New Blog

Hi there.

If you're looking for newer posts, they can be found at onereclusivegirl.worpress.com

I was having some issues with Blogger and my housemate, R whipped up a nice spot on Wordpress for me.

Enjoy.

K

Fear of Sexual Assault

Fear accompanied me throughout my childhood and youth, that’s what you get for being stupid enough to allow yourself to be born to an alcoholic father. The trauma is different to the fear experienced at the time, but still present.

Yesterday for a few minutes I experienced a different type of fear, one which, sadly, most women will encounter at some point in their lives.

I had my appointment with the researchers for the drug trial, it lasted three hours and I returned to my car around 5:30 – I had parked some distance away and had to jump on a tram (two if I’m going to be specific) to get back to my car. I alighted the tram along with a man in his 20s, I thought nothing of him, he was walking ahead of me but then he turned down the side street leading to my carpark and took a piss on a dumpster. I was suspicious of how short his piss was, it seemed like he just wanted to get behind me. So then I’m walking down a long, narrow driveway with a man behind me who I know is not above getting his dick out in public. To ensure I was being paranoid and he wasn’t really following me I moved my path from walking behind the cars to the actual painted walkway a few meters behind the cars. At the same moment so did he. At this stage I thought all I could do was to keep looking behind me so he knew I had seen his face and he wouldn’t get away with doing anything without being identified.

I’ve never imagined myself as a potential victim of sexual assault because of my appearance, but I guess it’s not really about that is it, it’s about the perpetrator expressing his power over his victim. I’ve got some fight in me, but I would have lost hands down to this man. I was ever so grateful when he turned to enter the building and I continued to the back of the car park.

By no means am I scared of men, but this felt like it could have gone very badly.

Guinea Pig

Girl with her spirit animal

On Monday I have an assessment for a drug trial. I've already seen the professor heading it up and I meet the criteria, there are just 2-3 hours of tests to do. It's a trial for people with BPD, but very kindly the professor and research team use the term Complex Trauma Disorder; I appreciate this because it better defines the condition and separates it from the stigma attached to BPD. The drug is called Memantine, it's currently used in Alzheimer's patients but there's reason to believe it could be helpful in trauma cases. I may get the real drug or I may get the placebo, it's a double blind trial so the researchers won't know either. At the end I will have the option of being prescribed the real drug regardless of whether I was on it or the placebo. You may wonder how the trial benefits me and why I don't just ask my psychiatrist to prescribe it, I will tell you. First of all being in a trial isn't just about benefiting yourself, you're contributing to research which has the potential to help everyone with your diagnosis and beyond. Then there's the intense monitoring you're under for the duration (12 weeks on the drug plus some assessments prior) which will pick up on side effects and intolerances before I would normally click that there's something wrong; this will allow me afterwards to take the drug knowingly, even if I've been on the placebo I'll have information from the researchers about how other patients have tolerated it, what kind of benefits to expect and what could go wrong. Memantine works on a different chemical in the brain to your typical antidepressants, the thinking behind using this drug is because that chemical (cortisol) is disturbed in people who have experienced trauma in their youth, an antidepressant or antipsychotic won't address this.

I'll write another post in a day or two, I have more to write but I'd like to keep this post about the trial.

K

Four Years Hasn't Changed Much

I've been out of hospital since Tuesday, I was there for two and a half weeks due to intense suicidal urges. I don't feel like giving a full update right now but I thought I'd share something old. ...

The following was written during a life writing class I took as part of my (unfinished) Masters in Writing and Literature. I stumbled upon it tonight whilst going through my hard drive and thought I'd let it see the light of day.

Senselessness always leaves marks; we’ve all done stupid things that will not be forgotten, not because we can’t purge them from our minds, but rather because we can’t eliminate the evidence. It may be weeks between the forced recollections, maybe just hours it depends where I look whilst on the toilet. It’s not a problem in the shower or getting dressed, I don’t study my body at those times, just get the task at hand over with. But I can’t help but gaze around me, and occasionally at me, while I urinate and defecate. I’m sitting there in a tiny white room with a frosted glass window, a wooden cat shaped toilet roll holder and an out-dated Astor poster to entertain me. Then I glance down at my right thigh and remember that I used to cut it, not a big deal since it’s only been 8 weeks since I last sliced my arm open, but I haven’t cut my leg for months and I forget that I ever did. I feel that my bloodlust is confined to my left arm, but it’s not. The occasional thigh glances remind me of the gash on my torso, the one that I really should have had stitched but let steri-strips suffice. They remind me of the Bolte Bridge incident, the many over-doses, though they are very blotchy memories, also the building incident, the knives, the banning from hospitals. A cascade of memories from a few lines that are usually covered. The fire on that thigh is out, but the smoke remains.

