bounce

First I was bad. Then I was great. Now I'm just in limbo. And by that I don't mean the fun game played with a broomstick. I mean that awful nothing state, where the slightest push can send me rocketing either way. It's like being on the crest of a rollercoaster and knowing that the plummet to darkness is just a millimetre away. I feel like if I try hard enough I will be able to get the happy place back.

The three day Ignite Your Life course was amazing. It inspired me, and challenged me, and since then I've been feeling more positive and worthwhile and able to change. I've been less depressed, not at all suicidal and had more energy. Until... Until. Until. Until. There's always an "until" isn't there? Or an "and then/but then". I'm so grateful for the two and a half weeks of strength and sanity but WHY does it have to end? Monday morning dawned and my old friend lethargy was back, with apathy and self-loathing not far behind. Of course I could have, and should have, used the strategies I learned in the course to change my mental state and try to motivate myself... Instead I spent the next two days in bed feeling the old depression envelop me. I guess I felt comforted in some way, it's easier to slip back into old patterns than try to develop new ones, right?

I'm frustrated that I am not "cured".

I know that it's impossible, but I still kind of wanted it.

Even though I am the first to tell people you need to work hard at recovery and illness management, in the end I am a lazy SOB who wanted an easy way out.

The teachers I met at Ignite Your Life would say I'm using the mental illness, depression, suicide "game" to try and gain attention, connection with others, and self-worth. They're right, because while I definitely have mental illness, it's my choice how that illness manifests itself and how far I let it take hold of my life. I definitely had a choice Monday morning and I made the choice to remain trapped in the depression cycle.

All I can do now is try to switch my mental state and embrace happy, energising, positive thoughts. Which might be (IS!) tiring, but is certainly within my capabilities. I'll let you know how it goes :-D

down among the dead men

Sometimes it's a hard life. I'm really struggling today, and had to take not one but two Valium in order to calm myself down enough to stay at work. All I could think about was running away. Pills, alcohol, car accidents, suicide, hospitals. Now, in the deadened calm of the diazepam, I just feel hollow and numb. Relief. I've been listening to some comedy TV shows on my iPhone to try and penetrate the gloom. Thankfully, I have my monthly appointment with Doc A this afternoon so am leaving work an hour early. I'm going to ask for more Valium (he reluctantly gave me a 20 tablet script last month which I haven't used yet but I'm worried I am going to need more). I'm wondering if he'll offer me more Cymbalta, as I'm on 90mg daily and there's evidence a higher dose might work better. I think I need a referral to a psychologist to work more intensely on CBT.

The suicidal ideation and self-harm is a real concern for me. It's been getting worse over the last few weeks. The other day I gathered all the pills in the house (and there are a lot, as Neil's mum gives us packets of her prescription-only high strength pain medication - don't ask me why!) and seriously considered taking them. I wanted to sleep forever, or end up away from everything in hospital. I'm annoyed with myself for the urge to run away. In the end, I could not do that to Neil. His dad gassed himself in the family car when Neil was in his 20s and ten years later his brother eventually hung himself after a few attempted overdoses. When he finally succeeded, it was Neil who went around to the house and found his brother's body. I just can't do that to him again. He deserves better than me. I wish I was healthy for him as well as for me.

I wonder what he must really think of me, now that we live together and he sees my daily struggle. Struggle to get out of bed, wash, dress, go to work, cook, clean, converse... Do I remind him of his dead brother, weak father, depressed mother... Does he compare me to his previous crackpot girlfriends... I don't doubt he loves me, but I worry sometimes how easy it is for pity to creep in.

Flash 'n the Pan had a hit in 1978 with a song by the same title as this post.

Mad Cow

I wrote a post yesterday which I then deleted. It's the first time I've done that, and some of you have asked about the missing entry. I guess it was clear from the couple of lines you could read that it was a low-mood mopey post, and those reading regularly will know anyway that I've been somewhat under the weather.

