Non-Alcoholic

When I was in hospital for alcohol withdrawal, I was put on a drug called Campral.  This is supposed to stop all craving for alcohol and assist greatly in creating permanent abstinance, if taken for 2 years.

For the first few months I think it helped greatly. Over Christmas I thought more about drinking than at any other time since I quit. Wine and beer were everywhere.  I got through that, without much suffering at all, and I have had no desire to drink whatsoever.

So I gave up the Campral.  Part of the reason was that I hated having to be on a medication regime that included nineteen tablets a day (Campral alone was 6 a day).  The other was that I needed to know if I could do this on my own.

And you know what?  I can.  A whole month and not one desire to drink.

I haven't gone to AA because I reject totally the notion of giving myself over to a higher power.  I am the higher power. I am responsible for what I do or what I do not do.  If I am going to beat this, then I must do it. I must do it. Not a higher power. Not medications to change my brain even more.

So I'm doing it.

How about that?

Seventy-five

Milligrams, that is.

Not even halfway to the therapeutic dose.

And I appear to be awake and alive and this wont do at all because there is the fetal position to assume and the intrusive thoughts about how unfair it is that I have kids, because now I can't not be alive and I am trapped trapped trapped and none of it can be undone.

My brain needs to be occupied so as to avoid those nasty thoughts because being in that spiral will only lead to more madness. But really, I have been reduced to reading dooce, for fucks sake. Next stop, Cornflakes boxes.

Post-Stalker Quandry

Did I say quandry?

I meant "darkest pits of hell I just want to die because nothing is safe and what is the point in continuing I feel so disgusting I wish I could scrub this off me" despair.

The blackness descends again and again and again and nothing can lift it because there is nothing left that can give me any hope. 

This blog gave me hope. 

And now its gone.

And I am thrown between wanting desperately to be able to write my story in complete honesty so that one day my kids will know that mamma did everything possible to be a good mamma and when she fucked it up, this is why.  So that other people who are dealing everyday with the same fuckingshitsonofabitch nightmare of crazy that I deal with might have some microscopic sense of relief that they are not alone. So that when I write, what I write is on record, and I am therefore more accountable for my actions than if I wrote in seclusion.  Relapse is easier if the whole intertweebs dont know about it.

(Whole intertweebs. That is, all 10 of you.)

But, you know, evil narcissistic stalker.

How can I write anything about my children knowing that the crazy bitch I want to shield my children from is reading it all? After all, if I wanted her to have updates, I would be sending them to her. Which I am not. Because she is a psycho. An "under-the radar psycho" one of my friends called her, for on the outside she looks completely normal. But she's not.

What is the point in continuing to write when my voice has to be censored to protect my little family from unwanted intrusions?  What I write loses its meaning, loses its power and loses its ability to help anyone, myself most of all.

So I wonder and I feel sick to my stomach and I'm climbing back into bed and I dont know what to do because its all fucked up and all those painful moments of 3 years ago come flooding back and I rage and I know its about to get a whole lot worse because, hello, dosage increase tomorrow.

Advice, anyone? Because I am in no way capable of thinking clearly about this.

Dear Stalker (or, why you can fuck off now you crazy bitch)

Really, I should watch what I say, for it will surely come and bite me on the ass. A 24 hour turnaround is rather sudden ass-biting though.

I made a comment an another blog yesterday, about how I didnt care who read my blog because I didnt care what people thought.  This is true. I dont give a rats ass what you think of me. 

I *do* care, however, when someone I have deliberately and with good reason removed from my life somehow finds (or is given the address of - and I'm looking at you, other in-law family members) this blog and reads it. Silently. Like a stalker. With intent.

She's even reading it right now.  Yes, she is. Peering in through the windows from the bushes. Getting ready to phone me in a muffled voice and say "I know what you did last summer".

My mother in law.

In her narcissistic self-righteous wisdom, she decided 3 years ago that it was perfectly acceptable to take my children away from me, without my permission (I was begging you not to, do you remember that Anne?) and against my husbands express desires (he said only if I was completely ok with it, remember?)  And then, then, she refused to acknowledge that she had done anything wrong whatsoever. There was nothing to be discussed, nothing apologised for. 

After many attempts at resolution and much pain, we cut her out of our lives, out of our childrens lives, to protect ourselves from someone who didnt care about anyone but herself, didnt care how much hurt she caused others.  We have had no contact for 3 years, apart from unwanted cards arriving. Token jestures. The worst kind.

Today, an email arrives for my husband. "I've been reading Sharon's blog. Want to talk?"

My husband doesnt read my blog.   What the fuck makes you think its ok for YOU, of all people, to read it?

How long has this been going on, Anne? Have you gone through all the archives? Did you enjoy reading the bits about my cerivcal mucus when I was trying to conceive? What about Ella's birth story? Did it make you stop and think you could have been more supportive at the time?   Did you smirk to yourself when I was in hospital, detoxing from alcohol? Have your suspicions about my being an unfit mother, an unstable crazy woman, been confirmed by my ordeal on various medications for my "mental illness"? 

