Pain

I've been in bed for close to three hours. I took my pain meds before I went to bed. They've not really done much tonight.

Chronic pain is a weird thing. When I'm busy during the day, knitting, crocheting, playing with the dog, scrolling through social media, pottering around doing what housework I can manage that day, I can pretty much ignore the background pain. Its there all the time, hovering around a 5. I generally don't take my pain meds during the day unless I've had a bad night, or I'm going to be doing more than usual. If I know I'm going to be out and about I take a dose before I go, just to get through whatever it is I'm doing, good or bad,because if I don't, tomorrow will be a write off.

On a bad day it'll start at around a 7 and just get worse during the day. These days I can't ignore it. It nags and grinds me down, saps my energy and my mood. So I have to start the day with the meds. Which then completely naffs my day up. Because then I can't concentrate, focus is out of the window. Walking the dog more than 5 minutes means needing a nap when I get back. Hell, sometimes just taking the meds means an extended nap. Tired if I don't take them, tired if I do. 

On top of this I have my busy, angry, hypercritical brain, swirling thoughts, words and ideas, insults from many years ago and snappy answers I didn't think of at the time 25 years ago. So if it's not my brain, then it's my body, and if I'm really lucky, it's both, shouting to drown each other out and only succeeding in creating a cacophony of misery. 

My sister came for a visit today, we introduced our dogs to each other. Lola, her dog was lovely. Queenie, my girl, was a mardy, grumpy madam who has been sulking since they left. I would have liked to go on a nice walk with my sister and our dogs. Give them chance to get to know each other on neutral ground. Instead we went on the cricket pitch for 10 minutes. I'd had a bad day yesterday so didn't get any house work done. So I had to try and get some done this morning before they got here. But because I was still suffering the after effects of a bad day yesterday and housework this morning, I was in too much pain to push my luck with a longer walk. I live in a beautiful village, with walks and fields and footpaths and scenery and its so wonderful living here. But I can't go on those walks any more. I'm stuck in the house, or on the cricket field. All because of pain.

You see pain doesn't just physically hurt. It's exhausting. Physically and mentally. It is draining putting on a jolly face because you don't want to be moaning about it, you want a normal conversation, to be out of the house around people. But then after 10 minutes you're tired. So then you want to go home. And now you're all on your own with the dual action mental and physical pain, swirling round again.

It's so difficult to explain that physical pain and mental ill health are intertwined, that they aren't two discrete issues, that don't affect each other. And that is something I really wish people could understand. 

Pain is a pain. It's an inconvenience. It's depressing. It's incessant. There is little to no respite from it, because even if the pills do work, they only provide a 4 hour break, at best. 

And that's enough moaning for today.

High Functioning

I've lost count of the number of times people have said to me 'You don't look depressed' or 'You don't seem that anxious' or my all time favourite 'You're the happiest depressed person I've ever seen!'.

What am I supposed to look like?

I recently had my PIP assessment. Apparently I was well groomed, the flat was clean and tidy and I appeared able to answer all the questions without hesitation.

Except the flat hadn't been cleaned for 3 weeks. I hadn't showered or changed my clothes in 5 days and I was on the edge of tears the whole time, and did cry a couple of times as the unqualified, inexperienced assessor made his evaluation based on his prejudice, assumptions and complete lack of real world knowledge. OK, maybe as an experienced paramedic he has seen people in crisis, mid overdose, after a serious self harm episode, drunk, covered in blood and vomit, filthy from weeks of lack of care, malnourished, confused and slap bang in the middle of psychosis. Because that's what a paramedic sees on a daily basis. People who are acutely ill, bleeding, in pain, dying.But mental ill health is not all about crisis. Mostly its about getting through the day as functionally as you can, to keep that veneer of normality and functionality in place.

Why do we do that to ourselves? Why do we pretend to be OK, coping, getting on with it?

I used to think it was shame. I've been made to feel ashamed of my mental health many times. I have recently been struggling with shame and anger. I'm no where near dealing with that but I'm trying. Some days I feel OK, and others I just disgust myself. A personality disorder diagnosis will do that to you. Because, well, attention seeking, needy, unstable, demanding, playing the victim, never take responsibility for their actions, lacking insight, lacking empathy, exhausting, self centred. I don't think I need to go on, you get the gist.

