Thursday, 25 June 2015

Woman in the Wheelchair

Woman in the Wheelchair


I’d like to buy these bras
Said she,
Thank you sir,
How would you like to pay?
I’ll pay with my credit card,
Said she,
That’s thirty two pounds today,

Certainly sir,
Just pop it into the machine,
If that’s okay.
She did,
Card accepted, please remove,
She took the card away.

Thank you sir,
Now here’s your bag,
She smiled, and said, have a nice day,
I will, said she,
Through gritted teeth,
Her hand on her purchases lay.

Invisible woman within the wheelchair,
It may sound like a cliché
But please don’t talk to the hands that push,
She just wants you to meet her halfway!




I wrote this poem, after getting so upset with all the news about unwanted migrants, and 'benefit scroungers'.


Please don’t judge me

Please don’t judge me, categorise me
Not until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes.
Not until you’ve lived the pain, the strain,
The intolerable daily grind of
Coping with disease, depression, hardship,
War, abuse, inaction,
Then you might find understanding,
Comprehension,
Why I live as you choose not to,
Using food banks, handouts, benefits,
We’re not scroungers!
We’re the strugglers, invalids, non-copers,
In a world of bankers, models,
Old aged pensioners,
Cursing our existence.

We’re the nameless, faceless thousands,
Coming to your shores in these vessels,
Barely able to float, too crowded,
Annoying tourists
Who’ve paid good money,
To enjoy the sunshine,
But we spoil it,
We abuse your sense of ‘niceness’,
How dare we flee from worn-torn countries?
Diseased and dirty tented grottos.

But think for a moment...
If it were your family,
Your wife, son, daughter,
Facing hardship,
Wouldn’t you go to any lengths
To try and secure a decent future?
Wouldn’t you risk uncertainty?
Trust in others kindness, generosity?
I hope that if you walked a mile in my shoes,
You would find a hand of friendship,
Reaching out and offering something,
Anything’s better than what we’re facing.

I can’t bear the future for you,
Without others reaching inwards,
Discovering the milk of human kindness
Flowing through their hardened arteries,
Seeing you as someone, SOMEONE,
Not a burden, simply burdened,
And they finally see the light
And walk that mile
For you, with you.
This is my prayer for the bitter heart.


What’s It Like?

What’s it like to be bipolar?
Must be great, I hear you saying,
All that fun and energy flowing,
Being crazy and creative,
But you never see the flip side,
When my mood has hit rock bottom,
And I cannot bear to wake up,
And I cannot face the future
Knowing this is all there ever will be,
Up and down, like a bobbing ocean,
Never knowing what the day brings,
What will trigger a major episode,
High or low, it doesn’t matter,
Both sides are just so exhausting,
All those voices,
Uttering, muttering,
Endlessly confusing, tiring,
Dangerous at their suggestion
I should cut, die, cease existence,
Or at least, please vanish
Off the face of this good planet,
For it’s much too complicated,
Living round a whirly gurley
Changeling, constantly
Updating information,
Are you up or down or sideways,
Will you find your voice one of these days?
Or will you never cease your talking,
It all rubbish, don’t you see?
You’re simply not making sense to me?
So yes, I love the crazy high days,
But I know they must be paid for,
And the price is quite exorbitant,
Ordinariness is what I pray for!

So now you know it...want to swap lives?

Wednesday, 17 June 2015

In Spite Of

A bubble of joy erupts on the surface of her soul.
Some days she doubted if she would ever feel this way again,
But it appears at unexpected moments,
Before disappearing once more into the deep
Unfathomable darkness.
If only, if only
She could manufacture that feeling
Whenever she wished.
Despite the circumstances
Despite the mood
Despite her self-loathing
Despite
In spite
Spiteful
Evil.

Who told her that she was unlovable?
Planted the seed that grew like
Bindweed, wrapped firmly round her heart
And soul.
So no good thing could ever propagate
And develop
Into beauty,
Flower into hope
Fruit into happiness
Despite the circumstances
Despite the mood
Despite
In spite
Love
Joy.

I love you, my child
And nothing you do
Can ever diminish that love.
You deserve the joy and happiness,
You deserve the hope and love,
That springs from deep in your soul.
I planted that seed
Of goodness
So that nothing
And no one
Can destroy you.
Despite the circumstances
Despite your mood
Despite
In spite
God
Loves
You.




