissions ward. A busy psychiatric admissions ward, in fact. I’ve always been reasonably open about my history of severe depressive episodes, and the general consensus has mostly been that my experiences have furnished me with additional skills and empathy which can only enhance my job.

Earlier on this year my family experienced quite tragic circumstances which rocked our world immensely for a while. I suspect it was dealing with this that led to the stress that started to tip the balance for me. In addition, I had my 15 year old son home for the holidays; he has Asperger’s Syndrome and is a weekly boarder at a residential school about 70 miles away. His behaviour can be, and often is, challenging to say the least. But he is great, too. So yes, we had a lot going on, and I suspect that was probably what had triggered my elated episode. I was cleaning constantly, had extreme pressure of speech and flight of ideas and was prone to doing some strange and funny things. I’m going to save those for humorous entries, I think, so they can be savoured in their entirety.

But no, I wasn’t well at all- and indeed I’m still not well, really- and I did the right thing and signed myself off sick and took myself straight to the GP, who insisted I came off my anti-depressant – Duloxetine/Cymbalta- straight away in case they’d triggered the hypermania. I’d been well on Duloxetine for nearly nine months, following a very severe depressive episode last year, which itself had followed an equally hypermanic episode which I’d blithely self-medicated with excessive quantities of alcohol until I realised I was making a colossal ass of myself.

Anyway, my GP suggested she refer me to the local community psychiatrist, who is someone I’ve never worked closely with and with whom I felt comfortable. The PDoc – we’ll call her Dr Pleasant – said that she’d see me at home, to save me ‘running the gauntlet’ of the clinic where she’s based, and where I know most of the staff. So that was fine, and I had a week to think about the referral. In the meantime, Dr Pleasant suggested that my GP started me on Lamotrigine (Lamictal), a mood stabiliser from the anti-convulsant stable. Sometime during the next week, my line manager from the hospital called me to see how I was. When I’d filled her in, she was quite stern with me, and told me that I shouldn’t see Dr pleasant, that it would ‘damage our professional relationship’ and that it would be impossible for me ‘to be totally honest with her.’

OK… if you say so, boss. She also raised concerns about the fact that my records would be stored on our trust-wide electronic note-keeping system, which is accessible to all nursing staff, hospital and community based, in a trust that covers a large chunk of mid and west Wales.

Nothing like adding to my existing paranoia, eh?

I got really cross about this. I rang my Human Resources dept, to ask them if there existed a policy on how trust staff should access services that they already worked for. The lady there admitted she had no idea and referred me on to Occupational health. She also added that I had a Sickness Review coming up, where I’d automatically be referred to Occupational health anyway. So I rang Occupational Health. I have to explain here that this service is provided as a ‘favour’ by the general hospital where our psychiatric wards are based (we’re run by a separate trust based 50 miles away). The administrator there advised me that the next available appointment would be in October. This was on August 21st. She also had no idea how else to help me.

I was cross by this point that I rang my union for some advice. They were horrified, and suggested that it looked like I was, by virtue of my profession, effectively being denied access to services. Which is pretty much where I remain. At my most recent weekly GP appointment, the doctor rang the clinic and asked how my referral was progressing; they offered me an appointment with a different doctor (who is male, and gruff and not who I’d be told I could see) but I declined. The secretary then said she’d ‘have a word’ with Dr Pleasant and get back to me. To date she hasn’t.

I just tried to explain to my mum how frustrated I was about the whole thing. She mostly just said, ‘Hmm,’ which is kind of typical for my mum. But we’ll save dysfunctional family relationships for another day. (See, I think I’ve got nothing to write about, when really, there is oodles.)

But yes, right now I am mostly angry. And that’s angry about real things. Other real things I’m cross about include the shitty (literally) side-effects of the Lamotrigine, the loss of my fine motor co-ordination, the fuzzy-headedness which is contributing to my increasing frustration, because my head is still going so very very fast; the ideas and the concepts for stories and poems are flying through so quickly and yet I don’t always have the energy or the inclination to write them down. And my temper continues to be horrific at times. I am well aware that I am testing my girlfriend’s patience beyond most normal limits. This is unfortunate because she, and our housemate, are my rocks right now, and deserve better from me than snappishness and bouts of irrational anger.

Thankfully they do not just listen blankly and then eventually say, ‘Hmm.’

Slept late due to late night the night before, woke up feeling quite fuzzy. Went to town with Alma and bought things I did need (pyjamas for Thailand) and things I didn’t need (slutty shoes and more ‘bargains’ from Claire’s. And Sangria and pizza) Feeling very jolly indeed, me and Alma laughed lots and by 17.30 I was racing, giggling wildly and noticeably struggling to stay on track when chatting to friends in the pub. Flight of ideas very evident and I thought this was funny.

Evening started off fun, we had band practice and eventually managed to pretty much write a song, very Gypsyish and bouncy, all I need now is to write some lyrics. But then Twinkle was watching YouTube things and the chopping and changing of music and videos really quickly started to make me really agitated and anxious. My pulse stayed at 110bpm for over half an hour, they wouldn’t turn the music down and I wanted to go to bed but knew they would keep me awake. Started to feel quite paranoid then that if I went upstairs Twinkle and Ray would talk about me and be pissed off with me for acting ‘grown up’ and asking them to be quiet. Tomorrow is the anniversary of Twinkle’s mum’s death so I understand that emotions are going to be running high but was very irritated that despite this I need a bit of looking after because I’m not well.

In fact, the worst thing about this is trying to make people see which bits are the illness and which are me. I am anxious and worried that people will inevitably see meas being irritable and grumpy and irrational and anxious when it is the illness doing it to me. I am still me on the inside. Twinkle and I talked last night, she admits she is finding it very hard to deal with what’s going on, what with the mercurial nature of my moods and my unpredictable reactions. In turn I told her that I feel like she is my ‘mother’ or ‘keeper’ at times, that I feel she is telling me off, and stopping me having fun and whilst I fully recognise that she’s trying to protect me, it still sometimes feels like this will inevitably stop me having fun. There is a small but persistently ‘naughty’ part of me that is enjoying this newfound energy and the fact that I am relishing opportunities and getting things done and generally feeling a return of the enthusiasm which has either been extinguished by depression or stifled by medication in the past.

I understand what Kay Redfield Jamison writes about mania having an addictive quality. I feel quite resentful right now that the Lamotrigine has the potential to dim my flame right now, and also worried that I’m consigning myself to live in a world where the extremes of JOY as well as misery will always be muffled slightly.

Too many questions. I suspect I need a ‘proper’ blog to write all these thoughts in.

[crossposted]