Lookin’ for a Virtual Hug

It’s time I came clean with myself.

I keep deluding myself that I have Bloggers Block, and can’t think of anything to write about. That’s not really the problem. I have plenty I should be saying, and just don’t want to say it.

The simple fact is that I’m quite down at the moment about how slowly my getting better is going, and have refused to put that in writing. After I first went to see my shrink (a sentence I’m still astonished to find myself using) I felt that I was actually on the road to recovery. Of course I knew that one visit and a couple of days of new drugs weren’t going to cure me overnight. Of course I knew I had a long road ahead, but still felt really hopeful.

And, thus wearing my happy head, I’ve produced about six weeks of cheerful bloggery, some of which I’m really quite proud of, and was looking forward to continuing in this vein until my declining years (declining what, I wonder? Drink? Cigars? It?).

Of course (again) I knew there would be times when I’d feel frustrated at my slow progress, and vowed to recognise that frustration as a good sign in itself, a sign that the derealised drifting from day to day was giving way to more awareness and emotion about my illness, and therefore more awareness and emotion about life as a whole. And in general I have, even though I’ve started waking at four a.m. again, and once that happens the days just become daze. But recognising that there will be setbacks and accepting them when they come in one thing, but being happy all the time about it is enough.

So I’ve had nothing funny to say (yeah, yeah, I know), and should have been saying this instead. After all, this is my safety valve, an outlet for my frustrations, angers and fears as much as for my desire to be entertaining (one of my strongest needs, I have to admit). But I’d been enjoying writing the lighter stuff, and just didn’t want to go back to, well, whinging.

And I know you won’t all look at it like that, and I know you’ll be concerned and supportive, and I hope you all know that your encouragement really, really helps me, but I just didn’t feel like putting you all through it again.

Which was wrong. You’ve all stuck with me this long, I should have realised sooner that I could dump on you all again.

That’s what friends are for, and that’s how I think of you lot.

And I’m gonna hit publish now, before I get embarrassed about that last sentence.

Bono Vox

I’ve just heard my own voice.

With normal people this would be of  “dog bites man” newsworthiness, not quite matching, say, the first moon landing or the fall of the Berlin Wall for its capacity to enthrall and grip. But I am not normal people, and it’s the most surprising thing that’s happened to me for quite a while.

I was in a shop just now buying a pencil (look, I didn’t say everything about this story is exciting) and the assistant and I both had a look at the label below it to see how much it cost. The label was partly torn, however, and I heard my voice say “it doesn’t help much, does it?”

And it was my voice, and when I heard it I realised that it’s been a couple of years since I’ve heard it. Instead I’ve just heard this muffled, far-away, could-be-anyone voice speaking my (admittedly still sparkling) words instead of me, as if I were a paramilitary being voiced by an actor.

Now, my voice is not pretty. Had I been the narrator of Under Milk Wood when it first appeared on radio it would never have become famous. If James Earl Jones retires I am unlikely to pick up his voiceover gigs. I don’t think I’m high on the list of people they ring when they want someone to play the Voice of God. On the other hand, if the person who does Olive Oyl suddenly drops dead they may well give me a call.

But today, just for that one sentence, my slightly nasal voice with its hint of a Dublin accent was back. And I’ve never heard anything so lovely.

It’s one more sign that the real world might be coming back.

Back on the Couch, or Sofa

Went back to see my shrink in the Loony Bin again this morning.

As before, I had to wait outside his room and read his magazines. Since I was there last he’s added a Formula 1 mag (perhaps he read what I said about last time), and also a magazine called Psychologies. I had a look at it (well, it had Angelina Jolie on the cover) and found that, while the first few articles were about things to do with the mind, it then had sections about skincare, creams,  relationships, etc. In another words, it’s Woman’s Own for people with mental issues (“Schizophrenic? Crochet these TWO great outfits!”).

They have a poll for their readers, and in the issue I was reading (June 2009 – this is a Doctor’s reception, after all), they gave the result of May’s poll:

“We asked do you think that Blogging is boring or a great way of expressing yourself?