ECT- Ten Years On by Annie Watkinson
(This article can be found in full, with references, in the journal Mental Health Practice
April 2007, Volume 10, Number 7)

In November 2005, my consultant suggested that I try a course of ECT for a particularly tough bout of depression. I was struggling to hold down my job (I was a mental health nurse) and she felt it would be the quickest, most efficient form of treatment.  I was assured that ECT was the treatment of choice for doctors suffering with severe depression, as it enabled them to get back to work quickly. So I agreed.
I am still puzzled as to why I accepted this, as I was used to researching treatment options, yet within days I was at the ECT clinic. Maybe it was the haste with which the treatment was commenced, and my very poor mental health at that time.
I was booked in for 12 sessions of bi-lateral ECT, with the understanding that I could stop at any time. According to my records, I received five treatments of bilateral ECT, and seven of unilateral. I am unsure of the reasoning behind this, but perhaps it was because I was presenting as rather confused and forgetful, but it may have been because my husband expressed his concern at my inability to undertake even the most trivial of tasks.
I was not to know at that point that I would suffer from severe retrograde amnesia that would wipe out several years of very autobiographical memory, as well as many major world events. Ten years on, the loss of memory is still very dense, and when family and friends recall occasions to me, it feels as if they are merely storytelling. I now have built those memories up with the help of photographs and videos and the like, but memory with emotions is simply history; learned, not felt.
It has been suggested that memory loss following ECT could be due to the severe depression, but this has never been the case in the many frequent and debilitating bouts I have suffered over a period of more than twenty years. Thankfully I have always kept a fairly comprehensive journal, and this, along with accounts from family and friends have helped to build up picture of my past. Without these two factors I would still be totally unaware of what I had missed. This appears to be a crucial point in looking at the whole picture of research into ECT and memory loss. It is of no value to conduct memory research shortly after the ECT has ceased, because it is frequently argued that memory loss may only be temporary, and will in all probability return in a few weeks.
There appear to be two schools of thought in terms of research. The first, made almost entirely by the medical profession, is that ECT is almost always successful, and rarely results in long-term memory loss. Yet this same research from the patients’ point of view shows that a third of patients felt that their memory had been permanently affected and two thirds had some problems with memory! This was put down to other factors, such as medication and depression.
The second school of thought comes from the ‘survivors’ of ECT, many of whom report very negative experiences, including severe memory loss, often spanning years of important autobiographical memory, and without the huge improvements in mood that is reported by many psychiatrists.
Ten years on, I have a much clearer picture of how much memory I lost, which spans about three years either side of the ECT treatment. Those ‘lost’ years contain some of the most important events a mother can have: both my daughter’s weddings, and the birth of my first granddaughter, at which, by all accounts, I was present. It is hard to believe that I have no sense of the incredible joy I must have felt being there. I have no recollection of the wedding receptions, where they were held, or who attended.
My son graduated from university with a first class masters’ degree, yet I haven’t the faintest recollection of being there, or of the pride I must have felt. My daughter miscarried her first ever viable pregnancy at the end of my ECT treatment, and had surgery. I must have been devastated, but I cannot capture the pain that we all must have felt as a family.
A couple of years after ECT I was horrified to be told by a friend that she had attended my granddaughter’s baptism- I didn’t know it had ever taken place. These gaps in memory can make one feel foolish and vague.
Now when discussing events, holidays, friends and so on, I have learned to act as though I know what people are talking about and let them fill in the gaps. Discussing trivia in social groups can be awkward, and sometimes I have to kick my husband under the table when he comes out with...’You remember Annie, that holiday in...or that event...’
The London bombings in 2005 coincided with my ‘lost’ time, and it is only through media coverage that I know they happened. I celebrated a milestone birthday, and was taken up to London to see a show, travelling in a limousine, complete with champagne and music. If it were not for the photos I have been shown, I feel I would insist they were making the whole thing up!
Since then I have sorted through files and wardrobes and found things I never knew I had. One small bonus was finding books on the bookshelf that I had obviously read before (the evidence being the dog eared corners) but cannot remember.
My husband recalls that time with utter horror, as he used to have to go to work, and leave instructions for me on how to answer the phone, and use the TV remote, etc. Looking through my journals, I have discovered strange entries such as....had a bath, but couldn’t remember where the flannel was! This  is getting so confusing...., ...I can’t remember how to make porridge..... got confused with time, stared making supper but it was only 4pm..... given up using computer, I can’t remember how to make it work!
These are all vaguely amusing looking back, but it must have been horrific for Mike to see. Even now, we will curl up for a film evening and watch a DVD that I will swear blind I have never seen, yet my family will tell me otherwise.
One of the strange side effects that I found quite distressing was an inability to perform mental maths. I used to work in a bank when I was younger, in the days when we added up columns by hand, and worked exchange rates out by looking in the Financial Times every day! So I have always prided myself on the speed of calculating in my head. Sadly, this still eludes me, so that if someone says they were born in a certain year, I find it very hard to work backwards and figure out how old they are. A very small problem, but I find it a frustrating legacy of the ECT.
ECT is supposed to be less barbaric than it was in the past, because they now use sedatives and muscle relaxants. However, the doses of electric shock that pass through the body are higher due to sedatives, which have the effect of raising the seizure threshold.
I have not done any current research, but I do believe that uni-lateral ECT is more commonly carried out, so I hope that memory loss is not quite so much of a problem, but I still find it strange that this aggressive method of treatment is carried out, sometimes even enforced, on patients that are not in a good place to either accept or reject ECT. I had hope that we would have progressed enough to make this a treatment a thing of the past. I do have to add that I am aware of some patients who will swear by ECT, and I do not wish to negate their experience.

