Overcoming Mental Illness

So there I am on a Friday afternoon in Melbourne.

Completely knackered.

It’s been a long day already and it’s only about 2pm!

I’ve been bothered by a nasty cold all week so my physical health is drained, and what with the myriad of other physical problems I deal with each day, colds are not at all just minor niggles for me. It hurts - and I mean hurts! An after effect of the fact I struggled to overcome glandular fever but that’s a whole other story!

I’m also going through this vicious mixed episode and the ridiculous roller coaster of manic-ups and treacherous lows every second, minute and hour of the day. Will I ever be able to just be on an even keel? But again, that’s a whole other story!

Thus my mood isn’t great when I haul my reasonably cute butt out of bed in the morning and go through the whole process of getting up and trying to battle on with the day ahead. Not easy at the moment. It would be easier should something be there to look forward to, but an early morning escapade to the outer eastern suburbs of Melbourne is not something to really look forward to when you’re battling mixed episodes, physical pain and physical illnesses. Anyhows, I have to do it all in 2 hours, due to momentarily forgetting that if you scan your 2hr metcard through the machines just after the hour it takes the 2 hours to be from the next hour (so if you swipe it at 10:01am it takes the two hours from 11am, thus you get three hours for the price of two - bargain! - whereas if you swipe it at 9:56am it takes it from 10am, which is what I did yesterday. Dope!)

I get out there, do my business of checking out places to live and have forced conversations to try and make myself out to be someone who at least has some reasonable grasp on his sanity. Not easy right now. And then have to rush back to the chaotic wonder of the city before the metcard runs out and I get slapped with either buying a new ticket or forced to pay a fine upwards of $150 because I didn’t think to wait five minutes!

By the time I drag my reasonably cute butt back to the hostel I’m completely knackered, legs wobbling from all the exertion and pain firing away from all corners of my body. It’s been like that for a fortnight really, so much to do, so little fun. So I end up leaning against the wall of the shower having a bit of a knackered cry before deciding to go down the self-harm route to at least give me the release I need to get through the rest of the day.

I don’t like doing it. Sometimes though when you’re working so hard and making so much effort and those mood swings keep oscillating I just end up doing it. Nothing too serious, a few slices here, a few cuts there. I have antiseptic wipes, plasters and bandages on hand to clean and wrap so it’s not as if I don’t know what I’m doing.

So when I get back to the room I am in a bit more pain than I had been before, but this is manageable pain, this was the pain I needed to help calm me down and refocus before my afternoon onslaught in the rebuilding of Addy’s life. I just hadn’t countered on an impromptu 45 minute phone interview which came with no warning.

Now remember all those old-adages about when you’re nervous imagine people naked. Well I was nervous, and keeping a close eye on the cuts and blood, but I wasn’t imagining the person at the end of the phone naked - I was naked. As I was through the whole interview, whilst trying not to let the blood drip too much onto the bed and whilst attempting to apply a bandage unsuccessfully with one hand. Not easy. In fact proved impossible. So I gave up at the 20minute mark and I’d deal with the pain and blood stain later, as long as I came off on the interview as reasonably sane.

Interview done I throw myself back down and check the cut, the blood has pretty much stopped but it hurts and it needs a wee bit of attention. So I grab the antiseptic wipes and being somewhat delirious from fatigue and emotional/mental exhaustion go to sort it out. BRING BRING. BRING BRING. Another phone call. Which I have to answer ’cause it’s the job agency I’m with so again have to sound all professional and with it, which I attempt, and sure the phone call becomes the most random I think I’ve ever been on the phone. All confused blabbering and incoherent speech. I can’t even really recall what I’d been saying. Annoyed with that I apply the treatment to my cuts, grab my jacket and swing out the room. (Or rather, when I say ’swing’ I mean hobble, as the majority of the cuts were on my leg so walking was a little difficult.)

I

Need

Alcohol

!

Which really isn’t a good idea given the mixed episode, cold, physical health issues, recent self harm, stressed mood and cavalcade of frustration: but after three whiskys and three Coopers I’m rather bouncy. Who wouldn’t be. After a fourth Coopers I’m positively, well, hyper, and well, manic. Hypermanic in fact.

I end up in my usual internet place randomly inviting anyone I fancy to be my Facebook and Myspace friends, typing obscure wall messages which I can’t remember and then cracking onto a few people in various different forms, forums and groups. I really don’t remember much after that aside from prancing around the city occasionally breaking into song and tap dance routines perfected in the Adelaide casino last year whilst cracking onto people in the flesh this time and getting the odd slap (good and bad) in return.

You see that’s why alcohol, medication, self harm, bipolar, physical & mental health problems do not a good combination make.

Alcohol is a depressant, but it’s one of those lovely and weird depressants which makes you high first - and with the on-sweep of emotion, fatigue, pain and ever-changing-moods I’d been experiencing all day - it was only ever gonna do two things. Make me too sick to move or induce a manic period. Fortunately the manic period has faded a little and as I type this am feeling what can only be described as a bitch of a hangover and ever so somewhat fading back into my shell of depressed loneliness.

At least though I know how to induce small periods of mania if I want to, maybe I should experiment and see if I can make them last longer, people seem to like me when I’m manic. I don’t like myself much, but other people take to me far more than when I’m just being “me”. Is there a lesson there I should learn? Maybe if I didn’t have a hangover I’d be able to see it a bit more clearly.

On the upside I have ended up with a few more Facebook friends, I have no idea who they are or anything about them but they’re there, and I’ve got a few more MySpace friends as well which is kinda cool. No fall out yet from the other stuff I did; haven’t quite had the nerve to check my messages yet.

Maybe later.

Maybe I’ll need some more Coopers afterwards :)

I always suspected that when the affects of the jetlag began to wane I would suffer a…retrograde step…shall we say. So much happened to me in this city last year that few people understand why it is that I’ve come back here.

Surely I would avoid it for the rest of my life?

Surely if a city and it’s people caused you so much pain you would never again wish to return?

This is my home though.

Walking around this morning in the early morning twilight it was hard not to flash back to those twelve months of intense pain I endured last year. All of the bullshit I had to deal with on a daily basis - all of the bullshit I have to deal with on a daily basis. It’s all still there, hidden beneath the surface, hidden under dustbins and benches and doorways which once were my homes, my beds for the night. Secluded beneath the smiles and lies and conversation. I thought I’d changed. Maybe I haven’t?

It’s weird. Confusing and frustrating all in one gulp.

I self-harmed for the first time in a month and half.

The early hours of the morning.

I’m not saying it because I’m proud of it, I guess I’m saying it because I need to, because I need to be honest with what’s happening to me. Even though this blog isn’t about mental illness it’s still about me - and self-harm, for good or bad, is part of who I am. I don’t even really know why I did it. Couldn’t sleep, demons rising, as they do from time to time, nothing calling them, nothing bidding them, they’re just there, always, in the shadows and the darkness waiting to pounce.

So I feel bad today. Guilty. Angry. Annoyed with myself. It’s only one setback, but still, one is sometimes enough.

So it’s a day trying to forge ahead without falling back, glance at the scars and use them to gain strength I guess. I hear the sound of the Staff Flag’s calling. A chirpier post tomorrow, surely :)

Rebuilding my life is no longer exiting, I’ve been trying to do it for fifteen months now - but it’s a credit to my strength and determination that I keep on fighting, surely that’s commendable? I think so. Even if others don’t.

Although this blog isn’t a direct continuation of my previous one - in other words this is intended to be more of a stand alone progression rather than a direct sequel - it occured to me today that there will inevitably be references made to my previous life and my previous blog. Thus, treat this entry as a wee “Previously in the journey of Addy,” designed to fill in the blanks as to exactly who Addy is.