Well, 79% of you think it’s pointless, while 21% of you love it as a way to communicate.”

Nutters.

Anyhow, eventually I went in. I tried not to analyse everything as much this time, though I noticed at one stage that I had my left leg crossed so firmly that the lower half of me was practically facing behind me.

And there probably isn’t anything interesting in the fact that, while he remembered me very well and remembered all my symptoms, he couldn’t actually find the notes he took last time (it’s almost certainly not because he’s sent them to the Freud University of Psychosis in Basel, and I’m about to make him famous).

So, how am I?

Well, when I went last he put me on tablets to stop me waking at 3.30 and staying awake for the rest of the night. When I started these I also made a decision that I would not get up before 6.30 any morning, no matter when I woke. I told the office that I wouldn’t be in at seven any more and wouldn’t be the one opening up (which is going well – I come in at 8.10 some mornings and people are sitting working with just lights on over their own desks, and with the alarm ringing).

And it’s starting to work.  I used to wake at half-three & lie there thinking “oh god, it’s nearly four, and four is nearly five, and then I’ll have to get up”. Now I look at the clock, see it’s 3.30, and think “great, three hours to go”, and nearly always fall asleep again.

And I think I’m starting to get better, because I’m starting to feel worse. When you’re derealised you feel detached from everything, and the one good thing about that is, that while you know your life’s pretty miserable, you can’t really feel all that bad about it.

Over the last few weeks, though, I’ve had odd flashes where I suddenly realise “God, what I’m going through is shit“.

I think this is a good sign. I’ve never felt better about feeling crap.

Show Us Your Nuts

Any potential suspense attached to how I got on at the loony bin Psychiatrist this morning has largely been dispelled by the very existence of this post. For it’s pretty obvious that, unless I’m typing this with my nose (and God knows I wouldn’t be any slower), I am not presently  in a straitjacket.

The whole experience was, well, an experience, and oddly very enjoyable.

My preparation began subconsciously last night when, while left in the house for a while on my own, I ended up watching an episode of Monk. It was only while he was sitting with his shrink that I realised that this probably wasn’t the best thing to be watching (and also realised, sadly, that he’s one of the TV characters I most identify with). Anyway, this morning I got up (got an extra 90 minutes lie-in too) and set off for a morning of detailed analysis.

By me. Everything that happened was carefully examined to see what clues, if any, could be gleaned. What should I wear? (“Will I try and look casual, professional, frazzled”)? My appointment was in Stillorgan at 8.30, & I’d to get there by car. Since my normal trip is to the city centre at 7, and I get there by train, I’d no idea what the traffic might be like. Imagine if I got there late (“what would that tell him about me?”). To be safe I left at 7.30, and was there at ten to eight (“how anal will he think that is?”).

I went onto the building (known as the Stress Clinic), explained to the large black Security Guard who I was to see, and he escorted me (“why? because I’m dangerous?”) to a seat outside the doctor’s door. Here I suffered the only really uncomfortable experience of the whole morning – there was a girl already in with him, a girl with one of those, “like, you know, D4″ accents, and I could hear what she was saying. I thought of listening to my iPod (“what if he catches me? Will he think I’m withdrawing from reality?”) but decided instead to look at the magazines. These consisted of: 3 Hello!s, one OK!, one Look!, one Bazaar (“why doesn’t Bazaar have an exclamation mark? Is their Editor depressed?”), and a copy of the Irish Medical Journal. This told me that either (a) there are far more mad women than mad men or that (b) his secretary buys his magazines.

I flicked through a couple of these (Jennifer Aniston has a new boyfriend – who knew?) and eventually the girl came out. I met my doctor, handed over 250 euro (told you I was mad) and I was welcomed for the first time into a Psychiatrist’s room.