Once I'd written the post, I published it and then went to read it over for editing. Put simply, it sucked. It whined on about how attached I am to being ill, and how I feel envious of my blog friends who are currently "worse off" than me (with regards to ED, or being in hospital, etc). Utter crap, something I felt for a minute and then pretty much "got over". One thing I've learnt about myself is that I don't need to give voice to every thought and feeling I have. Some of them just aren't worth the air time. And that's what was going on yesterday. Even if I am feeling low, intellectually I know that I am okay and surviving, and I don't want to be in the grips of a fullblown BPD attack or major depression. I feel extremely sympathetic for my friends who have recently suffered relapses.

Today, I'm mostly just tired and lethargic. But, contrary to what was said in my previous/deleted post, I am not too tired to keep fighting. If fighting the good fight is all there is, then so be it. What are the alternatives? None.

we wear our bruises like watermarks

Thank you so much to be darling friends for your comments previously. I wish I could say things have improved. They are made markedly worse, at the least complicated, by the re-appearance of my lupus in a hideous whole body flare that threatens to render me inert. (FYI - Lupus, or Systemic Lupus Eurythematosus is an autoimmune disorder, whereby the body's immune system attacks itself, eg: organs, joints, skin, rather than attacking external threats like bacteria or viruses. It's usually hereditary and incurable).

I'm not foolish enough to gloss over the connection...mind/body medicine is one of the things that cured my fibromyalgia (kind of similar to chronic fatigue and sometimes connected with lupus) and helped control my lupus, so I know that what I think and feel is reflected in my physical wellbeing. The fact that I've been struggling with some emotional issues has left me fatigued and rundown, and a perfect target for a lupus flare. So far it has shown up as joint pain (particularly my hands and right knee), constant nausea and neck pain. I'm lucky, in that my degree of lupus is very mild (so far). I am medicated for it, which helps, and thus far my autoimmune system hasn't attacked any serious organs. I know people who have kidney and liver or heart disease from lupus, and people who have lost eyesight and mobility. My paternal grandmother died because of it.

Anyway. I am now feeling even sorrier for myself, and struggling even more to maintain a positive outlook. I am even tireder than I was when my problems were "just" mental/emotional. The way I beat fibromyalgia and controlled my lupus in 2005 when I was first diagnosed was through fairly strict mind/body medicine - predominantly meditation and diet, as well as the medication.

I just don't think I have the energy it will take to get well again.

Last time I was ill, my mental state was strong, I was in (what seemed then to be) a supportive marriage, I was barely working in a casual job. Basically, I had a lot in the positives column. Now...it seems like things were just starting to take shape for me in my new work/home, and BANG, life throws me a curve ball. Ain't it always the way.

Neil is even more concerned than before, now I'm even more bedridden and exhausted and complaining. I have to make an appointment to see my specialist and find out if my medication needs changing. There really is only one medication for lupus (Plaquenil) but maybe I need more, or something new might have become available. I was so complacent and cocky... I thought I had the lupus whipped.

My mental state has kind of taken a back seat at the moment. I'm feeling okay, coping mostly with work and getting on well with my adorable man. Big picture is kind of blurry. Finer points are kind of rough round the edges. I haven't felt BPD-ish for quite some time, which is mostly (I think) due to the basic CBT/DBT I have ingrained in me, as well as the medication and a strong relationship based on honesty and boundaries. But the scary part is, I feel like I may be slowly unravelling. If I have lost control of my physical health, is my mind the next thing to go??

Title from Perth band Birds of Tokyo's song "Plans".