Did you read the bits about suicidal ideation and think letting me know via your son that you are reading this would push me over the edge?  Give you a window of opportunity? Are you salivating at the thought of a divorce? 

Does violating a person make you proud, make you feel good about yourself?  Because that is what you have done, as sure as a Peeping Tom violates the person they prey upon. Did you used to read your children's' diaries too? Open their mail?

You have violated me.  Again.  You took my children and now you have taken away the one thing in my life that was safe and good. 

Never again can I write in this blog, this sanctuary from the mess of my life, and be safe from the people who wish to do me harm. Maybe that is exactly what you want.

What possessed you to go down this road and read something that you know damn well I would never give you permission to read? What have you hoped to gain? That your son would suddenly forget everything you did and come back to the dysfunctional fold? 

ITS NOT GOING TO FUCKING HAPPEN.

You have gained nothing from your disclosure. You merely confirmed what we already knew about you. You will never get what you want. Never.

I might have a mental illness, but I'm not crazy.

Sleeping Angels

When my kids were babies, I did co-sleeping with them off and on as screaming dictated. I have such a clear memory of holding a tiny Felix, marveling at the smallness of his hands and wondering what those hands would grow up to do. I loved those co-sleeping moments.  I loved the mornings later on when they would be brought into bed first thing in the morning and we would breast feed.  Later on I loved it when they would wake up at sparrow fart and make their way groggily around to my side of the bed and climb in to finish their sleep off with the comfort of a mamma cuddle.

These days they dont do that. I think the days of the Seraquel Coma, of mamma being out of it until 10am, have meant they dont even think to do it anymore. In their minds, mamma just isn't available to them first thing in the morning. That we have lost that makes me sad.

I miss their bedtime cuddles so much. I want to kick the husband out of the bed and sleep with a kid either side of me. I want to revel in the smell of their hair, the softness of their skin and the complete openness and joy with which they snuggle up, tangling their limbs with mine so I no longer know where I stop and they start.  They are the reason I fight this damned illness every day, fight the desire to drink, find the will to eat and why I fight to stay alive. I need the close reassurance that comes from their peaceful breathing and an arm draped casually across my face to remind myself that I am needed here, and that by these two sleeping angels at least, I am loved.

The Fat Controller

zyprexa, as it is wont to do, had me put on 20 kilos in a few short months. After a week without it I have already lost the ravenous appetite that lead me to eat cream straight from the tub, and consequently I have lost my first kilo.

With it, I have regained that voice that says "you dont need to eat. ignore the hunger pangs. have another cup of tea."

That voice was quashed so very well by the zyprexa. As I piled on the kilos, it frightened me that I couldnt get that voice back, that I no longer had the ability to control my eating. Now, I am frightened that it has come back so quickly and so loud.

During this titration period with lamotrigine I have lost control of my mind so I guess it isn't surprising that my old friend Eating Disorder has come back, trying to controlling the one thing that is left.  At least I have the weight to lose this time.

So I sit here this morning, hungry. Nearing a blood sugar crash. And I allow myself one grape from our vine. That and another cup of tea will tide me over until dinner tonight.

The control freak is out of control again. I am at a loss as to how to stop.

Bed Goes Up, Bed Goes Down

A Simpsons' reference for every occasion, including me losing my tiny little mind.

I wake to blankness. Probably what the big wigs would call "loss of affect".  I feel nothing. I want nothing. I want no one. Leave me alone.

I spend the day flipping pages of magazines, just to give me something to focus on. Otherwise I will go back to bed and stare out the window. I am so tired.  Eventually I feel so disconnected I cant do that anymore, and I return to bed. I feel panic. I claw at my own skin. The voices start, telling me how hopeless it is. This illness, this medication, my life. Panic heightens when I think of being like this for weeks as I get up to a stable dose on this new med. I am nauseous, I want to run, I want to scream. I do scream, but it is the scream in my belly that no one can hear.

And then I am calm. Like that. Nothing has happened to induce this change. I am feeling almost normal. But the racing thoughts, they intrude. A thousand different thoughts all at once. So many that I can barely pull them apart to think them clearly. I am awake. Wide awake. Awake and yet unable to motivate myself to do anything. I have a desperate need to communicate yet I do not want to see or talk to anyone.

I have ignored my children all day. They come to visit me and want to know why I am always in bed. "Mummy doesn't feel well" is so insufficient. 

Eventually it is time for sleep and by this time I am wired but still without motivation or desire. Temazepam I hope will be my saviour tonight.

Tomorrow I do it all again. This is the world of starting on Lamotrigine.

This Time Fer Shure

And now for the newest poison on the block, Lamotrigine.

An anti-epileptic, known overseas (and sporadically known here) for its kickass ability to knock the crap out of Bipolar Depression. Not known at all by my gp and she is letting me try it at my extreme insistence. 