He sat in a chair, and I was directed to a comfy 2-seater sofa (not a couch, which I must admit, being a huge fan of stereotype, that I was slightly disappointed with). There was a five-cent coin on the seat, which had obviously fallen out the the pocket of my predecessor (“or had it? What will it tell him if I pick it up?” By now I was ridiculously paranoid). I left it there – sat on it, in fact – and in a quiet and reassuring voice he asked me to tell my story.

Which I did. He impressed me several times at his perception (when I told him about my blackout/pacemaker/heart problems, he said “ah, did they tell you it was Stokes-Adams Syndrome?”, and when I said no, they never mentioned that, he Google’d it and there it was exactly as if someone had followed me around for eighteen months).

He says I don’t have depersonalisation, I have “derealisation” (and again, Google backs him up), and has started me on tablets to try & calm inner anxieties & to combat the ridiculously small amount of sleep I get each night.

I’ve to see him again in six weeks, but I really am hopeful that he’s putting me on the right track.

Couch Potato

Bethlem Royal Hospital in London is apparently one of the foremost psychiatric hospitals in Europe. Unfortunately, because of its long and sometimes inhumane history, and because it gave us the word bedlam, it will forever be associated with the very worst type of lunatic asylum – as Wikipedia says, “the epitome of what the term “madhouse” connotes to the modern reader”.

I’m sure every city has its equivalent. In Dublin it’s St John of God Hospital. While it does  wonderful work in the field of mental health, anyone who ever grew up in Dublin shudders when they hear the words, and can still hear elderly aunts and grannies speaking of some unfortunate and saying “and the poor divil ended up in the John O’ Gods”.

I mention this because, as I wrote last week, I’ve decided to take further steps to try & rid myself of the depersonalised feeling which has dogged me for the last two years. My wonderful GP has referred me to a psychiatrist, and, because I work in the city centre, recommended me one in Exchequer Street. When I rang, though, his secretary said that he was quite heavily booked in that clinic at the moment, but that I could have an appointment next Wednesday in his other clinic.

Guess where that is. My aunts and grannies would be quite proud.

Since I’m just interested in getting better, I don’t care in the least. I actually think it’s quite funny, though Mrs Tin is a bit concerned about one thing. She knows well that I still refer to 2001, when I had a breakdown caused by stress and depression, as “the year I went mad”. One of my oldest friends is having his 50th birthday party tomorrow, and a lot of people we haven’t seen for years will be there (some of them haven’t heard the whole Tinman/blackouts/pacemaker saga yet. They have no idea of the treat they have in store).  Anyway, she has forbidden me from saying, when asked what I’m up to these days, that “I’m a mental patient in John O’Gods”.

So I won’t. Probably.

Back On the Bike

Well, I’m back at work.

My one day off was enough to at least get me back on track. I’m still going to go and see somebody about it, but at least for the moment I have the whole thing under control, even if it’s just fractionally below the surface.

Everyone here in the office thinks I had a stomach bug, apart from GoldenEyes because, well she’s my best friend in here and I wouldn’t lie to her.

So apart from her and Mrs Tin the only people who know what was really up with me are you lot (my kids think I just had a day off). As a result, I’ve discovered another good thing about blogging – you get to say things that you wouldn’t get to say to people that you know in the real world, yet there are still people who, though they’ve never met you personally, care enough about the virtual you to offer support.

Yesterday I got encouragement and good wishes from people in three different countries. It really did help, and meant a lot.

Thanks guys.

Are You Sure?

Cheltenham Borough Council is suing its former Managing Director for nearly £1 million, claiming that she hid a history of depressive illness and the fact that she was on anti-depressants when she applied for and secured her job.

Part of their argument is that Christine Laird, in a pre-employment questionnaire, answered ‘no’ to a question about whether she considered herself disabled.

Two-and-a-half years after securing the post Ms Laird went off sick, and eventually left.

When I was in New York I bought a T-Shirt that says “I lied to get the job. They lied about the job. We’re even”. I wear it at work sometimes to annoy the boss. The idea that you can be sued – not just fired, but sued – for something you say in a job application will scare the crap out of everyone who’s ever put the best possible gloss on, say, the amount of experience that they have.