But here's the rub. I'm quite bright. I'm self aware. I have spent the last 30 years or so trying to get better thinking my diagnosis was depression. Plan, simple, depression. I thought I was a failure because I kept falling back into depression. So I'd pic myself up, paint on my 'I'm OK, really' face and off I'd go. Dusting myself off, taking my pills like a dutiful patient. I'd go back to work, exhausted and not feeling anything. Plodding along in this bubble of pretending to be OK. Because we all know the saying 'Fake it til you make it!' And I got very good at pretending to be OK

So for 30 years I have been faking being OK. I've raised a child alone, gone to college and university. Got a 1st class degree, bought a house, learnt to drive. Worked full time. Never quite managed to get on top of my finances, and never managed to save any money. Hardly ever went on holiday. Ever Christmas and Birthday was a magician's trick to get my son a decent present.

I had relationships, friends, mates, coworkers, neighbours.

I was looking OK. Doing about as well as everyone else.

I was drowning in pain and sorrow. I barely coped with the day to day.

I had crushing insomnia, was tired all day, but couldn't sleep at night because my brain never switched off. Weekends when I should have been cleaning, going out, spending time with my son, I was asleep, or sleepwalking.

I was paranoid, I thought people didn't think I was good enough to do my job. I doubted my ability to do everything. I second guessed everything I did.

I suspected everyone's motive for being my friend. At this point I would like to apologise to everyone I ghosted over the years, I never really though that you wanted to be friends with me. I honestly thought you were being polite, or worse, were planning some sort of sick joke where I was the punchline and I was just peripheral in your life, background scenery, not actual friend material.

One or two friends used to joke about my lack of cleaning. I'd make a joke back. In reality it was killing me that I couldn't keep my home clean. I didn't have any idea if I was doing it right, if it would be good enough. It always got on top of me. It weighed me down with shame, anger and fear and added to the depression and anxiety I was feeling. When I did manage to get my house looking nice, it never lasted. I was too exhausted by my daily life to keep it up, so within days it had degenerated again.

So I never had many visitors, I didn't want to feel ashamed of the state of my house. If I let you in and you seemed uncomfortable, you never came back. I know its because I didn't invite you again, but in my head, I thought it was because you were appalled at how I lived and didn't want to step foot back in that hell hole.

But if you only saw me at work, never home, you'd have thought I was fine. On nights out I was loud and silly like everyone else. All I wanted to do was get off my face to escape from how I felt. I didn't really want to be out spending money I didn't have, but I didn't want another night at home alone.

I was supposed to go out to a works party. A Christmas do. I was on my way to the shops to get some stuff to do my hair. As a young lad passed me by on the street, he looked at me and said, 'Oh my god, it's Scary Mary!' He walked on laughing at his own inane wit. I went home, cut my leg and stomach several times and didn't go out. I went off sick from work for a couple of months with depression, again.

That remark didn't cause my depression. It didn't trigger an episode. It was there, under the surface all the time, like a crocodile waiting under the water for a deer to take a drink. All of my energy was spent just holding myself together for the ordinary, every day mundanity that everyone else seems to breeze through, but I struggled just to keep on top of. One single remark, was all it took for the crocodile to break the surface and bang, I'm snapped by the jaws of depression yet again.

And back onto my personal merry-go-round of fall down, get meds, take meds, drag myself up by the bootstraps over the next 3-6 months, come off the meds and pretend everything is OK again for the next 12-24 months until I fall down again.

Over and over again.

A never ending cycle of misery and despair.

But that isn't what people saw. Because in between the depressions, I appeared to be functioning, doing my job, keeping up with college, doing my house up, looking after my son. So what they saw was someone else, the public face of me, not the knot of pain, fear and insecurity that I was, and still am.

And because I'm high functioning, professionals dismiss me as not needing help. Employers don't help me when I need a bit of extra time, or support. Services don't get offered, or if they do, its just for 6-12 weeks, 'just til you are back on your feet'. I've not done myself any favours by managing to function. I've made my life incredibly difficult. Eventually, I'll stop being able to function and then those around me are confused, angry, and disappointed that I can no longer project this image of who they want me to be to give them their security and comfort. I never was that person. I'm really not sure who I am, because I've been masking my real self with this 'fake it til you make it' self for the past 30 years.

So now I'm not functioning. Because I can't be this fake person anymore. I need to be me, and in order to be me, I need to find out who I really am without the high functioning facade keeping everything in and out at the same time.

Its going to take some time to peel these layers off, and I'm going to be a complete mess while I do it. I'm not apologising for the mess anymore, and I'm not going to hide it anymore.

Normal service has been suspended, and I doubt it will be resumed.