What I Missed Out in 2016

Even though we are into 2017, at least in my part of the world, I do have a nagging thought on my mind. The posts I should have written in 2016. Of course, it’s too late for regrets and rather a time for looking forward, but I know that I take, drag these unwritten posts with me. They are posts I still need to write.

Let me be clear that this post is not those unwritten posts, if that makes any sense at all. Rather it is a commitment, at some time in the near future, to write those posts and share those parts of me. They may end up with different titles than I use here, but the content will be there. My commitment to you as readers is also a commitment to myself to get those issues out in the open, and in doing so hopefully shed the weight that they currently are on my shoulders.

Reckless Compulsion (Another Addiction?)

I’ve Been in Denial About for Years (Anxiety)

Eventually, there will be links above to the written posts.

Both posts-to-be-written are deeply personal and perhaps that goes some way to explain why they have been on my mind, yet not written, for a few months now. It’s hard to put them on ‘paper’, yet I know I must do so in an attempt to take some of the weight off my shoulders. In an attempt to begin to heal. And that is all that my posts are ever about.

Keep reading…

 

Cate

This Is My Fight (Song)

This is my fight (song) right at the moment. It feels like I am fighting all the time, which is a little ironic because I can’t stand fighting.

Put a television scene of any form of violence in front of me and I visibly flinch. I can’t bear to watch so will look away, to the extent of moving my head AND covering my eyes. I just can’t face (excuse the pun) it. Whether it’s violence against human, animal or if it is being self-directed, I can’t go there.

Even violence conveyed as sport is too much, and perhaps that’s why I am a rare kiwi who doesn’t like rugby. There is just too much violence in the game for me.

But then there is one type of violence that I don’t flinch at, and that is when I direct violence at myself. I’m not talking about self-harm, although as I’ve written often enough, it is a battle I lost for many years. It’s not even violence per se that I am referring to, but rather a fight.

I’m fighting my body right at the moment. Imagine this:

An about one inch (two and a half centimetres) below your eye is a one inch round lump. But you can’t see it when you look in the mirror. No one can see it, but if you feel around your cheek with your fingers, you can feel it. It’s solid and it feels enormous. Only you and your doctor know it is there. To everyone else, it can’t be anything because they simply can’t see it.

Yes, I am talking about myself. The lump is on the left side of my face, and it’s really doing my head in. I first went to my doctor about this about nine months ago. She told me that it didn’t matter and that no one (she meant specialists) would remove it because there were more important matters to deal with. I’m not exaggerating.

Well, that doctor and I parted company not long after. It wasn’t the off-hand way she dealt with this and another issue, but rather her inability to understand sufficient English language (my native language). We were constantly struggling to understand each other. I was seeing her because my previous doctor had retired, and I was given little choice. But it got to a point when I realised it was REALLY important that I have a doctor fluent with my language. It sounds silly, until you end up in the situation.

Anyway back to my fight. My new doctor has recently referred me to a specialist to get the lump removed and analysed. Great. (It took me a while to raise the issue again, after being fobbed off the last night.)Although the New Zealand Health System can operate at a very slow pace (usually when you want immediate results) and I have yet to learn how long I might wait.

Meantime I am fighting with myself, because while no one else knows, or wants to know, how important the immediate removal of this lump is to me, it is tearing me apart. In addition to being able to feel the lump in my fingers, I can now simply feel that there is ‘something‘ on my face and the need to get it out is at times unbearable.

I admit I have always been a ‘picker’ (not quite to the extent of dermatillomania ever being diagnosed) and I have a great deal of trouble letting lie any perceived imperfection on my skin. I struggle to let any wound heal itself without needing to pick at it. As early as I can remember I would frustrate my mother by picking at my childhood scabs and so it would take longer to heal and leave a larger scar.

This picking was perhaps the innocent start of my self-harming days. When mental illness started to take over, I simply became more violent and picked up a blade.

Do you see the problem? There are times when I just want to rip this lump out, but a rational me doesn’t because… well, this is my face and I could make a terrible mess. Sadly, other times I don’t feel anywhere near as rational as to  be able to caution myself.

I did tell my doctor of this. I didn’t want to confess to her lest she choose to send me direct to the nearest psychiatrist rather than a plastic surgeon. But she needed to know how urgently I need the issue addressed. Knowing her as I am getting to, I doubt it would make much difference. I just doubt she understands how volatile my mental well-being can be. She has never seen that side of me, and I’m sure she hasn’t had time to read back 20+ years of medical records.