I’m a 29 year old guy who was born in Leeds. I spent my pre school years in Treharris (South Wales), my primary school years in Portlethen (Scotland) and my secondary/high school years in Caldicot (South Wales). Following leaving school I backpacked around Scotland and then onwards to Canada before returning to Inverness (Scotland) where I spent a few years studying photography/film at college before beginning a long career in backpacker hostel reception/management which would span two continents.

In 2002 I emigrated to Melbourne (Australia) where I continued my backpacker hostel career before leaving this in order to kill myself. You see to understand me, you have to understand my mental illnesses. I suffer from many, and have been fighting them my whole life. That’s what the last blog was about. To strip it down to lamens terms:

I developed social anxiety when I was at school, which led to depression and self harm. All of these three illnesses grew in strength throughout my teenage years and came to a head in late 2000 when I prepared myself for my first suicide attempt. Unsuccessful in this I carried on fighting. In December 2007 I was struck with Glandular Fever, which came at just the moment I had overcome all of my mental illnesses. A series of events followed in February 2007. Over the course of ten days I was diagnosed with leukemia, dumped by text message, kicked out of college and had my study/medical benefits denied - all whilst suffering from Glandular Fever. With no income, a serious terminal illness and the loss of my social network my brain collapsed and I suffered a nervous breakdown, which I am still battling against to this day. In November 2007 I was diagnosed with Bipolar Type 1 and in January 2008 forced to leave Australia. Which didn’t help, in fact it made everything worse. So now I’m back in Australia, in the city I love, doped up on medication and fighting hard to make my life work and prove to everyone that I’m not useless pathetic fuck up - that I am actually a decent human being worthy of life. A fact which is debatable in itself.

Although this blog isn’t about mental illness I have no doubt there will be references here and there to this part of my life. I still have good days and I still have bad days, there’s not much I can do about that. As I stress however on my previous blog I am more than my depression, I am more than my mental illnesses. I am a person, full of love, life, passion, exitement and humor - I know who I am at heart, it’s just that most people can’t see past the illnesses I suffer from, the illnesses I am tired of hiding from everyone and pretending aren’t there just to earn acceptance into the lives of the judgemental majority.

So that’s kinda a brief history of who I am, more detailed information can be found through the old blog at www.myjourneywithdepression.com, this blog is more about me; my life, my passions, my desires.

To paraphrase the ’about me’ page of my previous blog; I am a self harming, frequently suicidal, manic depressive with a severe social anxiety problem. I have few friends, am terminally lonely and suffer from a terminal illness along with numerous other physical complications. The chances of me living the life I wanted have gone, I just have to make the best of what time is left.

This blog is me - sharing my life, thoughts and loves with the world.

“You’re useless,”
“You never do anything right,”

If I were to sit down with a friend, black eye on display, and tell them that my partner had been physically abusing me it would be hard for them to disagree. The evidence in all its black, red and purple glory would be staring them in the face.

If I were to sit down with a friend, looking just the way I normally do, and tell them that my partner had been emotionally abusing me it would be hard for them to agree. The evidence would be locked away inside my mind, hidden from their view.

Or would it?

When I was in the city a couple of week’s ago I was strolling around one of the bigger book shops checking out all the books I had missed and/or wanted to read if only I could summon the focus to get through more than a page and I stopped – dumb founded – in a section which I just couldn’t believe.

Tragic Life Stories!

“Your photos are so boring, so uninspiring, why do you even bother?”
“You’re just contaminating me with your negativity,”
“You never do anything to help anyone - ever,”

There was crime, science fiction and fantasy, teenage fiction, literature, classics, history, biography, art, politics, adult, photography and then right in front of me in prominent display – tragic life stories. What the hell? Since when did this become its own genre? There were literally dozens upon dozens upon dozens of books all about exactly the same topic. Which is important, don’t get me wrong, but when I hopped over to the psychology section (if you can call it that) I could not see one title which examined abuse of any kind; it was just all comic-esque books about how eating an apple on the 14th July can stop depression for life, or that coloured day book; a collection of cute animal pictures with semi-topical lines derived from self help books (another genre I can’t stand – they’re written for people who are going through a relationship breakdown, of course they’re going to say you can learn a lot from pain. Which you can. But they never say you can learn more from happiness do they? Of course not, as this is the last thing the hurt person reading it is going to want to hear. I can categorically say that I learnt more about life from my happy moments than from all of my painful moments combined - but we’ll get to that in my last post on Friday) Give me The Black Day Book or the wonderful novel Happiness any day; exactly the same thing but streaked through with brilliant irony which teaches far more than a jaunty little sentence of self-help bullshit.

But I digress.

Tragic Life Stories and the complete absence of psychology books about abuse. That’s where I was.

“You never take my feelings into account ever,”
“Your sex is so boring, it never excites me,”
“Get your back waxed, it’s horrible,”

There is absolutely nothing wrong with telling stories about abused childhoods, relationships or lives – especially if it’s about bringing this topic to the fore. Abuse destroys lives. Simple fact. As I browsed the titles, and every single cover looked exactly the same I should point out – virtually identical cover art, font, title, everything – they were all about sexual or physical abuse. It was as if emotional abuse doesn’t exist, as if we can all whole heartedly believe in every form of abuse under the sun except this, or perhaps because we can’t believe in something that doesn’t have any evidence to back up the claims. Both physical and sexual abuse can leave physical evidence that the abuse has taken place; emotional abuse, not a jot.

“It’s not that I find you physically repulsive, it’s more that you’re just not at all interesting,”
“If you were beaten as a child you wouldn’t think like that,”
“You’re such a pathetic retard,”

Hence why if you sit down to tell someone you’ve been emotionally abused chances are they’re not going to believe you. Surely they’re just words taken out of context and if you had a “thicker skin” it would be doing no damage at all? Nope, can’t agree with this at all. Emotional abuse is just as if not more damaging than all other forms of abuse and I’m sick of it continuing to be the Loch Ness Monster of the abuse debate. It causes life long potentially irreparable damage; just as physical and sexual abuse. In fact emotional abuse often (not always) leads directly into physical and sexual abuse.

“You never do anything to care about anyone - ever,”
“You’re always so selfish, it’s always about you!”
“No-one gives a shit about what you’re going through, why should they, it’s not important?”

So what evidence, what damage, does emotional abuse cause? Let’s use me as a case study (I mean, who else am I going to use, this is my insipid ramble here!) What are the consequences of emotional abuse?

(The quotes you are reading by the way, weren’t just said once, they were said on multiple occasions throughout and after my relationship. The reason it is so hard to get people to believe in emotional abuse is that it just looks like you’re not taking criticism well, but they just don’t seem to realize how frequent and repetitive this criticism is that’s being thrown at you.

No matter what you are doing. No matter how much of yourself you’re putting in. No matter how honest and open you’re being. No matter how deeply and positively you believe in something. No matter how you are saying something. No matter how it’s being done.
It
Will
Be
Attacked.
There is a list on this blog which I wrote in mid 2006; everything on that list was attacked and criticized by my abuser with the knowledge of everything that was on the list as I had told her about it and shared its content with her.

The other problem with simply retyping comments that were said to me throughout this post is that their context is lost, and with emotional abuse it is often the context in which something is said that elevates it from mere criticism into overtly abusive territory. Take for example the following:

“Yep, I made the right decision in breaking up with you,”

Fair enough. We’ve all thought this at some point in time and whether or not we actually decide to say it is up to the individual. But when taken in context, this sentence takes on a slightly different and – for me – more potently damaging aspect.

