Barking mad
Jan. 22nd, 2004 07:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mousmeI've been feeling a little disconnected, lately, although perhaps it's a result of being *literally* disconnected as a result of not having a computer of my own that I can fire up any time I want.
But it's been going on for longer than that, I suspect, and the word "disconnected" is something of a misnomer. I rather like Kay Jamison's word "frayed" a lot better. It really does convey the feeling so much more eloquently: as though one is coming apart at the edges, slowly but surely worn away like a piece of old fabric. I've been worrying away at the edges of my mind with anxious fingers, pulling at stray threads with my fingernails, knowing that if I tug too hard it could all come unravelled, yet unable to stop myself.
It feels as though something has stirred inside my head, come to life suddenly, with a vigour I didn't suspect was there, and now it's fluttering wildly, hurling itself up against the walls again and again until finally, exhausted, it sinks to the floor, frightened and alone in the dark.
Sometime before Christmas, just around the time I went stir crazy because of the Rivotril (Clonazepam or Klonopin for those of you in the U.S.), I confessed to my meds doc that I was worried that I was making myself crazy by constantly thinking about being mentally ill.
I had already said something similar to my mother, and she agreed with me, basically confirming my worst fears: that I was a hypochondriac, that if I "took my mind off my own problems" I would somehow magically make myself better. She told me that I should volunteer. She also asked me when I thought I would stop having to take "all those medications." She still doesn't seem to grasp that I may never be able to come off the meds. Maybe I will, maybe I won't. But definitely not now.
Luckily, Dr. Steiner is a little bit more level-headed than my mother, and he also saw right away that I was grasping at straws. Where my mother could only see her daughter sitting across the table, her daughter who shouldn't need medication, because no one in our family ever has and because it meant a failing in my character, a failing in her character, he saw a confused young woman fighting with herself, struggling to come to grips with a disease she didn't understand.
He told me that I was focussing on being mentally ill so that I could stop. It was self-evident, of course, but I was, literally, out of my mind then. I couldn't think straight. Couldn't see the forest for the trees, as it were. I hadn't slept in weeks, and the Rivotril had put me in a mixed state: I was depressed, still completely unable to sleep, unable to keep still, unable to control my thoughts. I was paranoid, delusional, and all I wanted to do was die.
I don't think anyone but Dr. Steiner knew, though. Not at the time. I haven't told my parents, and I probably won't. They know the Rivotril had a really bad effect on me, because it was quite obvious from my behaviour —I don't think anyone who spoke to me or had any kind of contact with me around that time can have any doubts either that I was acting pretty much out of character— but I don't think they know quite how bad. My parents are good at the denial thing.
I don't know where this is going. I think I'll put it behind a cut tag and stop it here before it dies a truly disjointed death.
But it's been going on for longer than that, I suspect, and the word "disconnected" is something of a misnomer. I rather like Kay Jamison's word "frayed" a lot better. It really does convey the feeling so much more eloquently: as though one is coming apart at the edges, slowly but surely worn away like a piece of old fabric. I've been worrying away at the edges of my mind with anxious fingers, pulling at stray threads with my fingernails, knowing that if I tug too hard it could all come unravelled, yet unable to stop myself.
It feels as though something has stirred inside my head, come to life suddenly, with a vigour I didn't suspect was there, and now it's fluttering wildly, hurling itself up against the walls again and again until finally, exhausted, it sinks to the floor, frightened and alone in the dark.
Sometime before Christmas, just around the time I went stir crazy because of the Rivotril (Clonazepam or Klonopin for those of you in the U.S.), I confessed to my meds doc that I was worried that I was making myself crazy by constantly thinking about being mentally ill.
I had already said something similar to my mother, and she agreed with me, basically confirming my worst fears: that I was a hypochondriac, that if I "took my mind off my own problems" I would somehow magically make myself better. She told me that I should volunteer. She also asked me when I thought I would stop having to take "all those medications." She still doesn't seem to grasp that I may never be able to come off the meds. Maybe I will, maybe I won't. But definitely not now.
Luckily, Dr. Steiner is a little bit more level-headed than my mother, and he also saw right away that I was grasping at straws. Where my mother could only see her daughter sitting across the table, her daughter who shouldn't need medication, because no one in our family ever has and because it meant a failing in my character, a failing in her character, he saw a confused young woman fighting with herself, struggling to come to grips with a disease she didn't understand.
He told me that I was focussing on being mentally ill so that I could stop. It was self-evident, of course, but I was, literally, out of my mind then. I couldn't think straight. Couldn't see the forest for the trees, as it were. I hadn't slept in weeks, and the Rivotril had put me in a mixed state: I was depressed, still completely unable to sleep, unable to keep still, unable to control my thoughts. I was paranoid, delusional, and all I wanted to do was die.
I don't think anyone but Dr. Steiner knew, though. Not at the time. I haven't told my parents, and I probably won't. They know the Rivotril had a really bad effect on me, because it was quite obvious from my behaviour —I don't think anyone who spoke to me or had any kind of contact with me around that time can have any doubts either that I was acting pretty much out of character— but I don't think they know quite how bad. My parents are good at the denial thing.
I don't know where this is going. I think I'll put it behind a cut tag and stop it here before it dies a truly disjointed death.