The most interesting thing, though, is that the Council is essentially arguing that people with a history of depression are “disabled”. They may come to regret this argument.

If they win this case, and if the recession means that there is no work in Ireland, then the Tinfamily and I are off to Cheltenham. I’m going to drive to the Borough Council Offices, park the Tincar in a disabled parking spot, slap my packet of Cipramil on the reception desk, and demand disability allowances. (I’m also going to demand a council house, which I will let to Irish punters during Gold Cup week, using the rent that they pay me to fly to Tenerife to see if sunshine affords me any relief).

The UK Government website list a whole load of payments and Tax Credits that I might qualify for. And not just me. Six million people in the UK have a history of depression.

Cheltenham BC can recognise that depression sufferers are ill. In fact, I welcome it. But during this illness we’re expected to raise our kids, drive our cars, pay our taxes, do our jobs. And we do.

Are they sure they want to call us all disabled?

Comfortably Numb

TNG

I’ve written before about TallNeuroticGirl in our office,  a walking tornado of nervous energy on top of the longest pair of legs on the planet. I still remember the wide-eyed, open-mouthed look on the faces of Tinson2 and Tingirl when she came to vist me in hospital and talked non-stop at 100 miles-an-hour about her sleeping difficulties, the problems at work and her eating disorders.

The important part of that sentence, though, is that she did come to visit me in hospital. She is caring and sweet, and will do anything for anybody.

Yesterday she brought me out for lunch. It’s typical of her that she did that purely because I helped her with something at work last Friday that took me about two minutes.

We had a great time as she is terrific company, if only because she is always either talking or asking questions. She told me a lot about her own issues (she was off work for over six months last year with stomach problems) and quizzed me about mine. I told her about the numbness, and that I think it’s something called Depersonalization Disorder.

“I think I’ve read something about that,” she said. Within ten minutes of us getting to the office she had sent me five links to sites she had found, emailed a neurosurgeon friend of her dad’s to ask did he know anything about it, and contacted a Cognitive Behavioral Therapist asking for information.

Then I got an email from her that said

“I remember now the case last year”, with this link:

http://www.breakingnews.ie/ireland/mhauqlgbeyid/

When I had read this I went round to her desk (she works about five feet away, but will carry out twenty minute conversations with you by eMail) and said “how is that meant to make me feel better”?

“Dunno,” she said, “I just wanted you to know that other people suffer from it too”.

Thanks for that, TNG.

Brain of Fog, Feet of Clay

Like I said, I Googled a few things yesterday to see if I could find out more about this permanently cloudy feeling I have in my head. A thing called “Depersonalisation Disorder” sounded just right, but every article I read about it said it was caused by “severe emotional abuse during childhood”, and while I know people can suppress things, that just did not happen.

Then I found articles about something called “Brain Fog”. There was a Wikipedia article, which I ignored, and then a post called, simply,  “Brain Fog”, by Lawrence Wilson MD. A Doctor! I promptly started to read.

It began well enough. The symptoms sounded right, and the first few possible causes seemed plausible, indeed obvious. Clearly this man was to be my saviour.

After a while I became a bit concerned at how many causes there seem to be – if Doc Wilson is right, everyone on earth should eventually catch it from some cause or other. I was also worried at references to “our article on..” and “…such as the tape we offer”.

I was startled more than anything else by his recommendation of detox methods such as “sauna therapy, colonic irrigation and coffee enemas“, especially when he went on to say that “coffee enemas are particularly helpful and better than drinking coffee”, and that he himself was helped greatly by their use. The only possible use that I can think of for a coffee enema is if I wanted to break Bill Withers’ record for the longest single note in the song “Lovely Day” which, now that I think of it, was used in an ad for coffee, so perhaps that’s how he did it. Coffee keeps your mind active for hours after you drink it. And Larry wants you to stick it up your bum?

