Life

Luke was lying beside me, asleep. I could hear his gentle, deep breathing, and see a pulse jumping at his throat. I put my hand on his bare shoulder, and felt the warmth of him. His eyelids flickered, but he didn't wake.
I thought how incredibly precious this warm, living, breathing person is to me. I suppose that I must be just as precious to him. So, to still my pulse, to stop my breathing and chill my warmth, that would be very wrong.

Depression support group

I'm feeling a bit better. I'm not feeling so depressed, though not feeling right, either. I went to the local depression support group last week. It was a decision taken at the very last minute, and I was in two minds about going until I walked in the door, but it was worth going, I suppose.

When I arrived, there were five men and me. I felt distinctly annoyed. Why do I never meet women? I'm strongly against sexism, and that means I disapprove of discrimination against men or women on the basis of gender. However, just wanting female friends to talk to isn't sexist. Not when my flatmates and my only friends are male. Yeah, I have female friends, but they're all far away.

"Am I the only depressed woman in this city?" I asked, plaintively.
"No, we have a few female members, I'm sure one or two of them will be along tonight." said the group's veteran member - a man who's been coming along for 12 years. "And anyway, people are just people, I don't see them as male or female." On the face of it, that's a good, anti-sexist comment, yet I'm sure he's wrong! I'm too tired to put words around it properly just now, maybe I'll blog more about it later. I think that men and women should be equal, but they are different. Yet I also think there are more differences between individuals than generaldifferences between the sexes. Then again, I think some generalisations can be useful, as long as you remember not to apply them to individuals. Definitly a subject for another post.

Two women did turn up to the Depression Group, anyway, making eight of us. We all sat round a table, and Veteran Guy explained how they worked - we would split into two smaller groups, and each group would nominate a "facilitator," which I think just meant a sort of chairperson. I asked - because this was really bugging me - "How do I speak about my depression without depressingthose around me? Depression is contagious, spending time with a depressed person and talking to hir about hir depression is depressing. That's why I keep a lid on it, even when I'm around my closest friends. Is it fair for me to bang on about my feelings to people who are vulnerable themselves?"

Veteran Guy answered that - I'm paraphrasing - he was good at compartmentalising, and that's what you have to do. When you leave the group and go home, you have to stop worrying about other people, not because you don't care, but because you have to for your own sake. Good for him, say I, if he's capable of doing that, then, great. It's not so easy though. I'm very empathetic - and there are good things and bad things about that. The bad is that other people's problems upset me, especially so when I'm depressed. I was reassured enough to go on with the group thing though. I suppose just voicing my concerns helped, and I knew that all these people had chosen to be there.

We split into two groups. The facilitator of my group was a woman wearing bright pink. I wondered if she dressed with the same consideration I do? I know that depressed people stereotypically lose interest in their appearance, and dress in drab, don't-notice-me clothes. Mindful of this, I defiantly wear make-up and purple knee-socks.

Pink Woman started off. "I've been feeling really good," she said. We made encouraging noises. "Well, I have manic depression, she explained. It wasw almost funny. It was certainly ironic. I know I say I've forgiven the hurt I suffered at the hands of my mother's manic-depressive ex, and I have. It wasn't his fault he was ill. But that doean't mean I don't fearmanic depressives, particularly in their manic stages. And open up to a manic depressive? No way, Jose. I've always feared the group thereapy thing, exactly because of what Mum's ex put me through - prying into my thoughts and feelings, appropriating them, taking ownership of them. Confusing me until I didn't know what I thought any more. I get over it, I go to a support group because I badly need people to talk to, and what do I get? A group with a manic depressive in it.

My feeling probably showed on my face, because they usually do, no matter how hard I try not to let them. She grumbled about he r work, and about bad management, and I did my best to be helpful, and I shared a couple of stories from my time at the restaurant. When it was my turn to "share" I grumbled about how crap and hopeless I was feeling. It wasw good to be able to do that, I suppose, and I didn't get the feeling that anyone was prying.

Next meeting is in a few ways, I'll probably go again.

Day 5 of citalopram 10mgs

Currently feeling no less anxious, and faintly nauseated, although the nausea could have just been suggested into being because I know it's a common side-effect. Oh, and my sleeping pattern is a disaster, which is why I'm up at 6am writing this. Grr. The cat came to see me as soon as she heard me stirring, and now she's giving me meaningful, fluffy stares of the "Give me food" variety. She can forget it - it's nowhere near feeding time yet!

I do feel much less depressed, but I think that's due to the getting help thing, more than anything. I'm kind of impatient to increase my dose and see if it makes a difference.