I was phoned on a Sunday afternoon by my ex-girlfriend asking if I wanted to come round for a cup of tea. We were trying at this stage to be friends, possibly the worst mistake of my life, but having nothing better to do, and valuing the friendship we once had (as I still do), I agreed.

We met in a park and being Easter I took along a couple of cream eggs, as really, cream eggs are just delicious. We chatted for a bit before ending up strolling down Smith Street and then journeying back to her house. She was peckish, I was peckish, and we were both bored so decided to cook up something to eat before going to the cinema. She was also tired, so went to have a nap whilst I wandered to the cinema for a schedule before coming back to her place and cooking a fairly simple pasta and sauce meal. Due to the timing of the cinema the dishes were left, and we went to watch the always enjoyable Audrey Tatou. Walking her home she invited me back in and we began a lengthy conversation touching on various subjects which at times became quite deep and meaningful and as the evening drew on she said how it would be easy for her to flirt with me in order to get me to spend the night.

I’d never hidden the fact from anyone that I was still in love with her, never did, never have, never will – as I even stated in my first post on emotional abuse how I still loved her. We talked about what she was saying and it resulted in the fact that because she was lonely and at times needed company it would be nice to spend the night with someone, to which she also added that she also understood how it would appear that she would be using me, knowing how I still felt about her. Fuelled by mild narcotics and love I agreed, and we spent the night.

It was actually rather miraculous I was able to get it up that night given the fact my body was pumped full of anti-depressants and diazepam, but I did, albeit a little awkwardly (not surprising when you take into account that impotency and reduction in sex drive are two of the most common side effects of this form of medication).
Anyhow, the following morning whilst we were both still dozing, she rolled herself on top of me with her head resting on my bare chest. Aside from underwear we were both wearing not much else. So as she rested her head on my chest and the rest of her body lying on top of mine, she played with my chest hair with one hand, opened her mouth and with a smile said: “Yep, I made the right decision in breaking up with you,”

And I suppose it’s probably just me thinking that maybe that wasn’t quite the nicest thing to say. Not quite able to believe those words had just been spoken I just lay there in shock, and it wasn’t for quite a while that she moved herself from on top of me and we both set about getting up, dressed and ready for the day. I gathered my bits together, threw them in a bag and wandered into the kitchen to bid farewell. To say I was hurt by her sentence was an understatement. I gave her a hug and left. A few minutes later I received a text message saying I had left a few bits at her place which she didn’t want, which I had, and so returned to get them and was met with a tirade of anger about how I hadn’t stuck around to do the dishes or help her with the laundry. Which, to be honest, just pissed me off!

I had made her dinner whilst she slept, had long emotional conversations with her, spent the night with someone who had ripped the heart from my chest only a couple of months before because she was lonely and needed company, and who had upon lying half naked on top me that morning told me she was happy she had broken up with me. And yet I was at fault because after being so obviously used I hadn’t stuck around to do the boyfriend thing of helping her with her laundry and her dishes.

Similarly with the context of:

“You and Grace aren’t friends, you never were, you never will be, she doesn’t care about you and she’s tired of being there to listen to all of your pathetic little problems. You’re on your own,”

After having had a nervous breakdown, a painful relationship breakup, being diagnosed with leukemia, falling back into self harm, depression, suicidal thoughts and still suffering from glandular fever (all of which – besides the leukemia - she knew) – the last thing I needed was to be told I was on my own. Whether what she said was true or not I always thought of Grace and myself as friends, and to be told this was not how she felt hurt like buggery, especially given the state my mind and physical health were in at the time.

“I have so much more respect now for a manager I never met than I have for you, she was a much better manager,”
 “You treated her so badly when she was at the hostel, she hated you,”
“Your hugs were suffocating; I never really liked them,”

Words alone though aren’t all the emotional abuser will use.

There were the with-holding and refusal to do anything which she knew I would like or wanted, such as:

• The information that she had a boyfriend was something she didn’t share with her mother and despite knowing how much I wanted to meet her family it was never to be – despite several opportunities when it could have happened.
• Or the utter refusal to do something sexual to me she knew I wanted, without ever explaining why. It was in a sense with-holding something from me she knew would bring me pleasure as a means to retain control over the relationship.

Then there were the dramatics:

• The “climbing of a construction site” and storming into my room at 10pm to make sure I was okay after she had broken up with me because she hadn’t been able to get in touch since breaking up with me. (i.e. because I had been in Port Fairy without a phone battery or charger)
• Or the storming out of the room at random intervals because I wasn’t doing what she wanted me to do and testing whether I’d chase after her or not, despite the fact she never really actually told me what she wanted to be doing. I was supposed to guess that.

Then there were the actions:

• Such as the throwing of a glass of water over my head in a relatively crowded restaurant on New Years Day because my preference of Bond actor differed from hers and she needed me to realize how stupid it was to prefer that actor over her own opinion.

Then there was the fact that my feelings never mattered:

• The apparent refusal to accept I was suffering from glandular fever; so was expected to wander around a town, go for a half hour horse riding session and then hike 6km to a bus stop whilst initiating in-depth emotional conversations without actually feeling any pain. Despite the fact that whilst she had glandular fever I was on the receiving end of an hour long tirade for suggesting we walk less than a kilometer from a train station to our destination in the city. (I wasn’t taking her health or how she was feeling into consideration)
• My mental illness was not under any circumstances to be discussed in detail ever. Whenever I tried to raise the topic of depression, self harm or social anxiety it was instantly rejected out of hand as depressing and not worth talking about in any way. So I learned to never even attempt to bring it up first.
• Or the fact that all of the above examples can be listed under this also. My feelings about what I wanted or desired were not a good enough reason to do something, the fact that her not introducing me to or telling her mother/family about me made me feel she was completely ashamed of me but that never mattered or that maybe throwing a glass of water over my head for no real reason made me feel completely humiliated and the fact that my physical illnesses were merely me being pathetic and weak for suffering from conditions such as glandular fever.

Then there was the always present never allowing me to forget the mistakes I had made in the past, with the constant use of lines beginning with:

“You know 12 months ago you did this…”
“Two weeks ago, you did this…”
“Why, 11 months and 2 weeks ago, when you did this…”

Before going into lengthy detail about incidents I had myself forgotten and/or overcome the regret in my mind, only to have the whole situation constantly resurrected in my head to feel the pain of them all over again.

Plus the fact that no matter what I was going through she had always been through something of equal nastiness or in most cases something far worse:

• You’ve had a breakdown? Well I was having a breakdown as well.
• You’re suffering from depression? When I was a teenager I also suffered from depression and I wanted to kill myself but I got through it so you should just get over it and that’s that.
• You’ve not got any money? Well neither have I, despite the fact that I’ve just bought a $300 pair of boots, have three jobs and am receiving a few hundred in benefits every couple of weeks, I have no money either.
• Or the all time classic! When I sat down with her one afternoon to tell her I’d been diagnosed with leukemia. Before I could even get out fully what my situation was: “I’ve been in exactly the same situation as you have so you’re not going to get any sympathy from me, so don’t even bother going into it, I don’t want to hear,”

And that’s just the tip of the ice-berg. Yet through everything, through all of the occasions that I tried to find out why she was saying these things, or why she was criticizing and hurting me so much, the answer was always the same. It was either: ‘I don’t know,’ or, something familiar with cases of emotional abuse, ‘I was just trying to change you,’

As a result of emotional abuse I have changed! As a result, I:

• have lost all sense of self belief, self esteem and confidence. I have been reduced to a scared, frightened wreck, unable to believe I am capable of doing or achieving anything. I think that’s fairly obvious from a lot of the posts on this blog.
• cannot trust anyone, anywhere, and doubt I will be able to again.
• do not believe a single word of praise which is given to me.
• have inflicted self-injury on several occasions as a direct consequence of the emotional abuse I suffered.
• am literally afraid to talk to anyone in fear of a repeat of what happened to me. My ability to communicate has been destroyed, and any chance of emotional, open and intimate conversation has been lost.
• suffer from flashbacks and daily replays of moments and quotes from that time.
• have ended up in hospital as a result of some instances of the self injury inflicted as a result of the abuse.
• lost my college course due to my problems, issues and circumstances being unimportant compared to hers.
• have found my depression and related mental illnesses relapse to the worst point in my life to the point I don’t believe I’ll be able to get over it.
• spent several hundred dollars that I couldn’t afford on psychologists and counselors in an effort to overcome the PTSD, anxiety, panic and related disorders which the abuse created.

