Sunday, 18 October 2015

Whirlwind Weeks

Someone eventually fished me out of the NHS sofa crack that I was dropped down, and the level of care shot from zero to overkill.

My first appointment with the psychiatrist was mid-September (on a Wednesday, as if it makes a difference), and by then I'd gone cold turkey on the antipsychotics that made me gain so much weight. My brain wasn't quite right again, aside from the "brain jolts" every time my eyes moved (I've had these before when I quit taking medication suddenly) I started to see and hear things again. Awesome. Knocking at the open bedroom door, spaceships (government, duh) in the night, people and monsters in the shadows and the dark, catching voices and seeing people out of the corner of my eye when there was nobody there - these types of things. I couldn't tell if my dreams and nightmares were real or if I was indeed dreaming. Most if it I was able to rationalise, but it got a lot harder at night.

I also lost interest in looking after myself or Freyja again. I didn't get dressed or shower every day, and beyond looking after Freyja's basic needs I found it hard to engage with her or play. Writing this makes me feel bat shit crazy and like a terrible mother.

Anyway. Having waited 2 and a half months for my urgent psych referral, I was finally in the system. The psychiatrist thought I needed to go back into hospital, but I told her that was the last thing I would do, so she engaged their crisis team to come to the house every day to check on me. I suppose they were rightly worried, but I was paranoid that they were coming to check up on me because they didn't think I could look after Freyja. I thought they were judging me and I didn't want any of them to come to the house. I also thought I wasn't unwell enough to warrant so much attention and so many resources - psychiatrist, psych nurse, crisis team of psych nurses and social workers... The list goes on. After a few days and the psych and my psych nurse (Mark, who will be my case worker for however long I'm with the recovery team) came to the house and convinced me to start taking some different antipsychotics with fewer side effects (less or no weight gain - why on earth I was put on the original ones when they were aware of my body image issues and diagnosed body dysmorphia is a sadistic mystery). 

I've had some ups and downs with meds this past month. Twice now I've realised that I've not been taking enough tablets - the brain jolts have come back this week and I realised last night that I've been short changing myself on my antidepressants by 1/3 of  the dose. No bueno. The same thing happened a couple of weeks ago with the new antipsychotics. Since sorting that out I've stopped seeing and hearing things, which is nice I suppose. What's less nice is realising that I can't be trusted to dose my own medication correctly, and that aged 31 I need my husband to sit with me while I put my pills for the week into the box I use to make sure I haven't forgotten to take a dose. Like an old lady.

Last week the crisis team came out for the final time (a relief), and everything was handed back to the recovery team. So now Mark will come once or twice a week and continue to work with me for a while. I've seen the psychiatrist weekly until this week, and my next appointment is in four weeks, which means I'm getting better.

Today I'm not having a great day, but I'm tired and I haven't been taking the correct dose of antidepressant so it's not that surprising. I didn't get dressed until after midday, and only then because mum said I probably should. While Freyja was napping I made a necklace, which helped calm my head. I haven't dome anything creative for a while so I hope the result wasn't too shit. Mum will wear it anyway, because that's the type of thing you sign up for as a parent. Shit jewellery and macaroni birthday cards. PRETEND TO LOVE IT OR FACE UPSETTING ME.

Actually, it doesn't take too much pretending (or maybe it does as your child reaches adulthood?) - Freyja made her first painting for us and it's going on the wall in a frame. Everyone else will probably think it's a load of wank, but we'll cherish that crap. The where and the how of that painting are the source of much mama guilt this week... Nursery/childminder/daycare/childcare - whatever you want to call it. I think it probably deserves another post, plus mum and Freyja are back from their walk to see the cows so it must be time for lunch.

No comments:

Post a Comment