And so I fight, even humming the tune. I fight to be rational about this. I fight to protect my face from unnecessary injury. I fight to preserve what mental health (health not illness! There is a difference.) I currently have.

Every time I do something (or don’t do something) to preserve that mental health, I win. No one else sees the lump. Or no one else sees the fight. But it’s in me, and I will win. I have to.

And all those things I didn’t say
Wrecking balls inside my brain
I will scream them loud tonight
Can you hear my voice this time?
This is my fight song
Take back my life song
Prove I’m alright song
My power’s turned on
Starting right now I’ll be strong
I’ll play my fight song
And I don’t really care if nobody else believes
‘Cause I’ve still got a lot of fight left in me

[from ‘This Is My Fight Song’ by Rachel Platten]

Has this been a completely weird post? Perhaps. Certainly, my mind has gone everywhere while I’ve written. But then, for me, that’s exactly how it is. I hope you’ve been able to follow me. One final note that sadly, this is not the only lump which my body is fighting right now. More about the other one in time.

Thanks for reading

 

Cate

One Small Stand Against Stigma

TRIGGER WARNING: this post contains general information of a self-harm event but has no graphic details. There are no images.

I said it was small, and it is. But it’s gigantic for me.

This week I swapped which wrist I wear my watch on.

Earth shattering, isn’t it? And surely not much to do with the stigma against mental illness. But there’s more to it than what meets the eye.

Fifteen years ago I was self-harming pretty regularly. It was probably a daily occurrence at the time of this event. Sometimes I knew what I was doing, but others I was  dissociated and really not aware of the harm I was doing to my body. I would realise afterwards when I was mopping up the damage.

On one occasion I cut my (right) wrist. I wasn’t aware of what I was doing, but I know for certain that it was not some kind of suicide attempt. But don’t ever believe that this makes it better. I don’t believe this [although I acknowledge that some readers might find my thought concerning].

I realised pretty quickly that this large wound was going to need sutures and I didn’t seem able to control the bleeding, so took myself to the local hospital. At the Emergency Department, I encountered a doctor who had perhaps had his fill of self-harmers. I’m not going to make excuses for him, even this much time later but I do acknowledge that the job of an emergency doctor is a difficult one.

He told me what he thought of me in no uncertain terms and that I was completely wasting his time. There were, apparently, more important people than the likes of me. He said that as I had cut myself without anaesthetic, he was going to suture my wrist (15 sutures) without anaesthetic too. He proceeded to do so, although he left me waiting for what I’m guessing was as long as he possibly could.

That night I was vulnerable and scared. It was the first time I had gone to an Emergency Department after self-harming and had no idea what to expect. What I did know was that my self-harming was getting out of control, and I desperately needed help.

What I got was stigma. Against self-harmers and against mental illness. I concluded what I guess I already knew but was hoping that help might tell me otherwise. That I was a bad person, and I had wasted his time.

As soon as the wound healed I switched to wearing my watch on my right wrist for the sole purpose of hiding my scar. I knew some people would think I had attempted suicide. Others would think it was self-harm. There was little chance that anyone would think it was accidental. I was best to hide the evidence. From the world, and also from me. Hiding it from myself as much as possible would save me from the graphic reminder of the person that doctor had said I was.

Fifteen years later and most people in my life wouldn’t know that the scar even exists. I’ve hidden it that well, from everyone. But this past week I came to the conclusion that it’s time to stop hiding the scar from myself, and from anyone else who might see it. I’ve switched the watch back to my left wrist. It just seems right.

I don’t self-harm anymore. I’ve been about five years free. I know that if I got myself into a bad space then maybe I might again. I hope not, but I’m just honest with myself.

Because I have shifted cities and changed friends, most people aren’t aware of either this scar or the many others that litter my body. I’d have to virtually tattoo my whole body to be able to hide all of them and I don’t have that much money or that many ideas of what designs I’d choose.

But I’ve come to a conclusion. Those people who really matter will cope with the sight of my right wrist if and when it comes in front of them. For anyone who doesn’t cope with it, won’t matter anymore. And for those who don’t know me, they don’t matter anyway.

This is one small part of my voice against stigma. People who self-harm are important and do matter. Every time I see the scar on my wrist I am saying that doctor’s attitude doesn’t count because it was so wrong. I don’t have to let him keep telling me that I’m a bad person. And that’s what was happening every time I put my watch on.