That’s a fair whack of damage; internal, external, physical and financial – all with long reaching and devastating consequences on the rest of my life. So for my abuser, rejoice, because you definitely succeeded in changing me. And for those who think emotional abuse is merely friendly criticism that’s being taken in the wrong way.

WAKE UP!

There is so much more that needs to be done to make people realize that this is not acceptable behavior. It is almost impossible for both the abuser and abused to realize and understand what is happening during the relationship, even if this is the case the abused will often be unable to break up the relationship because their love of the person is far too strong to be able to do this. The abuser has control, which is what everything is about, which is why there is the criticism, the games, the tests and manipulation. They must at all times ascertain their control over their relationship and the people in their life, and most often, do not even realize this is what they are doing.

If you are being emotionally abused find a friend, find someone you trust and talk to them about what is going on. If they don’t believe you then find someone else. Emotional abuse exists, it is destroying lives, and more needs to be done. Those Tragic Life Stories littering the shops are not just books – they are lives – real human people who are never going to be the same and who will not be able to live the life they want. This is the damage of abuse. Physical, Sexual, Emotional, whatever – abuse should not be tolerated.

Every quote, every incident, every moment detailed on this page and thousands more replay in my head virtually all day every day. Nothing I do makes it go away, nothing I do seems to be able to make it stop. That’s what emotional abuse does. Is it any wonder I hate myself? Why I cut myself? Hit myself? Believe my hallucination so much? Abuse sucks, and until you’ve experienced it, I don’t think you’ll ever fully understand it’s long reaching soul destroying consequences.

“You should tape record your voice, it’ll make you realize how boring and monotonous it is, and so you should just kill yourself,”
“Your kisses were terrible, I never enjoyed them, my ex was the most perfect kisser in the world,”
“You never say anything interesting – ever,”

Related posts:

• Emotional Abuse
• Emotional Abuse: Resources and Information
• My Nervous Breakdown

If you’re keeping up to date with the blog then you’ll be aware that I once ran away. There has been fleeting mentions of this particular period in my life in several of the posts. The most recent mention was in The Video Adventures of Addy in Scotland: Inverness where I describe this particular period as simply “(a long story)”.

Well, slip on your most comfortable undies and whisk up that hot chocolate as I’m about to tell that story.

On Train: Guildford>>London Waterloo.
11th September 1997 - 7:12pm.

This is insane.
Still - I am 2hrs 20mins away from alienating family, friends and close acquaintances.
For the last five years or so - possibly stretching onto six or seven - I have never felt like me in my entirety. Sure I have got on with things: I’ve loved but I haven’t, I’ve lived but I haven’t.

The ‘event’ which most people (I’m sure) will recall happening during September 1997 was the death of Princess Diana. This actually happened the first day I was there. Waking up in the morning I flicked on the TV, found my show wasn’t on because of some annoying news flash, so pilfered my bro’s VHS collection (those were the days) and ended up watching Balto. When this movie ended I flicked back onto the TV to find the shows I was expecting still not on and this infernal newsfla…oh…Princess Diana has been killed. Ok. Right. Fair enough.

It really changed the whole feel of the week, instead of a lightning fast rush around of Guildford with occasional trips to London to party on in the West End and Soho, it was a much more contemplative period. At the time, despite suffering from social anxiety, I was still able to go to plays and concerts and would always try to catch at least one show whenever I was in London. On this occasion I seem to recall watching Shopping and F*****gwhich was rather interesting but - oooooohhhh, naked breasts! Shock!

As the days rolled on I watched some movies, wandered the streets, wrote to my hearts content, and generally carried onwards with my break from home. Princess Diana’s funeral came and went, Candle in the Windplayed in all the shops and I meandered the ghost-city Guildford had become. Then, walking back from the supermarket one night, I just said to myself, “I’m going to Scotland,”

If I were to try and explain my reasons this the only answer I could give would be ummmmmmm? Because I have absolutely no idea. It came out of nowhere and I just did it. Massively out of character for me, really. There I was watching movies, checking out live-theatre-breasts and watching the public reaction to Diana’s death - then suddenly, I was writing dozens of letters to all sorts of people because I just had to write them right then and there before I went and then I packed, threw everything I had into a backpack, wandered to the train station, journeyed to London Euston and boarded the sleeper train to Inverness.

No phone calls.

Didn’t tell anyone.

Just left a letter in my brother’s flat.

Loch Ness Backpackers: Lewiston (nr Drumnadrochit):
“What I did stumble onto was a split in what I thought was the Ness, an island in the middle. Various people passed by in both directions so I guessed it went somewhere. I just kept going. After an extremely fast hour or so I began milling on thoughts in self-conversation. “This is the Caledonian canal. It must be…it must!” I worked out in a somewhat over excited fit of glee and still ongoing disbelief of the situation I had placed myself into. Only after I found that the island I was on didn’t go anywhere, causing me to turn back some ½ a mile to cross a lock and experience my first meeting with a Scot (a really cool woman in a grocer store near the Donagharry Lock) to venture out to my forethought route - the A82. Cars, lorries, coaches, bikes all deafening me as I continued on.”

[Oh, all the "italicised" bits are actual extracts from the journal I kept during that period.]

Anyway, I arrived in Inverness and just carried on with the plan I had formulated over those hectic two days before leaving Guildford. It was a simple plan that can be summed up in 9 words:

I was going to walk from Inverness to Drumnadrochit.

 

Now, anyone who has ever been to this particular part of Scotland will know of the A82. It is the main road (Highway if you like) which runs between Inverness, Fort William and Glasgow. It is a bitch of a road; there’s no sidewalks or space for walkers, so to find a bizarre guy with a 15kg backpack wandering down this stretch of road is not all that common. However for one particular bus driver it became common that day as we waved at each other every time he drove past.

Loch Ness Backpackers: Lewiston (nr Drumnadrochit):
“My mind. Even being blasted with joy and hate as it was, still forged on, despising the thought of the HUGE blisters and stiff to rigid muscles I would have when I finally decided to stop.
Drumnadrochit is nothing to what I imagined (as I couldn’t remember from my one visit as a child). For some obscure reason I pictured a quaint little fisher town on the very shores of the loch with bustling streets full of eccentric Scots and pleasing “O’Hara” beauties. It is in fact fairly small, a good ¾ of a mile from the loch’s shore, has only a few touristy shops and a post office. It is pretty quiet and comprises of mainly B&Bs. After buying an ice lolly (funky lemon calypso) and water I choose (for some unidentifiable reason) to push on further; to see the castle up close for surely it isn’t far. It can’t be. About a mile at a slowing pace: it is a splendid beauty, utterly gorgeous from the distance I viewed it at. A photo was taken, the water guzzled - I was asked by a tourist about B&Bs - why? Like I know! I decide to find somewhere at Drumnadrochit instead of killing my feet even further.”

Again, if I were to try and explain my reasons for doing all this the only answer I could give would be ummmmmmm?