Also known for its ability to give users The Rash, aka Stevens-Johnson Syndrome, which leaves the skin as if it had been badly burned, and it can be fatal. So we have to titrate veerrryyy slooowwwllly.

What this means is that the former anti-psychotic Zyprexa is no longer in my system and I am now on such a piddling dose of Lamotrigine that it couldn't cheer up a dung beetle in a pile of dung.

I feel like whale shit at the bottom of the ocean. I am walking through molasses. I hate everything. I don't want to be around anyone. Bed is nice. The drug has buggered my sleep pattern so I am awake at night and exhausted all day. I consider what it would be like it I weren't around anymore,  The whole being trapped fiasco is making the suicidal ideation recur. I see no point to anything.

How long am i supposed to just live with this? Slow titration is one thing, but living with The Awful Blackness as a consequence just ain't right. Should I be sucking this up and riding it out or admitting myself to hospital for some additional medicinals to keep me on the living side of this hell?

My brain is so adrift I cant answer that question.

Excess Baggage

If I were to get a divorce (might happen), and heaven for-fend I should meet someone else that I liked (wont happen) should I just get them to read this blog first?

Who can be bothered rehashing all this dross that I carry around in my head, let alone trying to get someone new to understand it and then to accept the person it belongs to?  "You want a date? Here's the dossier. Still interested?"

If I knew all these things about a prospective partner, I would run a mile.

This is not where my life was supposed to go. I was not supposed to get to 8 years of marriage and not want to be here anymore. I certainly wasn't supposed to get to this point and have no freaking options about how this gets played out.  Feeling trapped like this makes me want to puke.

Stating The Bleeding Obvious

Joint shrink session today, me and hubby.

Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

"Thou must have nought to do with the other!" cried the shrink.

Nice to have someone official-like to confirm my thoughts on the matter, but where exactly will I find a full-time live-in carer?  Its all very well spouting "best interests" blah blah, but I still need someone to pick me up off the floor when my back slips out and I cant move for two weeks, or look after the kids when I'm suddenly comatose from my medications.

Its a fucked situation here and no one's best interests are being looked after and, short of a live-in minion, I cant see how that is ever going to change.

I should have listened to my mother when she told me, age 8, to never get married.

The Drink You Have When You Cant Have A Drink

June  7^th it was. Now its January 9^th. That makes it 6 months.

6 months sober. I could have sworn it was longer.

Over the holidays I’ve discovered the joy of “alcohol removed” wines. They taste like shit compared to real wine. What do you expect really when they remove all the fun from the bottle? I balk at spending twice what I paid per bottle at Dan Murphy’s but nevertheless, for a special occasion such as Festivus one must be seen to be partaking in the jolliness of it all.

As things do, it made me think: at what point is it ok for me to have a glass of champers to celebrate something special?  When can I enjoy a couple of refreshingly cold ciders on a hot summer’s day? Is 6 months too soon?  Is ever too soon?  Am I the alcoholic who can never ever touch another drop or its straight back to 2 bottles a night again? Or am I the alcoholic who can drink occasionally, but responsibly?

How do you tell which you are?

Coz I really really want that cold cider.

Stares At Screen Blankly

We now resume our normal broadcast.

Within 24 hours of stopping the Lithium, I could function normally. No more catatonia! conversations! Ability to write!

It didnt last long.

Lithium was followed by Seroquel. Hello zombie-world! Now I can enjoy 16 hours a day of zombification! How useful when you have two young children. Doubly useful when your husband has a hernia operation sprung on him and suddenly I am the one who has to do everything.  If it werent for the wonderful parents at my son's school, he wouldnt have got to school at all for 6 weeks coz mummy was still comatose.

So I kicked Seroquel in the arse and picked up a shiny little hussy called zyprexa. This one promised the world, and for a while it delivered, in the form of a nice little mania which helped the saucepans shine like never before and lots of baking got done. Baking? Are you fucking kidding me? I hate baking.

Of course, there was something zyprexa forgot to mention during the honeymoon phase, and that is how I would turn into a giant tub of lard. Lardy McLardarse, eating her way through the kitchen then baking some more goodies when all else is gone. 20kg I've put on.

20kg.

If you're new here, you might want to read this post to discover how utterly diabolical it is that I of all people have not been able to control my eating to the point of putting on twenty.fucking.kilos.

I've tried sodium valproate for pain relief before and the "dry mouth", well it literally glued my mouth shut.

So what next? Tuesday will tell. I've been stuck on zyprexa over the holidays until my gp comes back and I'm steadily feeling worse. Now I am back in the throes of depression, hiding myself away and staring blankly out windows. Where did my happy mania go?

What will be thrown at me this time? I want to try Lamotrigine but its not on the PBS and I figure that means there is no way I can afford it. Some other zombifying, obesity-inducing poison?

This really is shit.

How was your spring?