Tuesday, 24 February 2015

This Is Me

Sometimes it’s as if you can’t hear what I'm saying, as though my words have no real meaning to you. I am serious about what little I can allow you to know of what goes on in my mind. It is as if my thoughts are once thought then re-echoed a thousand times, a repeat of a repeat of a repeat…..

Endlessly I fumble with the same transactions which spring up and haunt me. Thoughts of plans and preparations, endless lists of jobs to do, places to go, people to see, futures to arrange. I try to sleep, but a thousand words get in my way. And when I dream a million images fight for attention, crowding in on each other, all semi-connected, yet separate. When I speak, what comes out of my mouth is not the same as the thoughts in my head. I have to concentrate to stay on track, all the while fighting with deadlines, priorities, decisions which I am in no fit state to make. I think of big issues, such as harm coming upon my family, the children of Cernavoda, the victims of terrorist attacks, my fear of travelling. I think of minor inconsistencies  which others scold me for even considering, yet weigh heavily and threaten to overpower me. I write shopping lists in the air, plan meals, book events, write greetings cards; devise lists for housework, pay bills, I know exactly what I am doing next week, next month, next year. Yet I am unable to face all the challenges, so I panic, I retreat, I blank off. If I try to tell you I can’t cope, you laugh. You remind me of small past achievements and scoff at the idea of me not managing my future. Yet you can’t see the jumble of nightmares intertwined with shopping lists, filling up the car with petrol, living another hour…..

You only see the positive things that come out of this shell. You can’t understand my fear of failure when it seems to you that I have succeeded. You can’t see the million tears hovering on the edge of reason. You can’t feel the churning in the pit of my stomach, how I have to remind myself to breath sometimes, how my head feels like exploding with the myriad problems I am trying, and failing, to deal with. You think I want to feel like this? That I have a choice? How I would love to cease this endless ramble into insanity, to be still and not think, not dream, not be.

I know I'm crazy, mad, insane, stupid, pessimistic, but this is me.

I really can’t help it.
Inside a Canister

I feel like I am in a canister, where no light gets in, and I can't get out, but inside I am fragmenting, disintegrating into a million pieces, yet no one can actually see me breaking up. I can't remember what it feels like any more to be happy and not broken, yet another part of my brain knows this is not how I always am. I want to feel happy, to laugh spontaneously and to not keep fighting the complicated algorithms in my brain...if I do this, then the consequence is this...

I feel paranoid, that I am being watched and listened to. I even feel responsible for the A & E crisis, as I know if I do anything then I will only add to the long lists that really ill people are on. So then I plot and plan to make sure I get it right; until I picture my granddaughter and feel her arms around my waist...

I am like a hamster on a wheel that I can't get off. I am booked to see a psychiatrist and I am expected to have phone calls from CPN...when I can hardly bring myself to speak to the people I want to talk to. How did I get back here? I almost don't remember. But I don't want to carry on this trajectory. I almost want to yearn myself better. I am sure I can do it, and then I can cancel all this nonsense; get back to normal life. If there is such a thing.