fear is the heart of love

So much has changed over the last six weeks. Left my job, got a new one. Left my house, got a new one. Left my independent life, became a live-in girlfriend. Not all of it's been easy. In fact, most of it has been fracking hard. I feel like I'm treading water, waiting for my feet to be able to touch bottom, but all there is down there is a vast, terrifying, murky depth. Honestly, I don't know how long I can keep my head above water. Being mad is all very well when you live alone and work only three days a week. There's a lot of time leftover for retreating to bed with the sheets pulled up over my throbbing, pounding, naysaying head. These days I have to be awake, showered, dressed (and not just in sweat pants or a sarong) and ready to face the world by 6.45am. Neil asks me if I have had breakfast (puke at the thought), made lunch (ditto), tells me to have a great day. Without fail, I spend the entire hour and a half journey to work thinking how I can get out of going, or how I can be well enough to not be in one of the hospitals I pass, or what food I can binge on or junk I can purchase to cheer myself up. I am no sicker than before this all began. Mostly, I manage to feel "normal" and complete a day's work. But there's no doubt that the extra social pressure takes its toll. For most of the weekend I collapse thankfully into sleep or junk-TV watching. I eat entire packets of chocolate biscuits then berate myself for being so fat, lazy, unmotivated, hideous, ill, ill, ill. Neil asks me, fearfully, if I've taken my medication. Yes, yes, yes, but I am still mad, you see. The medication takes the sharp edges off but you can still be hurt by the blunt ones. My things arrived at Neil's two weeks ago and are still half-packed. I don't have enough cupboard space for my clothes, pantry room for my food, bookshelves for my books. My belongings randomly overflow out of boxes like the disjointed conversations I have with people at work. Nothing makes sense, there's no rhyme nor reason, no place for my Big Ole Crazy to be. I miss having space. I miss having peace and quiet and nothingness. It was easier to convince people I was okay when I didn't actually have to see them. I don't know if I can do this. But I am still here, trying. Title post from Death Cab For Cutie's "I Will Follow You Into The Dark"

just a jump to the left

And then a step to the right. To and fro, up and down, here and there. Life is a comedy of swings and roundabouts lately, and if I didn't know better I would wonder if I were experiencing a mixed episode... Recently I spent the majority of ten days in bed, paralysed with the crippling grief of depression and swallowed whole by a black cloud. An appointment with Doc A (the first one in 3 months due to his vacation) had me upping my Cymbalta meds and since then things have improved. But one of the things I instigated while I was languishing in my depressive episode was to quit my job.

Rather than it being an impulsive act, or the result of a breakdown, I decided to quit because my job has steadily become too easy, too boring, too pointless, too... well, too simple to just not go. There are a lot of positives, and they were very kind to me last year when I had my month of mental health leave, but in the end it was time for me to move on. I've decided to look for full-time work, which is terrifying but necessary. I need money. I need private health insurance, and to pay $500 to finalise my divorce. I need a decent haircut and colour. I need new shoes. I've been finding it increasingly impossible to live on the part-time wage I was receiving, so I have to at least TRY to work more hours. I've done it before, and I believe that if I find a job that's halfway interesting and productive I will be happy to go full-time. Even if it's just for six months or a year until I get ahead again.

I can't lie, though, it's a scary proposition. I am used to having four days a week to spend in bed recovering from working three days. I am used to a slack workplace that expects very little where I can (as I am now!!) check blogs, write emails and apply for other jobs without anyone commenting. Bring it on, though. I kind of look forward to having expectations placed upon me, I almost believe that I will rise to the occasion and perform as required. At the moment, even though so little is required of me, I still languish in depression and lazy bed-ridden-ness. My mum made the point that I may as well "die trying"!! If I am going to have a massive meltdown why not do it while earning stacks of money and doing a high-faluting job??

Thus far, I've had a few interviews and been offered one job which seemed to be nearly as boring as the one I have now. I have until March 3 at my current position, so there's time to find something. Neil and I are going to Melbourne tomorrow for a few days holiday, which I am SO looking forward to. I get to introduce him to my friend H, and we are going to a great zoo over there which has open range safari type landscape with African animals. My parents paid for the plane tickets as a Christmas present, and Neil has saved up the spending money as I am ridiculously poor )-: I am looking forward to the break, and some time spent with my lovely boy. We had a great Valentine's yesterday, went out for dinner and talked about possibly moving in together at some stage over the next few months. YIKES!! Big changes!

forever is a long, long time when you lost your way

Today's post title is from my favourite Guitar Hero song "Lasso" by Phoenix. My roommate Michelle bought a Nintendo Wii a few weeks back and it's really been more fun that I imagined. I am especially loving the music games, as I am a frustrated karaoke queen, and am a lot better on guitar than I thought I'd be. It's nice just to kick back and have fun with Michelle anyway. We realised yesterday that we've been living in our skanky Juliette Lewis duplex for a year now -- and so much has changed during that time. We were both single back then, and now are seeing really great guys, and we were both in a more precarious mental state than we are (mostly!) now. I think living there has been good for me, she definitely inspired me to start internet dating and look how well THAT turned out.

