Christmas is over. Done. I survived it. Didn’t kill anyone. Didn’t loose my mind.
My house is a mess. Toys everywhere. The child is in imagination heaven. It’s fascinating to watch.
We really need a bigger home. And a cleaner.
I need to get organised.
Hope everyone had a lovely Christmas!!!
I don’t remember where I read this, but I know I read it somewhere, or maybe I heard it somewhere. Either way.
Like many others, I struggle to verbalise my thought processes and feelings. I end up with half explained, rambles which mostly make no sense. Which is not only frustrating but also upsets me.
I can write things down no problems, but when it comes to actually verbalising the things I’ve written down, I struggle to explain it in a way others can understand.
Now that I’ve been forced to find another GP, I have to start my entire mental health referral over. I’ve already spoken to the new trust, who are happy to see me for a consult, I just need to get my GP to refer me.
I’m hoping that by writing it all down, perhaps I’ll get better luck. I’ve had CBT which has helped me with my PTSD, but I’m not any closer to an actual diagnosis (previous GP and MH team disagreed on diagnosis and reached a stalemate)
Maybe 2016 will be a better year for me, mentally. We’ll see.
I don’t really know what to say, except that I have something to say, but it’s just there, waiting. I thought that by just opening a new post and writing, well, anything would help bring whatever it is in my head, to the surface.
I’m constantly tired. I often fantasise about booking into a hotel just so I can have a bath and slip in to some clean sheets and relax and sleep, uninterrupted. As if. That idea is laughable.
1 week to Christmas, the presents are sorted, the wrapping is done. I’m just waiting. I don’t feel overly excited. In fact I don’t feel much of anything right now.
I’m always thinking, over-thinking, on top of my physical tiredness, my emotions are tired too.
I desperately need a break. Life is a constant, neverending chore. Parenting, working, housework, laundry. My outlets are no longer outlets, because I haven’t the energy to actually do them. I’m averaging 5 hours of sleep a night. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. It’s often 5 hours interrupted sleep too.
Truth be told I feel unappreciated.
I try so hard, to keep afloat, and to keep the house tidy, the washing washed, going to work and being a mother. I sometimes feel I’m doing it on my own.
A simple thank you wouldn’t go amiss, followed by, why don’t you have a nap.
I can but wish.
It’s 3 weeks until Christmas, or less in fact. So much still to do, although more or less done.
I was watching a home made Christmas documentary, a crafting one with Kirstie Allsop and she said a really interesting thing. I don’t recall it verbatim but basically it was you have a great gift if you find that you don’t want to give it, but want to keep it for yourself. I don’t want to give half of my gifts, so I’m hoping the recipients love them as much as I do.
That’s mostly my reason for neglect. So much that I forgot about me. I pushed it all to the side. Idiot.
Of course it’s come back to bite me on the ass! Of course it has.
I’ve been struggling for a formal diagnosis for a while now. The mental health facilities in the UK are very hit and miss. It’s not really anyone’s fault. It just is.
I go through periods of irrationality whilst being completely rational. Almost like I am sitting watching myself. Like a film. It’s the most surreal thing. It’s also unnervingly frightening. I’m coherent but I think things that are by no means rational.
Imagine doing the most mundane of chores. Hanging up the washing. Standing, draping clean wet underpants and socks on the clothes airer, whilst mentally calculating how much citalopram you’d need to take to die. How much is just enough to obtain help without requiring the need for having your stomach pumped.
I don’t even take citalopram.
I’m safe.
My symptoms alarm me. But I was told by a Mental Health professional, that because I realise that my thoughts are irrational and concerning, I’m not “at risk” because I’m aware and capable. I’m not a priority for assistance.
Which of course doesn’t help break the cycle. I’m clearly unwell. Unbalanced so to speak, but because I can recognise it and I can be rational and force myself to seek help, I’m not in need to assistance immediately.
I always assumed that it would make it easier to diagnose and treat me in this frame of mind. Apparently not.
The sad state of affairs that is the UK mental health service.
I’m not rich enough to seek private treatment. Im not “sick” enough to obtain proper help through the NHS.
Is it any wonder that people take things further? A lot of the time I hear the phrase “cry for help” or “seek attention for immediate treatment”.
I often wonder if it would be easier to take all of my 8 weekly medication at once, strip down to my underwear, put a saucepan on my head and walk down the high street.
I’m rational enough to understand why I’m struggling, but my thought processes are irrational.
It’s frustrating. I KNOW there’s a need for treatment, but the fact of the matter is, it’ll be a long time before I get it.
I’m sick, just not sick enough for anyone to help me when I ask.
It’s been almost 2 years since my last breakdown. I’m not sure how much longer I can last.
Today I feel very isolated. Close to tears because of it and for the first time in a while I considered cutting.
I am thoroughly ashamed of myself, which only adds to my feelings of despair. It’s a neverending cycle it seems.
Husband is at work, and will be there until late. Which leaves me at home, alone with the child, who is demanding and whinging and wants to be my shadow. I don’t remember the last time that I had a “day off”. It’s a constant whirlwind of work, housework, parenting. I just want some time for me.
Some time where I can sit and do one of my hobbies uninterrupted. Where I can drink my coffee before it goes stone cold. Where I can have a bath without a little person wanting to know what I’m doing (I’m in the bath) or wanting to have a bath too (no, you can’t, oh fine, come on in) and then having to get get out 2 minutes later because “mummy, I’m done! Need a towel”.
Where I can have a crap without a little voice saying “mummy can I see your poo?”
I’d like to be able to watch a TV show that doesn’t include annoying animated characters or fucking Mr Tumble and his sodding spotty bag.
