Here we are depressed. Abject. Desperate. In despair. Full of regret. Ashamed. Guilty. Subhuman. Worthless. Here we are.
Yes it’s like coming down from MDMA only much worse and protracted over a period of about three months. I’m not out of the woods yet, but seeing some glimmers of light, hence this post.
Because if I don’t blog it, I won’t remember it, simple as.
This blog is invaluable to me as a catalogue of my moods. Unfortunately I am not able to report them dispassionately like some other bloggers, and bipolar podcasters that I am aware of (see: The Bipolar Family Podcast). Instead I just go into them, I am there, and I blog from there. That’s why you see so many music videos on this blog. But luckily it’s still easy enough to read what’s actually written and this blog does go back about ten years after all.
It’s important when I am piecing together the recent past that I can see where I was mentally at that time. And it’s darn obvious how often I have been manic.
Well praise the Lord I am not now.
I’ve had little to no appetite for food for the past two and a half months. I’ve slept fine, more than normal actually. I’ve taken my meds religiously. Risperidone 4mg, Lamotrigine 150mg (at present, will rise to 200mg ultimately) and an antidepressant called duloxetine which does seem to have helped a bit, especially with the debilitating anxiety.
It’s been utter Hell, just like the episode of Spring 2016. I seemed to skip serious depression in 2017.
I’ve been getting out most days, largely to the Clarendon Recovery College which has proved itself to be a godsend at times when I would otherwise have been rudderless, cut adrift and drowning in utter isolation. Classes and groups. I have now started therapy back with Barry at the Psychosis Therapy Project. Have reconnected with one old friend who has been stalwart and very caring. Also found myself a carer/befriender who I pay to keep an eye on me for an hour twice a week. She encourages me and gives me moral support to do a few things around the house and cook the occasional meal.
My son is not doing too well either according to my mum. The magnitude of his problems is borne in on me very starkly when I am in depression mode. He is still self-incarcerating in one small room most of the time. Obviously that’s not healthy. And obviously I feel responsible to a degree. But life must go on, I have to care for myself first and foremost or I am no use to him or anyone else.
It’s my birthday on Thursday. I’m going to be 56. Old enough to know better, older but not necessarily wiser. In fact what they say about bipolar worsening with age has been amply proven to be true in my case. I’m the local crazy lady. I have been going around like a ghost with downcast eyes, hardly able to look anyone in the face in case they notice something is decidedly wrong.
But like I say. Life calls and when you try to be deaf it shouts, and screams at you to get your head out of your ass and be here now.