Lamictal: Lemon Flavoured Hell

Girl hates Lamictal

Two posts ago I shared about my slowly increasing Lamictal dose. I reached 200mg and started to feel a little better emotionally but dreading taking it every morning as the tablets are dissolvable and the second they touch your tongue you’re attacked by what I can best describe as out-of-date lemon sherbet (I don’t think sherbet goes off though). Two weeks ago the jump was made from 200-300mg and the same day I started feeling very nauseous, the next day I spent six hours in Emergency due to a Stephens Johnson scare. I had a few symptoms which I wasn’t worried by but because I was very uncomfortable I called Nurse on Call and she called a paramedic who called Poisons Hotline who then called back the paramedic and insisted I go into Emergency. It resulted in nothing but some painkillers and one tablet which had a very long name I can’t recall.

So that was last Sunday. I continued taking the 300mg dose and being able to eat next to nothing until last Wednesday when the taste got the better of me and I threw it up the moment I swallowed it. I had an appointment with my psychiatrist that day, he encouraged me to keep going with it and see if the nausea went away. Next day I threw up the tablet again and decided to give up on it. Even if my mood was better I couldn’t continue feeling constantly sick and I could no longer swallow the bloody things anyway. It took until this Monday for the nausea to go away and now I can eat a full meal. Dropped a bit of weight though.

I’m still off Seroquel and I can feel feelings, I think I like it but it’s scary. At the moment I’m not on an antidepressant and I feel okay, it’s the anxiety causing most of the problems. I am however on an antipsychotic and a mood stabiliser. I’m interested to see the direction things take in coming months. An interesting start point is that if a gun was immediately placed on the table I’m sitting at I don’t think I’d shoot myself, but only six to eight weeks ago I wouldn’t have hesitated. Progress my friends.

K Minus Seroquel

It has been a week since I took 30 200mg tablets of Seroquel – 6g for those of you with my maths skills. I hoped for at least 24 hours unconscious, but I got less than 12. As usual I made sure they were spent in hospital, I’m not stupid enough to let my housemates find me like that. I lost a lot of housemates in my 20s through frequent overdoses, although I think even then I got myself to hospital. Anyway, I digress. Since returning home I haven’t taken any Seroquel, my daily dose was 200mg plus another 200mg if I needed it. I dared not take it on Friday night as the huge dose from the previous night was still very much in my system, same Saturday night. By Sunday I was functioning normally again, no slurred speech, no tremor, I could see and hold a cup of tea without spilling it all over the table. I thought maybe if it’s slowly come out of me I could continue just letting it leave my system and not return to my usual dose. Monday was the first real test, I thought by then the overdose would have worked its way out of me and I’d be running on empty. Well, I got to sleep and I haven’t done anything wild. I am on many other drugs, but Seroquel really controls you.

Since Friday I’ve lost 4kg, I’m hardly ever hungry and I can’t quite explain the feeling, just different. I think being off Seroquel is going to be very good for me. It drastically slows the metabolism and makes you ravenous all the time, hence the 50kg I’ve gained since starting it. Together with my gym visits three times a week I may get back to a size I’m not repulsed by.

I have a lot more to share with you but I’m going to leave it for another post.

Good Evening.

K

No Deadly Lamictal Rash Yet

This is what it is currently taking to keep me alive and kicking – well forget the kicking, it’s more of a dawdle between necessary places.

Morning:

5mg Neulactil

250mg Nuvigil

Currently 50mg Lamictal – dose is being raised a bit every 10 days

2000IU Vitamin D
2 puffs Seretide 500/50

5PM:

10mg Neulactil

8PM:

900mg Lithium

200mg Seroquel

10mg Neulactil

15mg Imovane
2 puffs Seretide 500/50

PRN (when needed):

2mg Xanax

200mg Seroquel

2mg Lorazepam

I’m in hospital at the moment, it’s been 12 days. I’m planning to discharge on Tuesday as I’m getting nowhere and I don’t see how my current state of mind will be any different depending on my location. I can sedate myself more at home, so that’s a bonus. I came in because my anxiety was crippling, it’s still bad but I think I can cope. My mood is low as always, the Lamictal is supposed to help that once I’m up to treatment dose. If the Lamictal fails I’ll be put on an antidepressant I haven’t previously been on – the list is growing short.