Our final parting of the ways, though, came when he said that “much of the prevailing wisdom taught in schools, churches, by parents or in the media is quite insane”. Insane? Misguided, some of it, certainly, but hardly insane. Larry gives examples, though, including this one:

“You may have learned that guns in private hands are bad, yet statistics clearly prove they save thousands of lives every year. They are also statistically extremely safe, safer than driving and much, much safer than going to a doctor.”

At this point I put down my mouse and tiptoed backwards away from the keyboard.

He’s right, though. Owning a gun would be much, much safer than going to him.

He can stick his advice where he puts his coffee.

A Head Full of Cloud

Well, that was fun.

I’m more or less back to normal after the worst attack of depression that I’ve had for a couple of years now. It began on Tuesday morning, just after a meeting which I would describe merely as frustrating. I made a good job of putting my case across, but didn’t feel that I’d managed to persuade my boss of all the benefits of what I was proposing. But it wasn’t an angry or upsetting meeting, and I was quite fine as I went back to my desk.

And then everything collapsed. I just sat there, unable to do anything, feeling that it was all pointless, and so was I.  I couldn’t concentrate, the noise of ordinary people speaking in ordinary tones seemed hurtfully loud. At the same time, the cloud of cotton wool that I’ve had in my brain since last summer seemed to get larger and more enveloping. At one stage I spoke to someone but even as I was talking I had no idea what I was saying. In a dim corner of my mind I was very afraid that I might say anything at all, that I’d come out with something so outrageous that there’d be no way too save my job after it.  I was also afraid that I’d panic, that I’d start shouting or, worse still – for a bloke -  crying. The only way to hide it was to sit in my cubicle, staring straight at my screen, keeping away from all contact with anyone.

This is not easy anymore. Before I started this job I worked on my own, and when things got really bad I’d hide away in my office (during one really bad bout I didn’t go to work until 5 every evening and stayed till 10.30, so I didn’t even have to talk to people on the phone). In my new job I work with 160 other people, and hiding away is just not possible. GoldenEyes and Blondiebird, my two best friends in there, know enough about my situation to leave me be, but other people that I’d meet in the kitchen or in the loo kept asking me was I ok, and this just made things worse. Being told to cheer up, it might never happen, is no great help when you know it’s never going to happen but are depressed anyway.

It’s also getting harder as the Tinkids get older to keep it from them. I just kept going to bed first thing in the evening, telling them that I was very tired from getting up early (this part at least was true – I was getting up at five and getting the first train to work, since I was awake at four every morning). I heard Tinson2 asking MrsTin what was wrong with me though, and I know he’s just sensitive enough to think I was angry at something the kids had done, and that just broke my heart.

Then, on Thursday morning I got a bit of unexpected help when my third best work pal, SuperSlimMum (pregnant again and thinner than Posh Spice) arrived in the office just after me and smiled hello. When I was unable to smile back she asked what was wrong and, rather to my surprise, I told her. She amazed me by telling me that she’s had depression since she was 22, is on the same tablets as me, and was very bad all through her first pregnancy as she gave up all medication. She knows about ten times as much about all this as I do, and talking to her set me on the first steps back to feeling better.

So we’ve set up a kind of support group for each other. Mrs Tin and my other friends are all very supportive, but SSM knows what I’m going through, and it’s a great help.

One thing she keeps at me about though, is the cloud in my head. In the middle of last summer, during all my blackouts, I started to feel as my head was full of cotton wool, that everything is happening far away, that I’m living my life but not involved with it. She says that’s a symptom and can be cured, and she wants me to ‘get help’.

And she’s going to keep at me till I do. Which is good, because I’d kind of come to accept it, though I hated the fact that it’s ruining any pleasure in life. I was half afraid that I’d damaged my brain in some way during the periods when my heart wasn’t beating. Now I’ve Googled the thing, found that things like Brain Fog and Depersonalisation Disorder, do exist, and though there are many possible causes, what I’m suffering can hopefully be fixed.

That won’t cure the depression. But if it means that I can sit and chat with my friends again and actually feel like I’m taking part, then I’ll settle for that to begin with.