Okay so that’s easy to say, but in reality this week I have felt exposed and vulnerable. Everytime I see the scar, I want to hide it again. It’s going to take a while to be comfortable with it. One day… it will come.

And that doctor? Well, he could have helped me that day, and probably avoided a few more scars. But he chose not to and I believe that was because he had stigmatized his patient. He didn’t see me as a person in need of help. God, I hope there aren’t too many doctors like that in Emergency Departments around the world. Sadly, I know better.

“Other times, I look at my scars and see something else: a girl who was trying to cope with something horrible that she should never have had to live through at all. My scars show pain and suffering, but they also show my will to survive. They’re part of my history that’ll always be there.”

— Cheryl Rainfield (Scars)

Thanks for reading

 

Cate

 

What, You Too?

It was a few years back now that someone very close to me stomped badly on my feelings, and abused my trust. It left me re-assessing how I shared myself, both with others in my life and also on my blog. What I was prepared to share in order to say “this is me”. In some ways it left me incredibly sad that there are a few people ‘out there’ who will disregard the sacredness of my words so much. But it happened, and changes were made. I consciously cut back on what I share. The biggest shame of this is that it removed an opportunity to say “what, you too?

The connection of being able to say “so you feel this too?” is perhaps the biggest disappointment for me, because it is that which is what blogging is all about for me. The opportunity for a writer and a reader to connect and share a common thought.

When my feelings got stomped on in such a destructive way, subjects became off-limits, and I suspect I lost something as a blogger. Of course, there were always a few off-limit subjects, but now there were more. And with a couple already shared here, it was necessary to back-peddle and even change the privacy rating on posts which now went too far in exposing the real Cate. Now you were getting perhaps a slightly sanitised version of me. And that disappoints me, even though I feel safer.

One of the biggest changes in what I was prepared to write about was the issue of what comforts me, and what I use to self-soothe. It was too hard to put that ‘out there’ for fear of being laughed at, and simply being stomped on again. No one likes being stomped on, me included. I will do everything I can to avoid it now, even to the point of withdrawal. You see, it’s not just you that misses out when I choose to protect myself and not write about subjects close to my heart. I also miss out, as I lose the opportunity to connect with another who might say those few words “what, you too?

Perhaps it has been through a lot of therapy in years gone by that I have looked at what comforts me, particularly what I can use to comfort and self-soothe myself in times of distress. But also simply as I live and breathe. I know that I am perhaps a little weird in this. That was confirmed by my last psychiatrist. It felt okay to be described by him as such, simply because he heard me. I realised I didn’t have to be like everyone else, if someone I trusted with a part of me, heard and accepted who I was, what made me tick and what I used to comfort myself.

For there are some means of comfort which I have been using for as long as I can remember. I can remember doing ‘this’ (I’m not sharing details because that’s not the point of this post, and I still need to protect myself) as early as three years of age. My earliest memories include this means of comfort, even though I probably didn’t consciously know it was comforting me. I suspect that it went back further than that, too. Maybe back as far as being a baby.

What strikes me is that I wonder about my need for comfort at that stage. I have some ideas about that, but perhaps most importantly I realise that we all need comfort right from infancy, but almost more importantly we all need the ability to comfort ourselves too. We can’t rely on receiving comfort from others.

This week I read an interesting article about adults who use stuffed toys to comfort themselves. They literally carry these ‘toys’ with them. Of the two people interviewed, one had Autism and the other Asperger’s Syndrome. But there is a point to this beyond simply people with those disorders. They had worked out what comforted them, what they needed to get through interactions with the world.

“Tilley says she has always felt slightly different to others and is aware of stares when she’s out, but sometimes having Del [a stuffed toy pig] on her side helps her gain control of the situation.”

The article can be found by following this link:
Jamie and his Lion: The adults who take their soft toys to work

I encourage you to read the article, even if soft toys are of no interest to you. I think the article goes beyond a stuffed lion and a stuffed pig. It goes beyond the Autism spectrum too. It challenges us  to ask ourselves “what comforts you to the point that it enables you to traverse that thing called life?

I admit that when I read this article I had a “what, you too?” moment. I understood, for my own reasons, just what was going on here. What these people do makes total sense to me, and I applaud them in finding a way to comfort themselves while participating in that thing called life.

Many psychotherapists recommend something called a Soothing Box (and other names for the same thing). A box of items which a person can use to soothe themselves when they are in distress. I think these are a great idea, but I think that sometimes we have to go beyond a box we can occasionally pull out. We need to have ways to give us comfort, or soothing, in our everyday interactions. What do we need to get us through?