Neil and I are still blissing out on each other and having a lot of fun. We've been extremely social lately, having had two weddings, a hen's/buck's night and a 40th birthday to go to. They were all his friends, of whom he has many, but I'm starting to feel like I fit in with them and they're all pretty welcoming. Neil also rocks because he bought me some new clothes to wear for all these outings as I was feeling a bit "blah" about my wardrobe. He earns a lot more than me, but I still felt uncomfortable about him spending money on me... His previous girlfriend scored a new car from him, as well as a stack of other stuff she didn't deserve (miaow! LOL) and I don't want to be perceived like her. She was very materialistic, from what I can gather. My oldest friend once worked with this girl (as well as with Neil) and she doesn't have a high opinion of her. I think that my struggle to be accepted by Neil's 19 year-old son is proving to be difficult partly because of the last girlfriend.

Although work, family, friends and love life seem to be stable and nice, there are still more moments of panic/black-hole-ness than I would like. I guess it's called recovery for a reason, not "all-better-now". I had to take a Valium at work the other day, for the first time in months, which certainly worked and helped chill me out for the day so I could get through it. But I was disappointed that my regular medication, and the mental effort I am expending on "being normal", wasn't sufficient to keep the nasty away. I had bad PMT as well this month, which is common but annoying. It makes me irritable and shaky as well as the physical aches, cramps and tiredness. Neil knows about most of my mental history, and Doc A, and the meds, but I try not to always be harping on about it. He lost two close family members to suicide, and I feel so damnably guilty and selfish whenever I want to whinge about my low mood. Being with Neil has definitely shown me another side to mental illness, the survivor's side, and Michelle and I often have to adapt our conversation or anecdotes out of respect for his experience. We have both attempted suicide, and have regular suicide ideation (as Doc A would say), but try not to express it when Neil is around. He knows I have been down that road, but I figure he doesn't need reminding of it.

All in all, life is wonderful yet comes with its own minor pitfalls. I'm navigating them...so far... Being around someone kind and loving definitely helps, even though it adds a social pressure to my life in some ways. I am worried about my eating though, and my consequent weight issues. Neil loves his food, and also loves shopping, and those two things are high on my binge-list. I have to try and maintain the weight loss I achieved through my weight loss surgery three years ago, even if I can't manage to lose the rest of the excess weight. I don't want a repeat of the Mr Ex scenario where we both gained 50kg while we were together. No sir, no way.

the costume makes the clown

Over the weekend Neil and I went to a costume party held by a friend from work. It went really well, and I will attach a photo at the bottom of this post so you can see me as Queen Victoria and Neil as a hunky King Arthur.

Getting the costume organised was a moment of stress for me. The invitation called for us to dress as someone famous (dead) from history, and all of the people I could think of were either men or old ladies. Apart from people like Audrey Hepburn and Marilyn Monroe, who I knew were already coming to the party, and who I could not really hope to emulate due to their amazing sexiness and style. We went to a huge costume store near the city and rather than let us browse the costumes and choose, the staff asked what costume we wanted and then found it for us. Consequently, I ended up with the ugliest, most shapeless dress you ever saw, which was kind of a Gone With The Wind dress but they said it was okay for Queen Victoria (one of my ideas). I was extremely depressed when I tried it on, as it made me look hideous. There I was surrounded by sexy Catwoman, French maid, school girl type costumes and gorgeous skinny women trying them on, and I was wearing a black polyester sack. Ugh. It came with a hoop petticoat, which did NOT help, and they gave me a weird gold headband crown. In the end, I decided to just take the outfit and try to dress it up a bit. It seemed clear from the attitude of the staff and the other customers that there weren’t a lot of options for plus size costumes… The staff member asked me “What size ARE you?” and when I told her, two other customers turned and stared at me. It reminded me of the embarrassment I had shopping for a wedding dress (when I was even heaiver than I am now), when I ended up getting a dress made for me as the stores were so rude.