Following my hike from Inverness to Drumnadrochit I journeyed to Fort William by bus, exploring for the first time a town which has become so intertwined with my life, and it was days before thoughts began creeping into my mind about what it was that I had actually done. Which was, to all intent and purpose, the fact I had vanished off the face of the planet.

I had written in the letter to my family (the one left in my brother’s flat) that I was going away and that I’d phone them. I didn’t mention that I was going to Scotland, nor of my plan to walk to Drum, despite the fact that I knew all this before writing the letter. Again, I have no idea why I didn’t write this.

It’s because of this lack of cohesion, or memory of the specific events, that I’ve connected this to bipolar. By the time I ran away I had been self-harming for several years, social anxiety was rife and my ability to communicate with people virtually non-existent. Depression was prevalent and controlling, and from the remaining journal entries of the time, suicide was being bandied about as an option. I wouldn’t say this was a true manic phase, but the immediacy of the decision, the utter conviction of my plans and feeling rather confident that it was without a shadow of a doubt the right thing to do, all in some way, throw positives on the bipolar connection.

I’ve never been proud of this period of my life. Not once. Ever.

Running away from home was a terrible thing to do, and the pain and worry I caused my family was completely unacceptable (and I paid for this upon my return). So writing now that I believe it to be connected with the then undiagnosed or even unthought of bipolar seems like making light of my actions, even excusing them, but this isn’t the case. I did the wrong thing - but for me, at the time, it was the only thing that felt right to do.

Despite the pain I was causing my family back home things were quietly simmering away for me in Scotland.

The Mission Backpacker Hostel: Fort William:
Take for example my return at F. Willy train station, I usually walk with my head facing downwards yes? Well today I didn’t, when I exited the train for the first time in memory I was walking with my head upright, it may not sound much but to me that was everything. I passed a pretty girl and in the past eye contact would not have been made, but as it was I automatically flashed a smile. Knowing myself, and my shy soul, this was a major advancement and something must be going right.

This was “huge” for me at the time. I never ever ever made eye contact with strangers - the mere thought of doing so was enough to cause a panic attack so to actually, without hesitation or thought make eye contact and smile at a complete (yet utterly beautiful) stranger was amazing!

Though, since the diagnosis of bipolar I’ve been looking back over my life at these moments of madness and confused reality and things have become skewed as to whether it was truly me or perhaps the manic-me.

At the time I ran away I hadn’t even heard of bipolar, didn’t know what manic depression was. I knew about depression and self harm, obviously, even though I never spoke of it. At this time I was just a crazy teen who’d runaway from home; despite no-one I was meeting actually being told this. I mean, c’mon, you don’t tell someone you’ve run away do you? Kinda defeats the purpose. That’s hard enough for a normal runaway, let alone someone who suffers from a mental illness.

What a lot of people don’t seem to realise is that some sufferers of mental illness have great difficulty talking about how they’re feeling. Sometimes because they don’t even know themselves. I was - am- one of these people. The social anxiety makes everything a hundred times worse but talking about my feelings has always been something I’ve been terrible at, which is something that has infuriated so many people in my life. I dread to think of the number of homeless, runaways and missing persons out there who are mentally ill, unable to comprehend what’s happening or even how they got to where they are. All those lost, aimlesss, confused souls filling all the gaps in the world which most people don’t even notice exist.

I guess I notice them ’cause I’ve been there. I’ve slept under trees, on benches and in minus temperatures. I’ve been homeless and penniless and on the brink of disaster.

Anyhow.
My travels continued.
I spent the weekend in Fort William, visited Glenfinnan - a place which has become so closely intertwined with my life and fate - and then travelled back up the A82 to Inverness where the social anxiety continued to decrease slightly.

Bazpackers Hostel - Inverness:
It’s the time we spent seemingly unaware of each others names that is surreally amusing. We were together for the most part from about 6 thru 11 last night, chatting for a couple of hours at the hostel before venturing to the streets of Inverness for a pint or two. After being drowned out of an Irish bar by the football on big screen TV w4e lost ourselves looking for a hostel-recommended place known as the ‘old market inn’ after half an hour traipsing, directions asked, we found it: down an alley, up a thin flight of stairs to a room no larger than my bedroom back home. It was quaint. Quiet. But somehow inviting: as a live singer milled up to the stage to perform some easy going well played tunes. He wasn’t bad. However, we were after something a little more lively so pushed on, popping into a bar where the pink haired hostel girl worked - then just wandering uneventfully round the town, across the river, simply chatting.

From there I travelled to Aberdeen, through Portlethen and then down to Stirling. Memories of my childhood firing back at me on all cylinders. I would think of home, of my parents and friends, all the letters I’d written, wondering why or how and what I was going to say. But as I couldn’t answer this I never picked up the phone. Stirling led to Edinburgh, Edinburgh led to…home.

And the inevitable showdown.

From my own experience the fear and dread of re-emerging after disappearing off the face of the Earth was enough to make me not want to return. Is this the same for all runaways? Is this why so many people just disappear? Because the fear surrounding the reality of what they’ve done is too consuming for them to deal with? It was incredibly hard to do, to see the relief on their faces, hear of being reported missing (for the first, but not last time of my life) and the pain and confusion I had put them through. As I said before, I have always felt ashamed of running away, but in another way exhilarated also.

That may sound callous, but it’s true. That week opened up my life. Until then it had been social anxiety, self harm, depression and confused blackness. Now - there was a whole world out there. There were places called backpacker hostels out there! This alone would have huge repercussions later in my life!

The final journal passage of this trip read as follows:

Carlisle Train Station -
So we reach Carlisle and I am now, once again, officially out of the country I will always call ‘home’. To be totally honest I feel such a great connection with the country that I honestly believe I spent a former life amongst it’s gorgeous glens. Either that or I’ve taken way too much solace in it over the years! Still, it has been a grand week. From the rolling fields and sloping hills of the lowlands to the treacherous mountains and mysterious lochs of the highlands. I have had a wondrous time. Maybe it’s down to the people I’ve met; the Islamic Enigma, Danny, Paul, The pink haired girl, the kind drunken couple, and lest not forget the funky Canadian. Or maybe it was the sights I have seen; the view over Loch Shiel from the viaduct, seeing the dark mountains and mist covered water of Loch Ness, passing through old haunts or the darkened built up beauty of the capitol. It’s all been a wonder.
Then again.
Maybe it’s down to the fact I lived a dream. Or for the first time in years know me. At some point I would have feared what may be awaiting back home, now, after the last week, I don’t care. Things have to happen and payments made for the decisions we make.

I feel good, about me. For the first time in years I feel truthfully happy.
Happy.

From this, you could say that I’m praising running away as a valid decent choice. It’s not!The pain I caused was far worse than any of the positives which came out of that event. In the long term also, the positives faded and I descended into a far worse period of depression than I had been in before I ran. This is the problem with running away. Everyone has problems and everyone wants them to go away, but running is never the answer.

With so many lost souls out there unsure of what was, is and will happen in their lives I wonder how many are suffering from mental illness and not getting the treatment they need, I wonder why they ran away in the first place, and what made them feel so alone in the world to make them want to. Having been there, I understand the confusion and torment which can go on in someone’s mind when they decide to vanish, and the hardship in making contact to let people know where they are.

Talking, opening up and sharing your problems is hard; but no-one in life needs - or should ever be - alone.

So this is my new home.

As I don’t actually have any place I can call home in the “real world” it’s nice to have a place to call a home in cyberspace, especially with an address that I can call my “own”.

My decision to move to my own domain has been a long time coming, it’s something I’ve wanted to do since I started writing this blog back on blogspot so many moons, mood swings and lifetimes ago I can barely recall who I was back then. My move to wordpress was, in essence, a way to try out their software whilst I pondered and tweaked with the whole “is it possible/feasible/worth it” debate.