I think this is a particularly important question for people with mental illness. It can be hard interacting with the world. It can be hard to simply walk out our front door. So what can we do to ensure we are able to comfort ourselves? Maybe we don’t carry a four-foot long stuffed lion with us, but how do we interpret this article into what works for us?

Thanks for reading

 

Cate

 

World Mental Health Day 2016 – Real People

world-mental-health-day-10-october-earth-globe-in-hands

World Mental Health Day. That’s today. It’s the day on which we come together, united in a call for better mental health around the world. It’s a day on which I usually know exactly what I want to say. This year has been different.

In the days leading up to today I have thought about writing about the WHO topic chosen of Psychological First Aid. Something that I have thankfully been on the receiving end of in the past. Those in the crisis and caring professions (for me it was the Police) providing psychological care. It helped, enormously.

Then I thought about writing about stigma, this time about sufferers of one mental illness stigmatizing sufferers of other mental illnesses. Yes, it happens and I had been on the receiving end of this just recently. I am, apparently, “a fruit loop”.

Then I was thinking about the people of Haiti. I wondered how their mental health was holding up. The situation in their country leaves me thankful for what I have, but I suspect that their need for psychological first aid doesn’t get a look in, the need for clean water and housing coming up as seemingly more important.

My friend, Motivating Giraffe wrote a wonderful post about the over-abundance of Awareness Days, and how they just don’t matter if we (including people at the top) don’t focus on what ‘really‘ matters. If you read nothing else on this Awareness Day, make sure you read this one (oh, and mine too).

But then heavy on my heart over this past week has been a story in the New Zealand news. It has unfolded as the week went on. It’s one of those stories that in other countries there might not have even been a raised eyebrow, let alone a news headline. But here, these things thankfully don’t happen every day. They can still stop the nation in its’ tracks.

A man with a mental illness went on ‘a rampage’ here. Only three weeks ago he was an inpatient in his local (Waikato) psychiatric hospital, but this week attacked his parents, leaving his mother dead and his father critically ill in hospital. No one knows what motivated this attack, except it must have been somehow driven by his mental illness.

For the next few days, his location was unknown. Police mounted a manhunt with no success. And then at the weekend came the discovery of more dead bodies in an unexpected location. The mentally ill man had killed another elderly couple and then taken his own life. The ‘why’s‘ will perhaps never be known but four people are dead and one still seriously ill in hospital.

What really strikes me is the emergence of this man’s mental illness. He had schizophrenia, and it might be easy to simply conclude “oh, that it explains it“. But that’s not fair. Not all people who suffer from schizophrenia go on to murder. Not all people who suffer from schizophrenia go on to commit crime. And not all people who suffer from schizophrenia go from there to taking their own life. But stigma will have us believing all these things.

This man had no history of mental illness (described in one article I read as a “nice young man”) and then apparently he used illicit drugs once. And ‘once’ was enough to trigger schizophrenia. You see ‘once’ is enough for some people and some mental illnesses. It seems it is a game of Russian Roulette. And that was enough to end four lives and leave hundreds in mourning. Lives changed irreversibly.

My point? That mental illness, and the tragedy that can follow, can happen to anyone. The stigma that too often is applied, is unfounded. It could happen to you too.

This story really hits home to me because I was a ‘nice young wo(man).

I wasn’t mentally ill. I had a good career, a nice home and I had prospects. I was ‘going places“. No one expected my life to change dramatically with the sudden emergence of mental illness. I don’t have schizophrenia, triggered by a casual single use of a drug, but I have another mental illness now. One for which sufferers aren’t often described as ‘nice’.

My friends and family had no reason to expect such a dramatic change to my life. And perhaps more importantly, I had no reason to expect that change.

I could accept a friend’s Bipolar diagnosis. I could even visit her in hospital. I had no difficulty in supporting her, because I believed it could never happen to me.

I could accept that a man known to my family had schizophrenia. But when he began to stalk me, I very clearly saw myself as a victim and him as the perpetrator. I didn’t once stop to think that he was a victim too. And I never once thought it could happen to me.

It did happen to me. I got my own (BPD) diagnosis and spent far too many times in hospital. My days in psychiatric wards and hospitals may not even be over. I don’t know what lies ahead.

