Break from the big smoke

Earlier this week I had a bit of a blip. Following on from the appointment with the CMHT, being admitted to their services, being started on lithium by the psych, having a referral sent off to the substance misuse people and having a risk assessment with the CPN, I decided to scarper.

 In short, I ran away. Away from London, away from Camden, away from uni and lectures and research, away from my GP and newly found CPN and psych, away from Rich, away from my parents. In essence I thought I could escape my life so I ran away to the city I did my under-grad degree at. I told the university I am ill, they said if I was still off next week (i.e. tomorrow) then I need to post a sick note, I said not a problem.

I’m crashing on a friend’s sofa. She is worried about me and wants me to go to A&E/GP and explain everything. The lithium is making me feel terrible and I can’t hack it so I swear to myself every morning that I won’t take it and then half an hour later my moods are so bizarre that I take the tablet, just to hope that the stabilising effect kicks in. The venlafaxine is still keeping my weight in check and every so often I up the dose to lose more weight and then decrease it again. I am running out of temazepam and tramadol but I don’t care, well I do care but I’m telling myself I don’t care. I need another prescription for the venlafaxine and a blood test for the lithium and a script for zopiclone but I don’t wat to go to a GP as a temporary patient and explain everything and set the alarm bells off.

My parents know that I am not at home in London, but they think I am at a friend’s in London – they don’t know I’m skipping uni. Rich knows I am in a different city but thinks I am coming back on Wednesday. In truth, I don’t know when I am coming back, if I ever will go back to London.

 I don’t know what to do. I feel like running again, maybe to Scotland, maybe abroad on a cheap flight (I have my passport). I feel like changing my identity, but then I can’t change me or my history. I don’t know what is happening anymore and I don’t feel in control.

And trust me, a self-harming, bulimic, drug addict control-freak who feels out of control is not a good bloody feeling.

Ruth

Nearly 1000 hits!

Gosh, I’ve only been writing this blog for just over a month and I’ve got nearly 1,000 hits. That may not be a lot compared with the great and good established bloggers but I’m amazed that anyone wants to read this blog, let alone 1,000 people.

Long may it continue, and thanks for reading!

Ruth

Blunted emotionally

Isn’t that the term psychiatrists used when you are totally flat? When you are so numb that you think someone could come up and stab you in the stomach and still you wouldn’t feel anything and the world would seem fake? When a friend could tell you that all 6 of your lottery numbers came up last night and you’re a millionaire, and you’d just sit there, staring into space, not hearing your friend, let alone listening to the words they are saying, and instead of being happy just wishing they would shut up? When you look at the world around you and you realise you couldn’t care less anymore? But then you realise that you actually have to care to not care less anymore and that takes too much effort? When you want to cry so much and yet nothing comes out of your eyes? When you want to shout so loud and wail and moan but no voice comes out? When you finally realise that you are a nothingness and your life is a nothingness?

 This is how I feel. I thought I felt more positive yesterday afternoon but like in a tacky comedy sketch, depression has come up as a frying pan and hi me straight in the face. I am the clown wandering around with the stupid stars circling around my head in that dazed and confused state that if I was in a better frame of mind I would probably laugh at. I thought people were laughing me earlier. I thought people were listening into the phone conversation I was having with my Mum. I turned my phone off and put it in another room because I was convinced that people could still hear what I was thinking. I know this is not normal, I know that I am ill, but I don’t want to admit it to anyone.

I am Ruth. Smiley, happy Ruth. Ruth who is up for anything, always up for a laugh, full of confidence, the life and soul of every party. Ruth who wil get drunk and dance in a club and fall over and probably embarass herself but will just stand up and smile, wave at people who were watching and blag herself a free drink from the barman by pleading total humiliation. Ruth who never has a bad day. Ruth who is intelligent, a success story, who has a first class honours degree from a well respected university.

Except I am not. I am Ruth, the fake, the shambles, the drug addict, the self-harmer, the bulimic. The girl who hides in the corner of her bedroom because she is convinced she can see snakes and spiders crawling across the floor. Ruth who sits on a Tube train and is convinced the two women sitting at the end of the carriage are talking about her, so she gets off and changes carriage. Ruth who is failing her post-graduate course and frankly hasn’t go the energy to worry anymore. Ruth who self-medicates with alcohol, codeine, hypnotics, benzodiazepines and other opoid painkillers. Ruth who is scared of herself and terrified of other people. Ruth, the social phobic who overcompensates for her faults and therefore appears bolshy.

I am the Ruth who is scared. Who would rather tell the whole internet about her problems than her family (as pointed out by a comment on the last post) or her GP. Who checks her blog stats every day to see how many people are reading about her life, and is upset when the numbers plummet. Ruth, who is invisible, anonymous, unknown and yet not uncared for.

Maybe I am truly BPD, maybe I am exhibiting all the symptoms right now. Shaky self-image, fear of abandonment, self-harming, engaging in other risky activities, eating problems, mood swings… but I don’t care for diagnoses. I want people to see who I am, not what people think I am.

Ruth

Depression has taken a major hold

I can bearly drag myself out of bed these days, let alone apply the killer eyeliner that I never used to go out without. I am glad I am taking my Mum along to the meeting with all the CMHT team and my GP, I need someone to take my viewpoint and put my side across in a clear and coherent manner, something I am not capable of doing at the moment.

I rang the Samaritans earlier. Mainly because I had been self-harming all morning and wanted to take all the tablets I had and sleep, and sleep, and sleep. Maybe not forever, but at least for a while and that scared me. I’m not good at talking and especially not to strangers but in the absence of any formal support then the Samaritans were great, after all, I’m still here and still awake.

Ruth

Eastenders

Was it just me that noticed or did anyone else see that in last night’s Eastenders (Monday) that Sean handed Jean, who suffers from Bipolar Disorder, a packet of 37.5mg Venlafaxine?

 Possibly the worst ever antidepressant for Bipolar, but so distinctive in it’s beautiful yellow packaging (she says quite sarcastically).

The referral is through for the CMHT (with a little pushing from my Mum, and a weeny wobble over the weekend, involving too many zopiclone, temazepam, tramadol and co-codamol at my parent’s and a lovely night in hospital). Waiting for a joint appointment with a CPN, community psych, my GP and me (and possibly my Mum – although I feel a bit stupid dragging her along at 22 for moral support but I know I can’t fight my own battles for 9 times out of 10).

Ruth