Eventually I decided, as it was something I desired, it was worth it. So often in life we never get what we want, no matter how much work we put in to realise our dreams.

Hopefully the move will prove undramatic, but as I have become accustomed to dramatics in life I’m sure there will be some hiccups along the way.

For those who have followed me over from my wordpress.com blog, all the posts found on that site are here and complete so you can re-read and study to your hearts content. new posts will, mood dependant as always, fly either thick and fast powered by uncontrollable mania - or trickle along slower than a snail trying to escape his arch rival the slug (who is intent on stealing his home) - hopefully the former :)

For those of you who are finding me for the very first time. Don’t be too scared! :) Granted I have my obscure moments, but peak beneath the surface and the labels and you’ll find a surprisingly interesting guy. The best thing to do is have a wander and see what you find.

I recommend a trip to the INDEX where you’ll find answers to the most commonly asked questions. Perhaps then a visit to the UNDERSTANDING MENTAL ILLNESS page where you can read more about the various forms of mental illness which exist in the world, as well as lengthy passages about my own experience of dealing with these illnesses which I have had thrust upon me.

To keep you up to date you can subscribe to my RSS FEED or by EMAIL; and for those of you who decide to subscribe by email you will be in the running to win a wonderful prize every two weeks, just for subscribing! So hop to it.

If you’d like to know more about me you can have a wee gander here, and please let me know a little about yourselves, it’s always good to meet new people.

I look forward to settling into my new home and getting to know you all better :)

Welcome one and all to the Carnival of Mental Illness, so let’s wait not a minute longer…

—–ISSUE V—–

Articles and Discussion

Deb Serani presents
Chemical Signature of Bipolar Disorder posted at Dr.Deb
This post looks at the chemical signature of Bipolar disorder, and how mental illness is often neurobiological in origin. 

Isabella Mori presents
An Interview with writer Laurie R. King posted at change therapy
An interview with the mystery/thriller writer whose characters are often dealing with mental health problems.

Doc presents
Depression: A disordered mind, body and soul posted at Mind, Soul and Body

Romeo Vitelli presents
Saving Ezra Pound posted at Providentia

Jose DeJesus MD presents
Physician Rating System Supported by Governer Cuomo posted at Physician Entrepreneur

Shaheen Lakhan presents
The Top Ten Secrets of the Mental Health Field: Part I
and
The Top Ten Secrets of the Mental Health Field: Part II
posted at GNIF Brain Blogger 

Personal Stories

Doc presents
Depression: My Story posted at Mind, Soul and Body

Society Stigma

Peter Jones presents
Alcoholism and Bipolar Disorder: New Book posted at Great New Books

Shaheen Lakhan presents
Brain Damage: In the Clinical Dark Ages posted at GNIF Brain Blogger

The Suicide Taboo

Carole Gold presents
A Message for the Children posted at McKay Today

and my own personal favorite this month

Therapy Doc presents
Choosing a Therapy Doc, or is that a Dodo bird? posted at Everyone Needs Therapy

—–

The sixth edition will be released on:
26th March 2008.

Submission Deadline:
25th March 2008.

SUBMIT ARTICLE ¤ BLOG CARNIVAL HOME ¤ CONTACT ME

Following on from Part I (which you can read here), I’m continuing my look at great books dealing with mental health related conditions. In this second part, we take a look at books written by people who have had first hand experience of mental illness. These are their stories of the battles, trials and tribulations they have had to face.

—

1. Alone by Myself by Melanie Voss

“Just a few months short of her 18th birthday, Melanie, a talented student & aspiring writer, commits suicide. Through her writing, she captures the thoughts & feelings of a teenager dealing with all the joy & stress of being on the brink of adulthood.”

Without doubt one of the finest accounts of suffering from a mental illness that I’ve ever read. I stumbled across this book in my favourite second hand bookshop in Melbourne (Book Affair, Carlton) and never having heard of it before and having a few spare dollars in my pocket and an empty space where a book should be in my life I picked it up. This book filled that space for only a few hours - the time it took for me to devour this absolutely captivating account of a teenagers battle with depression.

The book is made up of a series of diary entries written by Melanie throughout her teenage years, up until her untimely suicide days before her eighteenth birthday. Her death has robbed the world of a marvellous literary talent, her writing is honest, heartfelt and for the majority of the time downright beautiful in it’s portrayal of a young woman unsure of her place in the world and her attempts to understand and overcome her depression.

This is such a hard book to get hold of, which is a shame, as it should be required reading for all teenagers and adults alike. It is fantastic in bringing to light the problem of depression amongst young adults and in showing the world that sometimes teenagers are not suffering from “teen angst” but problems far more serious and life affecting.

You can find this book on Amazon here if you are interested in tracking down a copy.

2. You Don’t have to be Famous to have Manic Depression by Jeremy Thomas & Tony Hughes

This is a book in three parts, and it’s layout is such that I could include it not only in this part of my book features but also the next part (dealing with non-fiction). The first part of the book is a series of interviews between manic depressive Jeremy Thomas and his doctor of many years, Tony Hughes. It is a revelatory account of someone suffering from manic depression and debunks several of the myths and preconceptions surrounding the illness. It is a gloriously entertaining read packed with humour and insightful comments. The second part of the book is a series of “articles” written by other sufferers of manic depression talking about how the illness has affected their lives and how they’ve coped. The third part of the book is in appearance a brief encyclopedia of mental illness which at first view would appear pretty darned boring. However, infused with the wit of the authors is a compelling read from A-Z (or just as a way to look something up should the need arise)

I found this book by accident at my local library last week when I was looking  for I Never Promised You a Rose Garden (which I talked about last week) and am currently plowing through it during the odd moments I have the attention required to read.

This comes highly recommended (and if you fancy winning yourself a copy, check out the exclusive subscriber only competition on this blog!)

3. Bloodletting by Victoria Leatham

So few books have been written on the subject of self-harm, let alone books dealing with the personal account of a self-harmer so it’s fantastic to see a book available that is just this. Throughout her teens and twenties Victoria Leatham was a self-harmer, and this is an account of her life and how self-harm affected it. She discusses this taboo subject matter in an honest and at times ‘in your face’ style that in some sense is what this topic requires in order to smash down the misconceptions surrounding the issue. It takes a great deal of courage to write about yourself in such an honest style, and for this I have great admiration for the author.

—

So after those three books above I thought I would look at a few books which I haven’t actually read. As I mentioned above when I get into a depressed episode I find it hard to read, which frustrates me so, as I adore reading. Thus, as a means to get me reading again, I’m going to try one of the following (whichever I find first) and give it a go…and when I’ve finished I’ll let you know.

—

4. Depression and How to Survive It by Spike Milligan & Anthony W. Clare

“Spike Milligan reveals the dark side of his life in this book which is co-written with his psychiatrist Anthony Clare. He recalls the traumas of his childhood, his highly-strung mother, his largely absent father, the cruelties of a colonial upbringing and of sadism towards animals, the break-up of his first marriage, the mortar bomb which blew him up in Italy and the overwork which gave him a mental breakdown during the “Goon Show”. This book charts the development of this depression and his strategies for dealing with it were improvised, as both when he would get drunk with Peter Sellers, and clinically in his discussions with Clare.”
Find out more about this book on Amazon.

