As far as my self help programme is concerned, following the trigger of deep depression this summer, I went to the GP. From there, I met a psychiatrist, who happens to be a fellow South African. Anyone who has visited psychiatrists or psychologists will know that this did not evince warm, physical contact, in the form of hugs, or unrestrained reminiscence of the good old days. Nevertheless, her accent, very distinctively South African, lent a familiarity to our first meeting which, in all probably, was felt more by me than by her.
She had to hear a brief, snapshot synopsis of what brought me crying to her office - I seemed to be doing a lot of that. I had, already, been told by my GP to double my dose of Mirtazapine which I had failed to do, in the mistaken idea that I should, somehow, try and cope with my illness, rather than provide it with yet another crutch - another 15 mg, to be precise. The psychiatrist insisted I double the dose and said that I had to at least meet myself half way, by tackling the physical side of my condition. She counselled that the mental side would be far better served if that was taken care of. When I informed members of my family and friends, there were murmurs. It is very hard not to assume or project but I still believe that I have been fighting a tide of people, who do love me, but feel that somehow, this condition can be beat, but on another level.
I doubled my dose and started to cope a little better. Thoughts of life really not being worth living began, slowly to recede. Images, in the shower, of warm, diluted, pink blood, coursing down the plughole began to slowly be replaced by the usual toothbrush in hand renditions of, ‘Don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?’ This is a particular favourite, especially when my husband is my audience - our shower has glass walls.
I had a further meeting a month later, which my husband accompanied me to. Again, the psychiatrist felt that, although she saw some positive progress, that I needed a little more chemical help. Again, I fought her on the issue, but she held her ground and we agreed on a further increase to 45 milligrams a day. Anyone who watches Woody Allen will appreciate that my tablets are very much like hockey pucks. They are large and white and although I do not suck on them, as in the particular movie I am referring to, though I forget the name, they are considerably larger and more obvious than the discreet, small, beige tablets that had previously been enough to keep me this side of death by my own hand.
Also during that meeting with the psychiatrist, I expressed my very real gratitude for being in the system, reiterating how difficult it has been to be bipolar but largely outside of any medical support group, due to our frequent uprooting in our quest for greener pastures. My husband, on our walk home, said that he thought that my saying that was a deliberate, ‘Pop,’ at him because our moves have been spearheaded by him. It was not, I was simply stating a fact.
I had a subsequent meeting with the psychiatrist who showed some warmth and we even discussed the South African sense of humour versus the British as well as the biltong shop in Christchurch, Bournemouth where, from time to time, we splash out on expensive but bloody good biltong. She had decided that in addition to the help the medication was giving me that I would benefit from some sort of intervention by the service; psychological help that would address some of the issues I struggle with. Like, but not limited to, lack of confidence, low self esteem, inability to earn enough to afford a viable second bedroom where my children can come and stay, if they so please, et cetera, et cetera.
I had my first meeting with a psychologist on the Wednesday after our first holiday in seven years, to Spain. It was a fantastic time, largely, filled with hot sun and in fact I had written a tiny bit about it, but not posted it, so here goes:
Hello blog followers. This is a really random post, I know, but I thought I would update you all in light of unseasonable sunshine and my 24/7 sunshine on our first holiday in years in Spain.
We were in the middle of rural Spain, thanks to the BBC and Rick Steyn who did a series on the Extremadura region, which is the chorizo belt of Spain. Anyone who knows me knows that I love red meat and in particular biltong. Now, if there is anything close to dry wors or reminiscent of biltong, it’s Black Iberian ham, matured for God knows how long and really good Spanish chorizo. Don’t all scream at once, this is only my opinion.
Anyway, we swallowed Rick Steyn’s odyssey hook line and sinker and decided to go on our own pilgrimage. We were not disappointed. It was out of this world; remote, unspoilt, dusty, redolent of the Matopos in Zimbabwe. Blue skies, a small scattering of clouds on one day out of 10, no television, no radio, no internet, no mobile phones, treacherous, tricky access to the accommodation too, making day trips and sight seeing difficult.
In fact, the food on offer was a hefty 10 euros for what appeared to be a rather small plate of ham. Not quite what the non meat eaters of the party were expecting. Here, read my aunt. For the price, read all of us, my husband, me and my mum and aunt, both pensioners.
Finding this hub of activity was in itself something of a challenge, the village laid out steeply on a hillside. Negotiating the twist and turns, was something of a triumph, probably more emotionally than physically. My husband was doing the driving but the floor-well of my side of the car had its fair share of braking, not to mention my aunt’s help from the back seat where she used my headrest as both brake and steering wheel.
So, if the G-force angles of the narrow roads and stray dogs were not enough to contend with, the charged atmosphere just about had me running for the hills on day one. Readers will be pleased to know that by day two my foot pedal started to disappear and I didn’t find myself physically closer to the handbrake than necessary, in my avoidance of buildings and pedestrians. But sadly, the same cannot be said for the helpful back seat driving in the form of verbal hints and tips from behind me, on where and when to stop, how far to reverse and extra helpful, loud alerts on, ‘Doggies!’ Nor was there any let-up on the insistent, distinctive sound of fingertips on upholstery; a sound which became to me, synonymous with that which you get by scraping nails on a blackboard. I believe that any repositioning of passengers would have led to certain death!
I grappled with giving her a true reflection since I was buoyed up by Spanish sunshine, the sense of dwindling freedom only a holiday can inspire, and also the potted history of events of my life which are almost unbelievable. I was there for an hour and a half and I had barely painted a picture that she found intelligible. That was on Wednesday the 19th of October 2011. We set a further date for the 3rd of November for mark II. I feared that I might be heading towards mania, because there was so much to say and my thoughts grappled from Johannesburg to Howick to Pietermaritzburg, London, Lowestoft, Sweden, Guernsey, Canada, Cape Town, to Market Harborough to her small office in Dorset. But, she reassured, there was every reason to flit from stage to stage because there was much to tell.
On Wednesday the 26th October, I was treating myself to a coffee in the local coffee shop - not the coffee shop tale, one whose door I have never darkened again - but another. My friend in Canada insists that I get out and treat myself from time to time as my work keeps me isolated and cocooned in a bedroom overlooking, ‘Miles of value,’ and, ‘J Mato & Son Ltd,’ a butchery that describes itself as a, ‘Family & Catering Butcher.’ (They sure shift a lot of meat; boxes and boxes of it, get wheeled out daily onto the pavement, on stainless steel racks, from where they get loaded onto several Transit Vans for distribution to local restaurants) The sheer entertainment of it, not!
Anyway, on this particular day, in the Indie but unpretentious coffee shop, I had just settled myself in the window, to make the most of the light, had a newspaper at the ready and had taken my first sip when my mobile rang. Immediately, I could see that it was my youngest son calling from Thailand. My joy at this unexpected call was short lived as he asked me to go home and call him because he had some terrible news. I left, already shaking, barely able to unlock the front door to our flat. I called him and since then, my world has never been the same, nor can it be.
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