I like to be able to just sit. In silence. Without the fear that something is being destroyed. (It’s always the bloody toilet roll!)
It’s hard, and feeling isolated doesn’t help.
I can’t remember the last time, a friend said to me, “get a babysitter and let’s go out for dinner and a drink a bottle of wine” or anyone even visited, or invited us to visit.
I don’t remember when anyone actually made an effort, or the last time I made an effort to be honest. I stopped after a while, because no body seemed interested. It goes two ways, and that two way street seemingly merged into a one way system. One way systems suck.
I knew that being a parent would be hard and becoming a parent would be complicated, but I didn’t imagine it would be this hard and this complicated. Some parents make it look so easy. It’s not easy at all.
I’m so unbalanced (hah) that it’s unreal.
I want to sit and cry, but I don’t. I don’t because I have to parent. I can’t parent and be a snotty useless heap.
I just want some time for me, to be me. I feel like it shouldn’t be much for me to ask for.
I don’t know who I am anymore.
I lay in the bath, which is now only just warm, wondering.
Bedtimes is exhausting. Child has taken to refusing to have her teeth brushed before bed, and the resulting stress trying to get it done is frustrating.
Then she won’t stand still to be dried off.
Then she won’t let me dress her, or dry and brush her hair.
Instead she wants to run around like a lunatic and jump around like some sort of trampoline gold medalist.
It frustrates the hell out of me and I feel my blood pressure rising and eventually I shout at her.
I’m not proud of that.
She’s only little. She doesn’t really understand.
But I do.
At bedtimes I’m pushed to my limit. She makes me so cross. Then she hugs me tight and tells me she loves me. She hugs her beloved soft toy, and the sandman takes her, to dream of whatever toddlers dream of.
I feel blessed and loved and humble. And guilty.
I shouted at my toddler.
I am her mother, I am not supposed to shout.
I am only human. And I feel as guilty as sin.
I haven’t told anyone about this project. Not a soul.
I haven’t shared it, so it probably doesn’t even have any readers. But that’s ok.
It’s quite freeing to know that I have this small place on the Internet, where I am completely anonymous and can write whatever I want without worry as to who will see it. It’s also so very challenging because I don’t want to give any seemingly personal information out, so I have to be smart with the prose.
It’s a peaceful morning, and I’m sat, drinking a coffee. Mr Husband is at work, and the Little Child has been dropped off to childcare.
I feel incredibly light.
It’s an unusually good feeling.
Every so often a song plays on my iPod that instantly lifts my mood.
Music can be both a cure and a curse when it comes to mental illness. There are songs that are uplifting and empowering, the lyrics reach out, the beat is hypnotic and the tune is catchy. Then, equally there are some songs that’s can feed into your depressive episodes. They invoke your feelings and similarity the lyrics reach out to you.
I find music is a great therapy tool.
This shuffled through on my iPod and put me in a great mood. Thanks Katy Perry!
Living with a mental illness is a bit like cycling up and down hills; a challenge and after a while a pain in the ass. Or, so I like to imagine. I don’t do bicycles.
So you ride for a while and then you go up a hill, small hills are easy, bigger hills, not so much. You struggle to reach the top. At some point you need to get off your bike and push it that last part of the way. It was hard, but rewarding.
You’re at the top!
You cycle along, quite happily.
Then you see the decline coming.
You start to go down, slowly at first, but getting faster. Sometimes your breaks work and you can stop. Other times your breaks fail, and you fly down that hillside and crash at the bottom.
You lay at the the bottom for a while before you pick yourself up and limp off to recover.
You plod along, beside your bike; you sit and rest. Then you feel OK to get back on the bicycle and start again.
Then you see another hill.
And it starts again.
Today I’m sat on the hill and I can see the decline.
Not sure how long I’ll be on top of this hill.
I’m not looking forward to the ride down, that’s for sure.
I blog elsewhere, but everyone I know reads it, which is great, but at times it means I feel that I cannot open up.
So here I am.
Open.
Raw.
Anonymous.
I have a good job.
I have a great husband, who also has a good job. A demanding job.
I have an amazing child. Bright, funny, loving, and at times, a right pain in the arse.
I have a lovely, if at times dysfunctional, family.
I also have a mental illness.
I suffer with depression and anxiety, as well as PTSD, and another undiagnosed disorder.
The NHS, at this moment in time (and probably for a very long while) is underfunded, under resourced and over prescribed. I can’t remember the last time my primary care doctor reviewed me. It’s been over a year since I’ve been trying to obtain a diagnosis, being passed from doctor to doctor, service to service.
I’ve had CBT and psychotherapy for my Anxiety, Depression, which in turn led to my diagnosis for PTSD.
I have my own little pharmacy too. Again, can’t remember the last time I had a medication review. Maybe 2 years ago? Who knows. If you shake me hard enough, I’ll rattle.
It’s hard to maintain your mental health, and be a wife, a mother, an employee, a daughter, a sister, a friend, an individual.
I’m unbalanced.
Currently life is a balancing act, sometimes I keep all the balls up and going; other times I’m sat on the floor, in a mess, surrounded by balls, one or two having shattered.
This blog, is my outlet. My place where I can open up, and rant. Where I can let my feelings out without fear that someone I know is going to contact social services or call the police on me. Without worry that my colleagues will start discussing my illness amongst each other. It will have triggers for some readers who may also have mental health illnesses. Sometimes, it will be alarming.
Believe me, I may be unbalanced, but I am sane enough to know when intervention is needed.
My child, is my reason for fighting. For working hard to balance it all. My reason for living.
Today I’m fine.
Tomorrow? Who knows?
Let’s find out.
Unbalanced Mum 