Anyway. I guess it reminded me that it's nice to have control over our lives in some ways (like choosing every day what we wear, and making ourselves happy and comfortable with fashion) and when we have to step out of that zone it can be confronting. I hardly ever feel that crippling low-self-esteem these days… being loved/desired has done wonders for me in that area. But I had a rough day at the costume shop. Neil kept telling me to try and find something else, but I really just gave up. I felt like I was being punished for not losing more weight after my surgery and not making an effort. In the end, I found a purple crown and sceptre/wand in Toys R Us and also some rocking elbow-length velvet gloves that cheered me up! I think the costume ended up a success, even though the party was full of fabulous Audreys and Marilyns I didn’t feel too bad.

should be hoping but I can't stop thinking

No matter how much I think I've changed, or "recovered", there's always the Big Dark hovering the background waiting to devour. Lately it's been creeping around making its evil presence felt in subtle ways. A couple of episodes of binge eating. Some temper tantrums. Shortness of breath, tightness of chest. Whether it can be blamed on PMS or the medication change is something that will come to light in time, but the overall negativity of mood at the moment is scaring me shitless. Housemate Michelle said to me last night "What's your problem, you've got a job, somewhere to live, a boyfriend..." and although it was said entirely in jest, she really has a point. Outwardly, there is no reason for my uneasy feeling. No external trigger for these nerves that are starting to stretch out like barbed wire.

I am considering going back on the antipsychotic, Solian. I definitely wonder if the binge eating is related to going off the meds, as one of the main reasons for Doc A prescribing it was to help with my eating. I've started "inhaling" food again, instead of maintaining mindfulness and enjoying food in a relaxed and slow way. I ate a huge bag of potato chips in less than half an hour on Monday, and then polished off a number of chocolate bars. It reminded me of the bad old days before my weight loss surgery when I would regularly binge like that. I have no idea what triggered it, if anything. Although there have been some nasty thoughts hovering around lately.

As much as I am happy and in love, and definitely feel "loved", part of me wonders when it will all start to go bad. When Neil will see how pathetic and ugly I am, when he will realise the huge mistake he's made, when he will run away and never look back. It's a constant struggle to keep these stupid, pointless, damaging, groundless fears at bay. If a short time passes when we don't have sex, I think "It's the beginning of the end, he's gone off me already." If he doesn't text me until lunchtime I think "Remember the beginning of our relationship, when the first thing he did every morning was text?" Who am I to second guess and question such a decent and honest man?? I don't deserve him if I'm going to act in such a self-destructive way.

One of the things I constantly say, and believe, is that relapse is part of recovery. I suppose this is one of those moments of relapse, when old habits and thought patterns threaten to sabotage my current happiness. I'm trying so hard not to be terrified that the Cymbalta is losing effectiveness, and that another breakdown is imminent. So far I am managing to keep up at work, and still show a fairly cheerful front to Neil and everyone else. The Big Crazy is still held at bay, which is something positive I suppose. While I maintain control, and have insight, I have hope that I will get through this time of darkness.

*Post title is from This Woman's Work (Kate Bush) - melancholy as suits my mood...

love and other bruises

One of the issues I'm fighting on a daily basis, having started to expose my body to another human being again, is my self-loathing, which can verge on the pathological. As lots of my readers know, I had weight loss surgery 2 and a half years ago and since then have lost 100 pounds. I still have at least 50 pounds to lose before I'm even close to "ideal weight" for my height, and sadly most of those extra pounds have formed a tight knit association with my thighs. I lost more from my upper half, especially chest region more's the pity, so now I have a disturbingly pear-shaped body. But, as I know, as I tell myself over and over and over again, it's better to be lighter and healthier and I wouldn't want to be 370 pounds again. At least it's gone, even though it took my impressive chest with it.