If you gain nothing else from World Mental Health Day this year, please  know that it could happen to you. I don’t say that to scare you, rather that you don’t judge those who struggle with mental illness.

Even for the cases, we hear about in the news, those are real people who struggle/d with real illness. Maybe they were on the receiving end of stigma. And maybe they didn’t get the support or treatment they needed. I don’t know why Ross Bremner killed those people or himself this past week. Maybe we will never know. But what we do know is that they were real people, just like you and me.

Thanks for reading

 

Cate

“The Untreatables”

I need to clarify something. For my own sake as much as for anyone else. One of the terms I hate most in the psych world is ‘Treatment-Resistant’. I’ll explain why in a moment, but first what was a new term for me. Maybe it’s not new to you, but I wish it didn’t exist at all. I was quietly checking my Twitter feed recently when these two words came flying off the screen at me. “The Untreatables”. Ughhh!

“The Untreatables”? Really? Does anyone else take an immediate dislike to this term? (As an aside if you’re interested, the tweet I read contained a link to this article). ‘The Untreatables’: the people for whom there is no treatment.

If I had skills in the cartoon drawing you would see now a group of ‘Untreatables’ gathering together in what might be some type of 12-step group aimed at recovery from untreatable mental illnesses. But I can’t draw to save myself so I’ve hopefully left the image in your mind.

I think I have gained entry into this group three times. Firstly, I was pretty quickly labelled with the ‘treatment-resistant depression’ label. It only takes two different types of anti-depressants tried unsuccessfully, and you’re there. I don’t remember how it was put to me, that this was how I was now seen but I always thought it was an odd term. I thought it applied to me personally whereas it actually applied to the illness. A small but necessary difference.

There was I thinking”but I’m not resisting my treatment!?!” I had been taking my pills, careful not to miss a dose, and I had been going to my therapy (with a man who seemed decidedly odd. But that’s another post.). How could I be defined as ‘treatment resistant’?

The second time this applied to me was many years later when I was discharged dumped by the Adult Mental Health Service in my city because I wasn’t responding to their treatment. This time, ‘treatment-resistant’ was being applied to me, the person. A social worker had been working with me using Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) and I didn’t respond as I should (apparently). Actually, I suspect the term ‘Untreatable’ was used because that’s really what they were saying. There was no treatment for me.

The same thing happened a short while later with the Eating Disorders Service I had been seeing. There I had been in group therapy (using CBT again) and I hadn’t responded as they thought I should. I was discharged dumped again with my untreatable eating disorder. Fortunately, I had got myself past the Anorexic phase before I even got seen by their Service (sitting on a waiting list for years) otherwise, I suspect I would be dead by now.

My point in sharing what was a very frustrating but also depressing stage in my life is that in each case, mental health professionals were leaving me with a sense that all this was my fault. I was either resisting treatment or I was untreatable because I didn’t respond to CBT.

I accept that in the first case, the psychiatrist involved may well have been clear in saying that my depression (the illness rather than me personally) was treatment-resistant, but in my frame of mind, I took it to be about me. It wasn’t. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I simply hadn’t responded to the anti-depressants he had chosen. It was actually more about him than about me. It was about choices he had made.

When I saw the tweet that hit me between the eyes, I took exception to that term ‘The Untreatables’. It’s an awful description as well as being an easy way out. Class us as ‘untreatable’ and you can send us on our way.

I take exception too, to the term ‘treatment-resistant’ if it is used to describe a person.

To any mental health professionals who happen to read my blog, please think before you use either term whether it is to the patient or not. How you think about it will determine how you see your patient, regardless of whether you use the terms in front of them.

And to mental health patients, please hear me when I say

You are not treatment-resistant.

Your illness may be treatment-resistant, but not you. And I hope that you are never made to feel ‘Untreatable’. Don’t believe it, and know that it is not your fault.

There are theories that some mental illnesses are untreatable, particularly Personality Disorders. I don’t accept that, but then I’m no professional. I think it comes down to how you understand the term ‘treatment’. The Mental Health Services who chose to discharge dump me from their services could have chosen a different treatment path. They could have simply listened to me. Instead, they put a distressed and unwell person out of their systems without support. It wasn’t until a few years later when another mental health professional worked out that I had Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) and not just depression and an eating disorder, and that is perhaps why I hadn’t responded to the earlier interventions.

I am convinced that sometimes it is just about having the time to work beyond the ‘treatment resistant’ or ‘untreatable’ labels.

