Three months' grace

According to my latest depression test sheet (yes, they really do have these, I'm not kidding) I am now a 6. This means that I am officially well. Of course, what it doesn't mean is that I would continue to be well if I stopped taking the drugs, but I can take three months off between appointments. This is both good (money) and bad (no excuse to sneak off to town without the kids), but ultimately should be a good sign. The shrink made me laugh - bloody scientists - spent half the session wondering if there was a way of manipulating my drug regime to find out whether I am bi- or unipolar, for no reason other than that he wanted to know. Never mind the fact that it could send me spiralling into another deep depression, oh no - he wanted the information. Fortunately he changed his mind in the end, and decided it was probably not worth the risk. Thanks a ton.

CBT tomorrow. My homework from last time was to think of all the markers I can for when I am becoming depressed or manic. All those little behavioural cues that, if only I were more aware of them, could make me go "oooooh, hang on a minute". I had fun making that list, especially with the mania such a recent and vivid memory. It made me realise again how a large part of me loves feeling high. Mostly the part below my waist.

Touchdown

And the tips of my metaphorical toes are on the ground. It was quite gentle in the end - it seems we got the drugs right, thank god.

I'm already feeling nostalgic for the mania though. I get so much done, and I am just SO DAMN SEXY! It's hard to go back to the mundane, the normal, the plain and ordinary. I feel just a little bit less alive like this. I can understand why people with bipolar disorder are notoriously bad at taking their meds. If it wasn't for the danger of crashing while looking after children I would be off them myself. Another thing to add to the list of "stuff to do when the kids leave home" - it's getting really long.

The pieces of me

I feel as though I am a loaf of bread, torn into pieces and distributed between too many people. No-one knows what the whole loaf looks like; no-one has the whole picture.

I am losing track of who knows what, and how much detail, and I am starting to feel like my head might explode from trying to keep everything straight. Why can there be no single person that I can tell everything to. Like an anchor holding me steady – reminding me of the shape of my soul, my memory.

It's official

Just back from the shrink with a diagnosis of mania. How exciting. So much more exciting than the hypomania I had last time. Can you spot the deliberate sarcasm?

Time to tweak the drugs, in the hope that stuffing me full of depakote will bring me back down and yet somehow not render me entirely bald. If it doesn't work then we will need to think about lowering the antidepressant. A little counterintuitive, since I have depression, but there you have it. These things seem to be a bit of a balancing act.

Even more interestingly the doc seems to think that I may actually be properly bipolar, as opposed to being made so by the meds. Cue a lifetime of taking cocktails of different drugs and swinging around all over the place like a yoyo. If I wasn't finding everything so bloody hilarious then I'd be far more concerned. As it is nothing is touching sides right now. Ha-de-bloody-ha - gotta love mania!

Oh bugger

Oh crap, I've gone high again. After a week or so where I was extremely productive and yet somehow didn't need to eat or sleep there is no getting away from the fact that I am erring on the manic side. This is not good. The new mood stabiliser didn't give me the skin of a smallpox sufferer, but it caused enough side effects to be ruled out as an alternative after just four days of trying, and now it would seem that the depakote just can't cut the mustard any more. Off to the doc on friday to see what we can figure out. In the meantime I am nibbling away at valium tablets to try and stave off the inevitable crash, while still retaining an ability to drive a car and look after children.

I really really thought that it wouldn't happen again - that we had it sorted after last time. I'm actually scared for the first time in months, and I am not enjoying the experience.

Homework

My CBT homework for this week was to think about the standards that I have set for myself and how their attainment (or not) affects my mood. Here we are then - my soul, laid bare. Be gentle.

I should want to spend more time with my children:

I really try hard with this one because I feel that they can tell I don’t really want to be with them. It is the constant demands that I find so draining, especially when we are all together and I am the default option. I feel like shouting “you have TWO parents!” at them, and sometimes I do. This makes me feel worse - they probably only had a simple request - but I find it very hard to be at their beck and call constantly.

I should enjoy spending time with my husband:

This is a tricky one. I’m not sure how much of this comes from me and how much comes from him. Given half the chance I would probably disappear every evening and sew or something. I feel that the closer he tries to get to me the more I pull away.

I should be able to look after my children by myself:

Because other people can, and I have to be at least as good, if not better, than everyone I know.

I should be having better sex:

Because other people are. Allegedly.

I should be happier:

I have a good life, a husband who loves me, three healthy kids, and yet I have depression. I should slap myself around the face a few times and get over it.

Everything I do should be perfect:

I’m getting a little less strict about this one, but things still have to be pretty near perfect. If they aren’t I point out their inadequacies to every one who cares to look.

I should know everything without being told:

Because "I am a genius", and that’s what clever people do. Clearly this gets me into some sticky situations because I don’t actually know everything. I will pretend damn hard though, given half the chance.

Back to the therapist tomorrow. I'm nervous.

Out with the old

I've been on a downswing lately. Nothing too major: just difficulty sleeping, eating, smiling, and tolerating the husband and children. It could be a response to being back in the thick of things after having a few days to myself. According to the pshrink it could be a result of lowering the depakote. Who knew - it stops you being depressed as well as manic - clever stuff. It's all change on the drug front now - switching to some other mood stabiliser that has the delightful side-effect of giving 25% of users a horrible skin rash. Not to be a pessimist, but you just know I will be in that 25%, right? So, the hair will grow back (curly, apparently) but I will look like a pizza-faced teenager. Cool.

I went to see a new therapist this week. He replaces the previous one who spent pretty much every session talking about her kids, and which school they went to, and how generally fantastic she was with all her other patients. And for this I was paying her? The new guy most certainly is not in the chatty category. Excellent. He doesn't even seem to want to know what has been going on in my life. I was delighted because, for me, the worst part about starting with a new therapist is having to begin at the beginning.

The other good thing about him was that he seemed to have me sussed within about ten minutes, putting into words all those amorphous feelings about my depression that have been floating around for so long. The guilt, the high expectations of myself, the disappointment. It seems that my depression stems largely from having my autonomy curtailed. I couldn't agree more. Given half the chance I would run for the hills and stay there for a long time. Well, probably the beach actually. Unfortunately (or not) there are three small people that persist in calling me mum, and I am actually quite fond of them. Bollocks - I really should have considered this reproduction thing more carefully.