One of the things I find interesting and appealing about the new bloke, Lloyd, is that he had weight loss surgery last April. He's lost even more weight than I have, and is doing amazingly well and is terribly "gung ho" about weight loss. He inspires me to want to lose more, and is encouraging, but part of me wonders when it will be okay for me to just BE. To finally learn to love myself and my body, without planning umpteen ways in which to change and improve it. Where does the balance lie between wanting to be fitter and healthier and thinner and wanting to unconditionally love myself? Where does that balance lay for Lloyd?? I understand that I'm not happy with myself, or my body, so it makes sense that he would be encouraging me to lose weight if it's something I want. But what if I can't, won't, don't lose more weight? What if it's more important to put my energy into accepting myself for the flawed and fat person I genuinely am? When does it become okay to just relax and let the flab fall where it may?

I've struggled with this question so much, for so many years, but the issue is more acute now I share my physical being with another person. I suppose I open myself up to opinion, comment and yes, criticism, by bearing my body and soul to him. Don't get me wrong, he doesn't judge me or criticise my weight, and if anyone knows what it's like to be obese it's Lloyd. Which kind of makes it harder, you know... if he understands how much a person can loathe themselves, why can't he just worship me for who I am right now? To answer my own question, he does worship me, but he is unfailingly honest and upfront about everything - weight included. Would I prefer that he lie to me about my weight the way Mr Ex did, even as I slowly killed myself with food? No. No, no no.

The last week has been especially hard, hormonally challenged as I am, and I cried in front of him for the first time. He was brilliant, empathetic without being patronising, but not even being cared for in that way could ease the intense loathing I felt at the moment for my scarred and ugly body. I wish there was a pill I could take for self-hatred, a potion that could render me carefree and confident. I worry sometimes that even if/when I lose the next 50 pounds I will still feel like the fat failure. That's the problem with mirrors in the mind, I suppose.

til you lost me there in the open road*

Mr Ex came over yesterday, to have his weekly custody visit with The Dog. I'd planned to bring up the D.I.V.O.R.C.E. last week, but he played the Deadbeat Dad and didn't show for the visit. I knew Dr A would chew me out if I saw him this week having still not broached the D-subject with Mr Ex so I bit the bullet and said, ever-so-casually "So, I've been finding out about how to start divorce proceedings".

I swear, he was surprised.

We've lived apart for well over a year, and except for a handful of social gatherings the only time we've spent together is when he picks up or drops off The Dog. He's never mentioned reconciling, apart from immediately after I told him to move out, and has made no effort to win me back in any traditional (or, indeed, visible) ways. But he seemed shocked that I would actually download and print out paperwork to officially end this thing. Weird. Although, having said that, I became hollow and teary after he left. Even though I don't want to be in any kind of relationship with anyone, and certainly think it's best for me & Mr Ex to not be married, I was struck by the inevitable wave of sorrow that true endings bring. For a long, long time our marriage was good, and for almost all the eleven years we've been together our relationship/friendship has been rock solid. We just aren't meant to be married.

This has been a truly tough week. My friend Michelle, my only regular-contact friend, has decided she doesn't want to continue bowling in our team, and as bowling is my only social outlet/hobby, it's kind of devastating. I'm trying to decide whether to find another team, but given that I have only ever bowled with Michelle, I think most of my enjoyment in bowling has been in spending time with her. I understand her reasons, and most of the time I manage to not take it personally, but it's just one more hit in a week when the hits just keep coming. Dr A rang me just now to reschedule today's appointment to Wednesday, and had I told him even one of the things I've dealt with over the last 2 weeks he would not have rescheduled. I told him everything was fine, showed some High-Functionin' Flair, and now have to struggle along. I knew he would only ask me to reschedule if someone was in a major crisis, so how could I be petty? There are a great many folk worse off than me, even if I am having a tough week lol. I think I am going to have a bath, make a cup of tea and read my new book. It's not a permanent replacement for therapy, but it's okay by me.

(*today's post title is from Tori Amos' A Sorta Fairytale)