Thanks for reading

 

Cate

 

Human 2 Human

Relationships with other humans have to be one of the most difficult and complex aspects of life. They are for me anyway, and there have been a few issues which have reared their ugly head for me in the past few days.

I know that friendships, family connections and intimate relationships are really hard for me and now days I am inclined to pull back from all of them.

With one failed marriage behind me, along with a string of failed relationships, I am alone and pretty certain that I will remain alone. I believe now that I not supposed to have  someone by my side. I have never believed that there is a soul mate for everyone, nor will everyone find their soul mate. Actually,I suspect my soul-mate might just have been and gone.  And sometimes circumstances just get in the way and block the way for what might have been true love.

On the other hand, it was some years ago now that I also came to the conclusion that close friendships were perhaps something I would be best to avoid. You may call it sad but I call it safe. After being let down by a number of friendships, I made a specific decision that friendships I might have been able to rely on were no longer worth it. Yes, I do have friends but not many and I try hard not to rely too much on them. I am inclined probably too much to withdraw rather than depend.

And then there is family. I have been fortunate to date with my family connections. Maybe they didn’t always understand me or my needs, but they did seem to love me. I think they still love me, but their availability  for me to rely on them is perhaps changing.

I know that my Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) plays a part in how I relate to other humans. I’d like to say it isn’t part of the story. I’d like to say that I have it ‘under control’. But it is part of me, part of my personality if you like, and no matter how many ways I learn to control or even recover, I know that it will always be there.

An article I read highlighted for me some of the issues that float in and out of importance as issues for me with BPD:

“Most patients named gaining control over emotions, mood swings and negative thoughts, followed by reduction of municipality, self-harm and other destructive behavior and improving self-acceptance and self-confidence. However, improving relationships and improvement of social participation, social competence and job situation has been mentioned as important.”

It speaks of the issues important to patients with BPD in the treatment they need. But I use it as it easily highlights in a paragraph issues I deal with when connecting Human 2 Human.

It’s hard. It’s constantly hard, and with those issues at play perhaps it is easier to understand why I choose so often to withdraw.

This week someone important to me said:

“I don’t care…” [about you]

Ouch! Actually, it was more than “ouch”. It was fuck! Under my breath, of course.

The rest of their words no longer mattered. I had heard that they “don’t care” I didn’t matter anymore. They possibly weren’t even aware of having said it, but it was loud and clear. Maybe this person was someone I could no longer rely on (for any number of reasons). Maybe this was connected to my having BPD. Maybe I was too much. Maybe I had misinterpreted what another person might have taken differently. But then maybe it was simply about their issues not connected to me. It hurt anyway.

Do you see why Human 2 Human is hard?

Another relationship came up on my Human 2 Human radar. I know my mother’s Alzheimer’s Disease is not about me, but how I respond to something that is ever-changing is totally about me. I can’t escape this one.

In a conversation with my mother, I discovered that her memory has gone so much that she appears to know nothing of my life beyond my name and that I am her daughter (I am thankful that she still knows this). She also appears to know nothing of her life when I have been a part of it. Of course, I knew that this was coming some day but that day had arrived and it cut deep. My own mother doesn’t know me. Maybe even I don’t exist for my mother anymore.

My father passed on nearly six years ago, and it seems that while my mother sits in front of me, she is in some way gone too. I have heard the expression of grieving for someone who still lives, and that is even harder than it sounds. I feel like the wind has been blown out of me.

My parents have always been very important to me, although I admit that my mother and I have never been close, never even been friends. The tension between us has gone now. Something I can’t totally explain. But maybe she has gone too.

Perhaps my feeling of loss this week connects to my BPD. I know there will be a connection because there always is. It’s just that I have yet to work it out, to be able to put it into words. Meantime it hurts. Both instances I have described here. I need to hide away and lick my wounds.

I want the luxury of time with my therapist again, but I have no therapist anymore.

All I can do is write. I don’t claim to have any answers. Just questions. I hope that what I choose to write and share with you makes even the tiniest ounce of sense. I suspect it will make more sense with others who travel with a Borderline mind.

Thanks for reading

 

Cate

 

Uncharted Territory

“Life is uncharted territory. It reveals its story one moment at a time.”

Leo Buscaglia

 

When I was first dealing with mental illness, I found myself in a world where people wanted to know about my feelings. Feelings? I thought myself an intelligent person, but feelings were something I knew nothing about. Actually, I knew so little that I thought I was being asked what I thought.