I can’t explain in words how over all this I am.

One of Two

I have expressed fervently my desire not to go down the deep brain stimulation route but the spectre is looming. I met with my psychiatrist today and again he subtly hinted at it, acknowledging my disgust at the idea but at the same time nudging towards it.

On Wednesday I returned home from a week in hospital during which time I had 10 sessions of TMS, with no obvious result. My anxiety is sky high and mood at about a 3/10. I took my discharge medications to my pharmacy this afternoon, the 89 pills of 10mg Neulactil being a strong pull. I think now I don’t have enough of anything to make for a decent overdose, I’d probably get a few hours sleep out of it but I’d rather have several days unconscious. As I try new and old medications to no avail, 100+ sessions of ECT, and TMS and their effect ceases to mend me I’m travelling closer and closer to the final options of deep brain stimulation or suicide. I’d much rather be dead than have my head opened up and meddled with. Please God, send a gunman into the house as I sleep tonight with a mission to kill me and only me, may he be given a medal for extreme kindness to the mentally ill.

My anxiety wasn’t helped by arriving home to completely different dynamics. I knew our new housemate, A, was moving in but I forgot that with every change in housemates there are changes about the house, however minor. I guess it was just unsettling to come home to the lounge re-arranged, a pot plant in a new spot and new stuff in the bathroom. I like A but it would have been a better transition for me if I was here during the move and her first few days in the house. A good thing is that she’s a student, which means sometimes I’ll have company during the day instead of the complete isolation I usually contend with.

I haven’t done any work on my novel since last year. There are two very different directions I can choose to take it in. I’ve written a prelude and a chapter down one path but I think it’s the other I want to take. Decide K!

That’s all for today, my anxiety is causing dizziness and my brain is struggling to think of anything to interest you.

Good Evening.

2/10

Squish!

I’m currently eating my second Oreo McFlurry with extra Oreo in two days. Can I suggest to any visitors to bring me one as a sacrifice when you come over in order to have the best chance at meeting a not insanely depressed K. This is the second thing I’ve eaten today, the first was my breakfast, one piece of toast and one egg.

Today my mood has been a 2 out of 10 and anxiety 8 out of 10 (for mood low is bad and for anxiety high is bad) I’m definitely ready for the TMS top up I’m getting next week. I feel like crying all my moisture out and then freezing it in a cocoon and sleeping in it until I go back into the clinic on Wednesday.

Over the last 10 days I’ve been experiencing psychotic symptoms, but despite being clearly psychotic in nature, my psychiatrist, whom I saw only this afternoon, says they are not actually psychosis. I don’t know what else to call hearing things, feeling my body floating and seeing something clearly but it being wrong. Whatever! At least I don’t have another diagnosis to add to the bag.

I wish I wasn’t such a fucking coward and I could just take our biggest knife and stab right through my throat and enjoy the pain as a last salute to the world.

On an entirely different topic, let me know if you would like an extra body at your Christmas this year. After ours going all wrong Mum said she’s not doing it again and to find a friend to spend the day with.

A Flat Festive Season

Girl found the best place to spend a 36-degree day

I had a fun combined birthday party with my housemates. All three of us are December babies. It was the happiest I've felt for a long time, aided by alcohol I'll confess, but I wasn't really drunk, just happy drunk. I've never been properly drunk, I don't want to be like my dad even once. The happy feeling didn't last; I returned at midnight after the party to the hospital - they gave me extra leave to go to my own party, how nice of them! I had 10 TMS treatments and it picked my mood up from a 4 to a 5 (out of 10). This is just a bleh number to be at; nothing's joyful, nothing sucks so much you want to stab yourself, you don't feel suicidal, just bleh. I'm back in for another 10 on the 10th Jan, they're going to do two a day, so I may only be in for five days.