I finished my story and typed it up, but I don't think I'll put it on the blog - it's rather heavy and dark. And I suspect that once you know that the main character is a thinly disguised version of me, the self-pity might shine through like a beacon. I don't think it's awful, but I don't think it's great either. Mind you, my judgment could be completely off. I think I'll email it to Bee, Mia and Sybil, from whom I can be sure of useful feedback. I screwed up my courage to mention it to flatmate Crow, what with him being an actual proper writer and editor. He offered to read it over for me, but I don't want to show it to him in case it's rubbish! Funny whose opinions you worry about, isn't it?

Anyways, I'm now working on a radio play about the implications of determinism (see Choices). Could be great if it's done well, but...we'll see. I have my eye on BBC Radio 4's afternoon play slot; they broadcast a 45 minute play every weekday, and the BBC are pretty good at taking on unknowns. I've never written drama before, but it's going ok so far. The challenge will be to explain determinism in such a way as to take the audience with me, not to bore them or leave them confused. I think a conversation is a good way of doing it though.

Yay! They didn't lock me up!

Long post follows. The short version: My GP was nice, it's a relief to have it over with, She checked how likely I was to kill myself and evidently decided I wasn't in that much danger. She prescribed me 10mg of Citalopram and told me to come back in two weeks, or sooner if I felt the need to. I feel better and happier now.

So, my fears of being sectioned were unfounded, after all. I nearly didn't make the appointment, in spite of setting myself two reminders. I decided I should get up at 0845. I awoke at 0855 and wondered why my alarm hadn't gone off...on checking my phone, I found that the alarm was set for 2045. Things like that make me want to despair: do I have no control over myself? Well, clearly I do have some, because I did make it, on time too.

I managed to talk, and not to cry. I did sound a bit wobbly, and teared up a bit, but it was fine. It was a relief to hear my GP say "Good grief, you're really ill. You're in no state to be working, or looking for work. It's actually quite depressing that you've been soldiering on alone, without asking for help, for so long." She asked me why I'd decided to seek help now, and I said, well, there was nothing else for me. I didn't explain it well at the time, but I do feel like I'm stuck. I have a cool, original idea for my own business, for example, but I can't even begin to move forward with my idea for the very real and well-founded fear that I'd fail, the way I failed at university and at my cheffing career. Yes, ok, I could get back into cheffing if I wanted. I don't though, much, the hurs suck. I want my evenings!

She asked me if I had any plans to "top myself." I said that yes, I'd thought about it, I had a plan. When pressed, I detailed my plan, and my reservations about it - it might not work. I may have played down my suicide risk slightly, but I think I was mostly honest. She asked me who I lived with, and I told her two flatmates. She asked about my family and my support network, and I told her how I didn't trust my mother and wouldn't dream of confiding in her, but that I had a lovely, supportive boyfriend, and another friend in whom I'd confided.

The other friend was Sybil, who was visiting for the weekend, fortuitously. It was really nice to spend time with her, and talk face to face. Talking on the phone is nice, but it's no real substitute. Sybil attempted suicide in her teens, before I knew her. I knew she wouldn't judge. Not that I think Mia wouldn't be sympathetic and helpful, I really should talk to her, because I don't want Sybil feel she has to keep secrets from Mia...

Sorry, back to the doctor. She asked how I was living, I said on savings, she asked if I was stressed about money, I said a little. She gave me a sick note, which should entitle me to some kind of benefit, if I apply. Which I really should, I just have this terrible fear of bureaucracy... We'll leave that one for now, I think...

She explained how she'd refer me to some kind of mental health primary care thingummy, but I wasn't really listening, because I was staring at my sick note, trying to work out what it was, and what to do with it. But, erm, I'm getting referred, and should get to talk to a psychiatrist. So, yay. I'd been referring to the letter I wrote, and she asked for it. I handed it over reluctantly. I think it's going in with my referral. Embarrassing though it is, it's undoubtedly a good thing that I wrote it.

She mentioned antidepressants, and said she hoped I'd change my mind, because I'd given the impression that I didn't want to try them. No, no, I said, previously I'd been determined not to take anything, but I was prepared to try something if she thought it was appropriate. I was very worried about them making me worse though.

She gave me a prescription for 10mg Citalopram. She explained that it was a very low starting dose, and it might not have much effect, but it would get my body used to it, and when I came back in 2 weeks we could up the dose, depending on how I was feeling. She also said that I could come back earlier if I wanted, if I didn't like the pills, or if I felt worse. I hanked her, and went home, to read about the impressive range of side effects of Citalopram, conveniently sorted into very common, common, rare, and very rare, and to take my first pill.

Having taken my second pill this morning, I haven't noticed any side effects yet. I don't think I've noticed any effects, really. I did feel muzzy, wooly-headed and sleepy yesterday, but that might well have been from, er, lack of sleep.

