The Not

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.

Freebird

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. 

Uplift

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!

  

Cycling

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.

In The Beginning

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.