I met a man online, met up, no good. He needs friends though so I might contribute there, nothing more. Ideally I'd be with the kind of man who would be attracted to me as I am right now - though not grumpy. I am trying to lose weight but it's very hard on Seroquel, that fucking drug just makes your brain constantly scream I'M STARVING! FEED ME. I definitely look better 50kg thinner but even if I lost it all and was pretty again I'm going to decline with age, so I want a man who loves my brain. My brain isn't all bad, it's funny, friendly, compassionate, loving, caring and very loyal. Maybe I don't want a man who can't look past the fat. I can understand being put off by my illness, but I think it's pretty well managed and if I had something like a good relationship to live for I'd be a lot better. Right now if I kill myself I'd wrestle with myself about the pain I'd be causing the people who care about me, but I'm not sure I could do that to a partner. I think I'd try harder to stay. That's a big burden to place on someone though, so maybe no one wants that.

As I've been so flat I haven't had a single creative thought for a week. Not a word has been written on my novel. My life has just been appointments and a couple of coffees with a friend or two. I went to the church my housemates go to on Sunday as mine was not on that night. It was good to experience a very different style of church. Good sermon. I liked the quality of the music, but the song choice was not what I like, they were nearly all talking about what we are going to do for God or because of Him. I prefer songs simply glorifying God, I don't want to sing something about myself, what if I don't do it - I've lied to God.

Being from an immigrant family means Christmas sucks. There's three of us in Australia. My brother lives with my Mum, and his girlfriend recently moved in, I assume she's having Christmas dinner with us. Mum has two friends who are from the same area as us, the man was actually engaged to my aunty but it ended; they might come for Christmas, but haven't confirmed yet. Mum has a boyfriend (I don't like calling him that, it sounds too adolescent, but doesn't partner mean you're living together?) who she tries to keep secret. I asked if he'll be joining us but he has his own kids to have Christmas with, she said maybe later on in the day. Yeah, so Christmas will be sit down, eat a duck, clean up, read or something like that. I like to watch the Queen's speech, Mum just jokes her way through it but I think it's quite meaningful. This year I get to attend the Christmas Eve service at my church, usually I'm in hospital. It ends after midnight, hopefully that means the roads are quiet for the hour-long drive to Mum's.

I hate this time of year, everyone's busy; right now I just want to sit down around a table or on some couches with a friend and chat about anything and everything. I can't read with my head this foggy and I just don't want to watch anything. I'm listening to music but there's almost permanently a musical background to whatever I'm doing. I might go outside and cuddle the chickens, it's looking like a storm's on its way and my phone has just confirmed this, I've got a little while though.

Sorry this wasn't the most enthralling read I've ever given you, just an update.

Mourning?

Today is a hard day, it's my Dad's 62nd birthday - well at least it would be if he was still alive. I thought I'd be fine, but I cried over my breakfast and then managed to bite my lip for a few hours to stop a repeat. I allowed myself to shed a few more tears when I got home from my psychology session. He was briefly mentioned, but I felt like there were more pressing issues to discuss. It's hard knowing what to feel right now. I guess the answer is whatever you are feeling is right. It's just so confusing. My psychologist and I were talking about emotions taking on a whole new life when they are attached to trauma, they're stronger and harder to dismiss or even accept.

I've been in therapy for nine years now and we've all agreed that I have depression, which is biological and even if I was brought up in the ideal family it would have reared its ugly head. It is worse due to what I've been through though. On top of the depression, I also have anxiety and Borderline Personality Disorder. I can't be bothered searching this blog to find out what I've already told you, so I'm sorry if you've heard it a hundred times. The trauma in my life is from growing up with the emotional abuse from my Dad's alcoholism. I'll make it clear, he didn't hit us, but I was still terrified nearly every night of what was going to (eventually) walk through the door. Often it was late and he'd wake me up with his shouting and very loud music, one time he threw a heap of crockery across the kitchen, smashing plates and bowls on the floor and walls. I hid from him pretty well when I knew he'd be yelling at me. I'm not going to type every incident from the 21 years I lived with him in here, but let's just settle on the fact that I was scared of him.

Mum was and still remains a stone. If that woman has an emotion it's hidden underneath a mountain. I couldn't share my fears and shame with her. I attended a Christian school where everyone came from a perfect church- attending family, of course not true, but it felt like I was the only one with this dirty secret that my family wasn't perfect. It was made worse by the church when I started attending of my own accord when I was in year 9. There the families were on a higher level of perfection and I just felt that I was somehow tainting the place. I told no one except the one girl who invited me to the church. (she probably told her dad, who was/is the pastor, so I'm sure more people than I thought knew). Not having anyone to talk to has made the emotional abuse so much worse, I didn't have extended family as we moved to Australia from England when I was 3. My Grandma was a great support on our most recent trip. I think about how much better things would have been had I been able to talk to her whilst growing up, and for Mum to have some support if she wanted to get a divorce.