I am feeling much more positive right now, but I think that may be because I'm now getting treated, I'm moving forward, I can see a way out that isn't death.

I've started writing fiction again, too. I'm determined to write a bit every day, even what I write turns out to be rubbish, because I could produce, well, writing worth reading. I really should make more effort with the blog, turn it into a compelling narrative rather than a stream of conciousness, but well, it does serve a useful purpose for me. To anyone and everyone who reads, thank you. I appreciate it.

I should finish writing my short story tomorrow - I say fiction, but it borrows rather heavily from my life, from my parents divorce, which does make it a bit heavy. It's not turning out to be total rubbish, though. I will get it typed up and edited (I've been writing it longhand - I think I write better that way. It's just a shame no-one can read my writing). Provided it's good enough, I'll stick it on the blog - it should make for better reading than my self-obsessed ramblings!

Right, sorry again for length and lack of editing. Madison out.

Ok, sorry for my quietness in the blogosphere lately. I've been depressed. I've been hiding from my problems and trying to forget they exist, and trying to forget that other people's exist too.

I'm moving forward now. I have an appointment with my GP (general practitioner, doctor, for you non-uk types) on Monday. I'm going to tell her about my depression, and hopefully she will presrcribe me antidepressants, and maybe, one day, I'll be fixed. Or a bit less broken.

I'm terrified, though. I'll probably cry throughout the appointment, which is annoying, and not conducive to good communication. I'll write down what I want to say in my best handwriting, and hand it over, as it's easier than talking out loud. I will have to talk though, and it'll make me cry. Oh well.

I'm terrified that my GP might want to section me. While the Mental Health Act of 1983 is available online, I can't find anything definitive. A patient can be admitted and treated against hir will if sie is judged to have a mental illness which would be appropriate to be treated in hospital, and if sie is judged to be a danger to hirself or others. So, soemone who is suicidal could be detained, but I have no way of knowing if this is likely, or whether I should downplay my depression so that I'm not sectioned. Because there's no way in hell I'm going to be treated against my will. Maybe I'm getting my knockers in a twist for no reason, I don't know.

I'm afraid pills will make me worse. I never trusted the companies who make them - they're out to turn a profit, not to help people. They don't care if they hurt people, only if they get sued. They employ pushy drug reps who use dishonest methods to persuade doctors to prescribe their pills, instead of just providing information. And how the hell can anyone trust a clinical trial when it is funded by the company who makes the drug?

A lot of the drugs have nasty side effects, a lot of them make you worse before they make you better. Some people say they feel like zombies while on anti-depressants. I don't want to be a zombie. I don't want to lose my personality. I think getting worse might kill me.

So, why ask for help now? 1. I'm more depressed and was closer to suicide than I've ever been. 2. I've been looking for a reason why I seem to fail at everything I do - School, university, Cheffing. When it looks like it's going well, I seem compelled to screw things up for myself - too anxious to concentrate on uni work, too depressed to go to the kitchen for my shift. Maybe I have some deep-seated compulsion to fail - frankly, I don't know, and I don't know how I would go about fixing it if that is the case.

However, If I have depressive illness that goes in cycles of a few years, well, it's plausible, and it might just be treatable.

Sorry for such a miserable post.

"Three can keep a secret, if but two of them lie in their graves."

I think Luke has found my blog. Damn. Kinda ruins it for me. I'm not certain he's found it, but now and again he uses my computer without me having a chance to clear my history, and the other day he was talking about me reading blogs but not having one of my own, and saying "so, why don't you start one?" I suppose I'll need to ask him. Unless he reads this and comes clean! It's so confusing - I often muse on what my next post might be, but now my train of thought gets derailed by thinking "but it's all spoiled, it's not private any more. Or is it?"

It's not how I expected it would be. I thought I'd just be able to write absolutely anything, but I do care about the opinions of my little band of readers, and it changes the way I think about my blog. It's not a place to post absolutely anything, because I'm still thinking about what people will think of me. I considered sharing it with Sybil, but I don't trust her to keep it secret from Mr Sybil, and then...

"Three can keep a secret, if but two of them lie in their graves." I'm so stupid. I wish I'd been more careful with my computer.

Happy happy!

Sybil is coming for a visit! She's one of my three close, good friends, all of whom moved away. I'm really comfortable with her - we can, and do, chat about anything, or just sit in companionable silence. I'm so happy! If only I had my friends back, everything would be perfect! I'd be so happy!

I suppose I should take a step back from that, because if my friends were here I'd be thinking "if only I had x, y and z, I'd be so happy!" And so, if I didn't have a boyfriend, somewhere to live, money in the bank, my good health, I'd probably be thinking to myself "If only I had those things! I'd be so happy!"

Well, I do have those things. So I ought to be happy. And Sybil is visiting soon, so hooray!