5. The Naked Bird Watcher by Suzy Johnston

“The Naked Birdwatcher takes you on the journey of a highly gifted young Woman from her schooldays to approaching her thirtieth birthday. A journey travelled though often on her own, never alone. It is a journey of a young woman’s awakening to the realisation of how her own mind which along with her athletic ability had worked with her to achieve the fabulous goals of her youth, begins to fight against her as she approaches adulthood and betrays her in her University years. A fight, we are unsure whether she will win or ultimately lose. We journey with her through her ordinary life (its ordinariness making the book ever more poignant) the battles, the triumphs and the defeats. The battles with her mind along with the battles she has to fight with some of those closest to her too blinkered to realise that nobody would make manic depression a life choice. The Naked Bird Watcher gives hope to those travelling with Manic Depression and those they take along with them. It also highlights the importance of having a support network to help you on your journey. Suzy it would seem has an exceptional support network, this will hopefully inspire those who could help a friend or family member with manic depression to try that bit harder to be there when needed. I have taken from this book that manic depression is a companion anyone could discover they have on their life’s journey; sometimes asleep, sometimes dozing, sometimes with them in their every waking minute. The aim and hope it would seem, is to find a way to get it to sleep and keep it sleeping. Everyone should read this book, it is an inspiration to all to see what can be achieved and how battles can be won if you believe in yourself enough and others believe in you.”
You can find out more about this book at Amazon.

6. The Rock Pillow: A Personal Account of Schizophrenia by Mark Lynne Folkard

“Staggering along through the night with my overnight bag, I made my way back to the trucking station. I was hallucinating badly again; I could see bodies and blood spread over the footpath and road in front of me. I felt as though I was walking through a horrific accident. The smell of blood and human flesh was on my own skin and made me flinch.”
Read more about this book at Bookworm.

—

So there we have it, six personal accounts out of thousands dealing with mental illness. If any of you have any personal favourites be sure to drop a comment so others can check them out, and stay tuned for a look at six great non-fiction books in the third and final part of this trilogy.

Gosh, I should have written this yesterday but then I was a little out of it…and gosh, I should write more posts starting with that mighty fine word - gosh - what has been going on in my head today? Racing ecstatic thoughts, mind numbing tedium, utter frustration at banks and the bloody job centre! And - oh my - have I been fixated on sex today!

Ummm?

Ah yes, the hospital, what fun and shenanigans that was…

Anyways, the hospital. Was it a hospital? Not really, I suppose clinic would be the more apt term for the appointment I had. In fact I guess the term ‘the most boring building I have ever laid eyes on’ would be the most apt term, I didn’t realise until yesterday morning that a building could be so grey in both appearance, feel and colour. I smoked myself into a lung cancer ward, fought of mounting panic and anxiety and stepped through the doors with my long billowing Highlander/flasher jacket and was hit by a wall of sheer ice. Not literally of course, their heating had failed, which left everyone in the waiting room looking like icicles and caused the woman conducting my “assessment” to lose the power of hand writing due to the extreme dunes of frost which had built up on her fingers.

I am exaggerating of course.

The appointment kicked off at 9:30am, damned prompt as medical appointments go, and I swathed into the room and onto the chair where my leg proceeded to dance it’s merry jiggly samba (it has a predisposition to vibrate like something which, well, vibrates, when I am in such a state of anxiety) and she attempted to calm my nerves with small chit-chatty talk about the weather and the glory of being back in the UK. Glory? Glory to me is a fine-assed Big Bad from Buffy. There is nothing glorificus about being back in the UK! And then:

Her: So, tell me a little about your expectations and what you’re hoping to get in terms of treatment.

[Of course, with my brain the way it is at the moment (i.e. even though I am writing words onto the screen I am not thinking about them, instead, right now, I'm thinking about Glory because I just mentioned her - and well - she's a woman) the questions I'll be writing down as having been asked to me are not spot on word-for-word quotes, merely a rough indication of what was asked.]

Me: Ummmm, nothing.
Her: Nothing?
Me: Well, aside from the fact that I’ve been fighting mental illness alone for so long it would be nice to get a little bit of professional help - I mean that is what you do isn’t it? And, having been engaged in an all out war with the Australian mental health service for the last 12 months (12 months!) in which I lost ground faster than the Water Voles in their great struggle with the Mole kingdom of ‘75 and achieved absolutely nothing in terms of treatment other than various forms of anti-depressants which just screwed me up even more. No, I don’t really have any expectations really.
Her: I’ll just write ‘hoping for proper and effective treatment then’ shall I?

[Of course, I wouldn't take the words I'm writing here to be direct translations of my actual answers either - trust me - if I'd started talking about the great war between the Water Voles and Mole Kingdom in a mental health assessment I'm fairly confident I would be writing this post on the back of a stale cracker in a mental asylum.]

[Of course, I don't actually even believe their was a great war between the Water Voles and the Mole Kingdom, this was something I only just thought of to get my mind off Glory's posterior - and it worked - if only for those brief few moments.]

If I were to work through the entire assessment I’d be here all day. I had expected the appointment to last for about an hour, maybe less, but it was a whopping 93minutes I was vibrating in that tiny room looking out the window at the spectacular view of…a grey brick wall! Absolutely true! Yet more grey! There were three pipe ends which kindof looked like a face with it’s mouth open :o which reminded me of something which I’m now thinking about in respect to Glory.

It was basically what I have done so many times now that I have most of the answers on automatic response. The history of Addy and his insanity…basically what I’ve been talking about on the blog for the last several months. Which, yep, got a mention (go publicity!): all started at school…bullying…shyness…social anxiety…self harm…depression…hallucinations…kindof managed to get it all under control for a bit…emigration…Australia…BAM…nervous breakdown…massive relapse…the manic adventures of Addy in Adelaide…bipolar diagnosis…etc…etc…etc…and then all of a sudden, completely out of the blue, a question not a single person had ever asked me before. Not any of the GPs I’ve seen, none of the mental health gurus in Oz, no-one. Not a single person.

Her: So, tell me a little about your sexual history. Indiscretions? What age did it all begin happening? Any issues or problems in this area? Are you able to achieve an erection or do you require drugs or manual assistance? And tell me a little about what is psychologically going on in this respect.
Me: Ummm?
Her: …
Me: Errrrr?
Her: …I know it’s embarrassing, it is for me, but it’s something they will need to know.

[Of course, I had no idea who "they" were - the Moles perhaps?]

Me: Okay…I…well…I was a bit of a ‘late starter’…well…physically I was…well…what I mean by that was…ummm…physically with other people. I was actually quite young when I had my first sexual experience. I’m actually quite a sexual guy, I think about it a LOT and I’m a bit adventurous and when I’m manic - wow - tie me down!

[Of course, you can if you want to ;) And of course, I'm stopping the 'answer' there as I'm sure none of you desire to know about the inner workings of my sexual life...]

It just completely and utterly threw me! There was me expecting the same crap I’ve been through dozens of times now and I was suddenly talking about erections, losing my virginity and all that sexy slurpy stuff which is generally only talked about everywhere other than a mental health assessment!

Moving on! (See, told you I was in a weird one today!) The upshot of the whole assessment was that we covered each and every aspect of the ‘basic’ mental health (and sexual) history of Addy. All of it got written down on several pieces of paper and then as the clock kept ticking away as it tends to do, she pulled out three quizzes which had to be filled out. They were risk assessment quizzes and I had never done one of these before so I got a bit excited, not sure why, as it just entailed answering yes or no to a variety of questions - a tad disappointing as I was hoping for some general knowledge, literature or entertainment questions. Those quiz writers really should take a quiz in pub quiz writing styles to mix up their brain teasers a bit.

The three quizzes were:

• Do you pose a threat either physically or psychologically to another person?
• Do you pose a threat either physically or psychologically to yourself?
• Neglected?

And how did I fare?