I don’t remember  ever talking about feelings in my family while I was growing up. Actually, I’m pretty sure that we simply didn’t talk about how we felt. Even into my adult years, my parents would never talk about how they felt, so I think it’s pretty safe to say that feelings were simply not an issue for discussion.

When I found myself in the offices of doctors, therapists, and psychiatrists, they all wanted to know how I felt. And I had no idea. How I felt simply did not register with me.

In time I found myself able to explain what was happening for me using imagery. I could paint a word picture, and if the health professional had the time to listen, I was able to arrive, through the imagery, at what I was feeling.

I was depressed (apparently). I simply knew there was something very wrong. Even now, after many years of therapy to unearth my feelings, perhaps my first sense, when my mental health is on a downward spiral, is that there is something very wrong. I’m just not that sure what it is.

Using imagery I would eventually arrive at fear. Yes, I was terribly afraid.  I felt like I had fallen off a very high cliff face. I had no idea where I was. And as I fell, I wondered where I would land. It was uncharted territory.

In my mind, this cliff face was in the Waitakere ranges, west of Auckland. I lived in Auckland for a time during my childhood and later as my mental illness was revealing itself. I had childhood memories of walking in the Waitakere’s with my father and brothers. I always felt very safe with them, even on days when we might end up a little bit lost. I don’t remember there being any great rock faces from which I might fall, but my mind’s image was clearly here.

The problem when you fall, you often can’t see where you are or what is above or below. You don’t know whether you have landed at the bottom and so can’t fall any further, or whether you have landed on a ledge. And you don’t know whether the ledge you might be on, might give way and you fall further.

With depression, I found myself falling often. I would think it was rock bottom, and it couldn’t get any worse. But then, worse would come and I would be falling again. I thought I couldn’t possibly feel any worse. I couldn’t feel any more despair. But I did. Over and over.

That’s why Penny Redshaw’s (of Motivating Giraffe fame) drawing hit a note with me. It was my experience of living with depression.

rock-bottom
Image credit: Penny Redshaw,  Facebook/Pics by Penny

Thankfully, I’m not at the bottom of a very big cliff called Depression right now. But I do feel like I’m being dangled over the top of a cliff, and I am very scared terrified of what might happen next. At the moment my doctor (who doesn’t know me very well) and a psychiatrist (who doesn’t know me at all but has somehow ‘assessed’me without me being present!) have decided between them that I should come off lithium, a medication I had previously been told I would need to be on for my lifetime. The doctor has asked what I think but basically ignored my both my thoughts and my fears. It’s happening anyway.

So back to word imagery, I feel like I am being dangled over this very big cliff by these two doctors. There has been a fence (its’ name was lithium) which protected me from a fall but that’s gone and my toes are over the edge. I am currently clinging onto the few bits of greenery, the odd tree also clinging to the edge. I hope they will have strong enough roots to hold me safe (think skills I learnt in the years of therapy which might, if I am lucky, hold me fast to my well-being). Will it all be enough?

I don’t know. And if I fall, I don’t know whether it will be a ledge on which I land or the bottom. I don’t know how hard I will land.

I.Am.Afraid.

As I said, I just don’t know. We never know. With a physical illness, there is often some sort of chart, maybe just a pamphlet or maybe a book, to tell us what to expect.Sometimes it’s called a prognosis. That’s not the case with mental illness. We never know what will come next. That’s just one of the reasons why we need our friends who are on a similar journey. They ‘get’ that uncharted territory can be a scary place to go.

Stay tuned. Hopefully, I’ll be able to grab a passing tree root to stop the fall.

Thanks for reading

 

Cate

 

 

 

September 11 – A Birthday ‘Girl’

There were times when I thought birthdays were simply a kick in the teeth. A day which celebrates your life? When you’re seriously depressed? Exactly. It doesn’t work.

I would fight my family, especially my Dad. There was no way I wanted to celebrate my life or my birthday. Love him as I did, Dad couldn’t get why I didn’t want to celebrate anything, and having an eating disorder (think Anorexia) I had no desire to face any extra food. Why was all this so hard to explain? And why do all celebrations centre around food?

Now that Dad has been gone for over five years, I know he just wanted to take the bad stuff away, see me happy; and now I would give anything for him to have been here today. I would even have put up with his sometimes, over-exuberance for my life.

Sometimes birthdays are just as much about who is there, as who is missing.