Mum says I blame Dad too much for where I'm at now, but my doctor puts a lot of blame on him, and her for failing to be emotionally available and for tearing me away from my extended family. (If you're reading this Mum, I know you thought you were doing the best thing). You can't raise a healthy child in an environment where it doesn't know what to expect each night, where it has to keep secrets and has no support.

An aside. In year 10 my Dad was getting home late most nights and playing music very loudly whilst shouting at Mum. I think it's understandable that most mornings were slow. I got to school late most mornings and my bastard of a homeroom teacher, instead of taking me aside and asking how things were at home just kept giving me demerits and detentions.

So today on his birthday, I'm lost. He was a drinker right to the end. I remember one apology, he was trashed on my birthday and the next day went and bought me a beautiful pearl necklace, which I still wear on occasions. I am similar to him in that way, I show my love through gifts. He loved me and showed it in his own way, but that doesn't wipe out the damage he caused.

If my Mum reads this I'll be in so much trouble for telling all of you this. I don't let Mum see the links but I think she snoops around sometimes.

I'd like to add that since leaving the church of my youth I've been open about Dad and I'm not a dirty stain on the church, I'm part of a body of believers who love and help each other.

I have nothing else to say.

Happy Birthday Dad

Another One

My last overdose was September last year; I couldn't go a whole calendar year without one; that would just be irresponsible! Wednesday night saw my belly greeting a rather small overdose. I took my self to hospital just to avoid scaring my housemates and to stop myself wetting the bed if I ended up unconscious for longer than expected. I think I was out for 17 hours, then they just kept me until I could walk and had a psych assessment. I saw my psychiatrist today, we chatted about it briefly but there were other things I wanted to discuss, like my hopeful misinterpretation from my Mum saying that my illnesses are all my own fault and that Dad wasn't perfect but much better than I remember. My Dr is very good at putting things into perspective and validating my feelings.

I've got two and a half hours to fill in until I see a friend for the night. I'm feeling rotten right now, but at least I have seeing her to look forward to.

Three Weeks out Two Weeks in

I'm at home now, discharge was on Saturday. I'm a bit miserable, to tell the truth. I've hit a hurdle in my story, so I've only written a tiny bit. I'm close to 9000 words now, but I'm not writing the story as it will be read, rather just how the plot emerges. When I've worked out everything that's happening I'll re-write probably in a different order to slowly reveal things about my main character and her task. I've decided that she will have a very long life and will have a very important job to do and will live until she finds someone worthy to pass that on to.

I'm probably not moving to Edinburgh, the NHS is very bad for mental health and private insurance excludes pre-existing conditions, so I'm stuffed. Also, the disability support payment is a fraction of what I'm on here. My ongoing fear of becoming homeless would exhibit its self within a week of my arrival and all my money being spent. Speaking of homelessness, I'm terrified that our lease won't be renewed in March and the boys want to live closer to the city and I won't be able to find anyone around here to live with because who wants to live with an unemployed nut case! So back to Mum's an hour away from all my friends, my GP, my psychologist and I'd lose my support worker, whom I really rely on. March, please don't come! We might get notice either way before the end of the year so we won't be so surprised either way, I'm just the eternal pessimist.

I don't have enough to fill in my days at the moment. I have a medical appointment of some kind 4 days of the week, but they only take up an hour. I went to the gym yesterday, but I'm not fit enough to work out for ages without drowning in a pool of my own sweat. Tomorrow's going to be a hard one, only one appointment at 2pm, so I'll feel awful in the morning and then again in the late afternoon. If I have the money I might go to the gym, but I'm seriously broke until Saturday.

-->

The TMS doctor has decided I'm going to have three weeks at home, then two weeks in for 10 sessions of TMS, and if it works that'll be my life. I hate life.


By the way, you can leave comments on this blog. I moderate them before they get published, so if anything is accidentally said which would reveal my identity to any random person I can choose not publish it. You all know who I am, but Google wouldn't lead you here if you typed in my name, and I want to keep it that way.