• Zero. Zilch. Nada. Zip. Nothing. Nought. I am more likely to time travel than harm someone else.
• ABSO-FRIGGING-LUTELY! COMPLETE AND UTTER “SEVERE” GRADE ON THIS ONE!
• Kindof. The sort of boring result where I’m not in a state of utter neglect to warrant any concern, but you would avoid me in the street sometimes due to my apparent confusing odour and current bad taste of clothes.

I was at least hoping to win a gift voucher for scoring highly on the danger to myself quiz, but alas, all I got was a wee smile and a slightly increased vibration in the thigh area. Better than nothing I suppose.

And this concluded the appointment. She gathered her variety of paperwork together and told me what happened next…which is that they all gather together on Wednesday to have a laugh over my answers (I’m sure that’s why the sex questions were asked) and then they will get back to me in regards to further treatment (if any is applicable) which will either be an appointment with a medic, a series of counselling sessions or the swift sectioning of this utterly and ludicrously insane gentleman. Me? Gentleman? Sometimes I s’pose.

I billowed my way out of the clinic (love that quote, even if it does make me look like I’m gonna leap out and reveal myself from time to time) and instantly lit up a cigarette and all I could think about was why they’d ask that sex question…and why hadn’t I answered it better?

All in all though I can honestly say that it was a lotmore thorough, detailed and ominously could-actually-go-somewhere than any of the appointments I’d had in Australia. She actually seemed like she wantedto help rather than me being a disposition in her otherwise ravenously exciting day, which was how I felt at the culmination of several of my appointments in Australia (especially when they discharged me from hospital after suicide attempts - ahhh, let him go, he’ll only get in the way of our arvo pub meal if he stays) so this is a good thing!

I will of course keep you all updated on this ongoing saga as soon as the next development takes place.

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And what of today I hear you ask?

Well, I’m not allowed to open a new account with a new bank as I don’t have an income, which IMHO is utterly bizarre, so right now am not not sure where the money from the great Addy-eBay-sellout is going to be paid into.

Plus, the ongoing saga with the Jobcentre/benefits agency is beginning to scale even greater epic heights of frustrating absurdity (and I haven’t even really started talking about that on the blog yet so why start now?).

Oh, and I went to Newport today (the nearest city) which is quite possibly the most uninspiring city outside of Cardiff. I went there to get a book from the library, one of the ones from my list I wrote the other day.

I’d looked it up on the web last night so knew they had it, knew which section it was in -  and when I got there - nothing. Nothing in the other sections, nothing on the online catalogue, nothing anywhere, even the staff knew nothing about it! What the hell? So when I arrived back home I immediately got on the internet to try and solve this puzzle and it turns out I had been looking at the Newport, Oregon library website. Thus, at least I know if I ever find myself several thousand miles away in a library somewhere in America they will have the book I want to read!

Moral of the story? Make sure you’re on the right website!

If you want Newport, Wales libray - go to this!
If you want obscure mental health blog posts from a guy who thinks he’s a lot like the guy in the picture - stay where you are!
If you want porn - follow me… :p

Okay, so you’re interested in mental illness and you have a love of books, so why not combine these two interests and read about mental illness. In this first part of a trilogy I take a look at some excellent books which have dealt with mental health.

Firstly, the world of fiction. Now, I could of course throw in some of the obvious one’s here (ya know, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest or Girl Interrupted) but I thought it would be a little more interesting to look at some books you may not have heard of.

So, as I’m always full on contradiction (what human isn’t?) I’ll start with perhaps the most famous…

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1. The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

It has been rather a long time since I read this book, it was somewhere in the hiatus between leaving school and beginning work at the Video Store when I read this book. It’s highly possible it was purchased in a wonderful yet now no longer existing book-store in Guildford, but that’s debatable. It deals with depression primarily but also covers hospitalisation, electro-shock therapy, breakdown and suicide attempts.

As I say due to the length of time since I read this book it isn’t very fresh in my mind, I may have to re-read it. It was one of the first novels which I read which dealt with depression, and really, it’s considered to be a classic for a reason.

2. A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby

A contemporary novel dealing with suicide. I read this a couple of years ago after picking it up on a cheap second hand book stall in Melbourne, it languished on my shelf for several months before I finally got around to checking it out. It’s plot concerns four strangers who meet up on the top of a tower block all planning to kill themselves and given the seriousness of the subject you’d be surprised at how funny this book is. Sure, you’ll feel a little guilty from time to time laughing along at this darkest of dark topics - but Hornby writes with such a deft skill and wit that you can’t help being carried along with it.It contains the perfect mix of melancholy, humour and depression and is a great book to get stuck into - even if it isn’t the greatest book ever written.

3. Veronika Decides to Die by Paulo Coelho

A friend gave me this to read after I told them I was feeling depressed and suicidal a couple of years ago. It was quite hard to get through at the time, quite often when I am in my depressed moods I find it very difficult to read even a couple of pages let alone a whole book, so this episode didn’t help. I did however persevere and did rather enjoy this book.Not all of it, parts had me quite infuriated and angry, other bits had me wondering what the author was thinking. There were however some utterly beautiful sequences, sections and writing to wonder and behold at. I think Paulo Coelho is a bit of an acquired taste, and even though I haven’t read all of his work, this book did give me a taste to check out some of his other offerings.

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So after those three books above I thought I would look at a few books which I haven’t actually read. As I mentioned above when I get into a depressed episode I find it hard to read, which frustrates me so, as I adore reading. Thus, as a means to get me reading again, I’m going to try one of the following (whichever I find first) and give it a go…and when I’ve finished I’ll let you know.

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4. I Never Promised You a Rose Garden by Joanne Greenberg

“I Never Promised You a Rose Garden is a semi-autobiographical account of Joanne Greenberg’s experience with mental illness. This book was originally published in 1964 under the pseudonym Hannah Green in order to protect her family from the stigma that often accompanies a psychiatric diagnosis. When Greenberg’s family learned more about her history with mental illness, she allowed the book to be reprinted using her real name. In addition to the book making people aware of the stigma that comes with mental illness Greenberg wrote the book to give a realistic portrayal of the experience of mental illness. Deborah Blau is an adolescent who has been sent to a mental hospital, by her parents to be treated for schizophrenia after attempting to commit suicide. The book follows Deborah through the course of her stay at the hospital, flashing back to Deborah’s childhood while taking the reader to the world of Yr. Yr is a world of Deborah’s own creation that previously provided her with comfort and sanctuary, but at the time of her hospitalization it had begun turning into a frightening and condemning place for Deborah. Throughout the course of the story Deborah bounces between the “human world” and Yr unable to incorporate or choose between the two worlds.”
Read the rest of this review at Biblioreview

5. Red Tears by Joanna Kenrick

“Red Tears is a new novel for teenagers. On the surface it’s about a teenage girl who turns to self-harm when she finds things are getting on top of her. She is in her GCSE year at school (age 15 for non-UKers) and is being treated badly by her so-called ‘friends’. Overwhelmed by pressures from all sides (particularly from her mother, who wants her to ‘do the best you can’ all the time) she resorts to self-harm. But once you start, it’s not that easy to stop…”
You can find out more about this book at the authors website

6. The Province of Hope by Mark Lee Kirchmeier

“Johnny Verliebt is a young man with many lives. One is that of a college student from an affluent suburban family; the other is one of sleepless nights and racing thoughts that can only be quieted by alcohol and drugs. Soon after Johnny falls in love with a young medical student named Robert, he suffers a psychotic breakdown and begins life with bipolar affective disorder.”
Read more about this book on Amazon

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So there we have it, six fictional books out of thousands dipping into mental illness for their inspiration and material. If any of you have any personal favourites of novels dealing with mental illness be sure to drop a comment so others can check them out, and stay tuned for a look at six great ‘personal account’ books…one of which being my all time favourite book dealing with mental illness!