This morning I took my mother to church (we do it pretty much every Sunday). I go so that Mum can continue her life-long habit of church involvement. If I didn’t go, she wouldn’t be able to. With Alzheimer’s to contend with she doesn’t altogether understand that this is the only reason I go, but that’s okay.

While I used to have a Christian faith which would fit with my mother’s church, I admit that now days I find it frustrating, bordering on annoying to even angry-making. I admit today was at the angry end of the spectrum.

So my mind wandered, out the window, and I watched as firefighters were preparing for a 9/11 commemoration ceremony across the road. I watched as they tied both American and New Zealand flags to the handrail going over the bridge. I could just see the two beams from the World Trade Center towers, which are now the focus of the Fireman’s Reserve here.

There have been times since that I hated that 9/11 was my birthday. It is a reminder of a very dark time in my life. 2001, I was desperately suicidal and had planned to be dead by my birthday. Instead, I was in a psychiatric hospital in Dunedin.  I was close to psychotic and the staff would tell me they were running out of ideas of what to do with me. I was becoming a hopeless case. I certainly felt hope-less. Without hope.

Each year when 9/11 is commemorated, I am almost forced to remember my own hell of 9/11. I actually want to think of anything but. That morning (it was actually 12 September by then in New Zealand, but that didn’t matter) the nurse woke me and told me “the world had gone mad“. I wondered what I had done. Why else would she say that?

That was fifteen years ago, and much has changed. I’m glad it has changed, and actually, I’m glad I have a birthday today. Yes, I did just say that (for the benefit of family who may be reading). Today I can remember my 9/11 hell and not have it pull me down into despair. I remember my time in Dunedin but I know it is firmly in my past.

When I see the American and New Zealand flags side by side on 9/11, I can remember what happened that day, and the people who died, but I can remember my American friends too. Without having gone through my own version of hell back 2001, I probably wouldn’t have some of the friends I now have. I’m glad I have them.

Happy Birthday to me.

Below is my gift today from my niece L, still my favourite little person in the world. She makes being alive worthwhile.

livy-birthday-001

I know you might not be able to read the message, but that’s for me anyway. The picture is of her and I. I love it.

The fact that I can now love anything, anyone and especially my five-year-old niece tells me that there is hope. I would never have imagined being able to enjoy a birthday or enjoy L.

Life isn’t perfect, I wouldn’t even say it is great. Life is what it is, and often that’s really hard. But it is worth being alive.

And that makes 9/11 worthwhile for me.

Thanks for reading

 

Cate

Spring Follows Winter

I was wrong.

There. I’ve said it. I was wrong when I suggested in my last post that there was no hope. I wrote that instead of hope there was only a void.

I don’t mean to deny how I was feeling, but that’s the point. It was a feeling, and I was forgetting what I know.

Think about it. What I know is that there is hope. At the time I wrote I was feeling that there was no hope in my life, but really, that didn’t replace what I knew.

I might feel down, discouraged, and even depressed and frustrated, but deep down…

I still believe there is hope.

It will get better.

I don’t know when, and I don’t know how, but I know it will happen. Even if I can’t rely on my own knowledge. Even if I get so down that what I forget what I know.  I know that other people who love me know there is hope (see my post Borrowed Hope).

“I am a success today because I had a friend
who believed in me and
I didn’t have the heart to let him down”

 – Abraham Lincoln

This past week I met someone who I knew about 20 years ago. I only met him once but he was a friend and work colleague of my then husband. It was at an extremely difficult time in my life. I was struggling with severe depression, PTSD and Anorexia Nervosa. I was being judged by all sorts of so-called friends and extended family.

But this man seemed to accept where we were at, and he supported my husband at a time that he needed all the support he could get. I know that I was far from easy to be married to at that time.

This week, this man reminded me that spring follows winter, and dawn follows night. It was a simple reminder of something I knew, but had forgot.

Spring starts in New Zealand this week, although it’s been a few weeks early. The weather here has been great and the spring flowers are blooming.

Image credit: Anita Martinz, Wikipedia.org Colorful_spring_garden.

Perhaps spring is my favourite season for this reason. I need to be reminded over and over again that spring follows winter. There is an end to the dark and cold. Even to the depression and despondency. It might not come for me this week, but I have hope that it will come. And that’s what matters.

To be fair, I know that spring can also contain it’s challenges. Life will be better but it might not be all plain sailing.  There might still be times of darkness. That’s the reality of mental illness. I think I’ve got to a point in my life where I can accept it, even if I don’t always like it.

Thanks for reading

Cate