The above is a statement, not a question. I know exactly what is wrong with me because I received the notes from my previous psychiatric appointment in the post today. And here it is:
Diagnosis:
Recurrent depressive disorder - currently in remission (ICD10 F33.4)
The notes are pretty bleak.
Miss O'Donnell has a long history of recurrent low mood.
Several times a year she has periods of a few weeks or so where she has moderate depressive symptoms. At this point her sleep, mood, appetite, energy, motivation, concentration and interest in socialising are all affected. She also has clear anhedonia (an inability to experience pleasure from normally pleasurable life events) at these points.
Ms O'Donnell was a pleasant young Caucasian woman.
Her content was logical and coherent.
She appeared to be euthymic with a bright reative affect.
She was cognitively grossly intact.
And the crunch: "Ms O'Donnell has a long history of periodic recurrent multiple depressive episodes. She has occasional low-grade 'highs' but would by no means qualify for a Bipolar Affective Disorder diagnosis."
So there I have it. In black and white.
As a footnote, I googled ICD10 F33.4 and this is what I found.
F33.4 Recurrent depressive disorder, currently in remission
A. The general criteria for recurrent depressive disorder (F33) have been met in the past.
B. The current state does not meet the criteria for a depressive episode
(F32.-) of any severity, or for any other disorder in F3 (the patient may receive treatment to reduce the risk
of further episodes).
Erk!
Wednesday, September 9
Tuesday, September 8
Waiting for Rose
Waitrose is coming to Crouch End. Finally! Somewhere to go and piss our hard-earned cash into a chiming register on racks of lamb and Yeo Valley milk products. Oh, but hang on... we already have an M&S. And a Budgens with an 'Epicurean Deli'. And an 'Artisan Bakery'. And an Italian deli.
There goes the neighbourhood.
There goes the neighbourhood.
Sunday, August 30
Recovery
Day 8, and I'm back in the game!
Okay, so it took six days to get my body used to the reduction of Venlafaxine but I feel fine now, so am very pleased that I stuck with it through all the unpleasant sweating, shitting and shivering. It has also given me hope that one day I might be able to be free of this drug entirely, and emerge relatively unscathed out of the other side.
Now I'm not naive enough to believe that there is a cure for my... condition (but wouldn't it be wonderful if I could erase it with some sort of Victorian wonder-tonic?!) but I do feel that I have recovered quite well over the last few years. I am certainly better than I was.
Years ago I was so desperate to be better that I made myself sicker. I woke up every day with the dogged optimism of a child on Christmas morning. Oh please, let today be the day I feel better, I said to myself. I don't know what I was expecting, rainbows and fairy dust, perhaps? All I know now if that this unrealistic expectation of my own ability to let my mind heal itself at it's own pace was preventing me from making any progress with the recovery I so craved. There is no sudden cure. There is no quick fix. It's long and it's tough and it gets worse before it gets better. The day I stopped expecting to feel better IMMEDIATELY was the day I started to recover.
The future looms large, promising unknown ups and downs. There's a very good chance I could relapse and become unwell again. I have just had to accept this as fact and try to carve myself a life that can deal with these issues as they occur.
But it is the confidence of a mental health recovery veteran that I can say that I feel better right now than I have in years.
Okay, so it took six days to get my body used to the reduction of Venlafaxine but I feel fine now, so am very pleased that I stuck with it through all the unpleasant sweating, shitting and shivering. It has also given me hope that one day I might be able to be free of this drug entirely, and emerge relatively unscathed out of the other side.
Now I'm not naive enough to believe that there is a cure for my... condition (but wouldn't it be wonderful if I could erase it with some sort of Victorian wonder-tonic?!) but I do feel that I have recovered quite well over the last few years. I am certainly better than I was.
Years ago I was so desperate to be better that I made myself sicker. I woke up every day with the dogged optimism of a child on Christmas morning. Oh please, let today be the day I feel better, I said to myself. I don't know what I was expecting, rainbows and fairy dust, perhaps? All I know now if that this unrealistic expectation of my own ability to let my mind heal itself at it's own pace was preventing me from making any progress with the recovery I so craved. There is no sudden cure. There is no quick fix. It's long and it's tough and it gets worse before it gets better. The day I stopped expecting to feel better IMMEDIATELY was the day I started to recover.
The future looms large, promising unknown ups and downs. There's a very good chance I could relapse and become unwell again. I have just had to accept this as fact and try to carve myself a life that can deal with these issues as they occur.
But it is the confidence of a mental health recovery veteran that I can say that I feel better right now than I have in years.
Thursday, August 27
Day 5
Okay, good news. I slept for a full 7 hours last night and didn't wake up groggy from nightmares about demon children or inescapable cinemas. Nausea is all gone, and seems to have taken my appetite with it. No brain zaps - yet!
*fingers crossed* It is getting better.
*fingers crossed* It is getting better.
Wednesday, August 26
Day 4
Nausea. Nausea. Nausea.
I feel SO sick. I am also having nightmare brain zaps.
Not giving up though, oh no.
I feel SO sick. I am also having nightmare brain zaps.
Not giving up though, oh no.
Tuesday, August 25
Withdrawing
So I'm on Day 3 of the lowered dose and I'm not dead or wishing I was. However my body is definitely asking me 'what the fuck?' and rebelling in a series of irritating ways. The symptom I wasn't expecting is the itching. Last night I was up until about 3am scratching myself raw, and woke to see several long welts where my nails had raked my skin in my sleep. Otherwise I just feel slightly... menopausal. The slightest physical activity provokes hot flushes, migraine-like headaches and overwhelming spells of lethargy.
I refuse to give in, and am persevering with the reduction with a dogged determination. I just wish I felt a little less... sweaty.
I refuse to give in, and am persevering with the reduction with a dogged determination. I just wish I felt a little less... sweaty.
Saturday, August 22
Not so manic now...
Had a bit of a lightbulb moment this week, it's still sinking in and I'm not really sure how I feel about it. I had an appointment with a psychiatrist at St Ann's hospital in Tottenham to discuss some of the side-effects of the medication I have been taking and to review my 'condition'.
Since I was a child I've had some instability with mood, my mother picked that up in the first five years of my life. I once refused to speak for a week because a girl at school had died of cancer, and had to be sent out of the room when the news came on because it would send me into a depression. At school I was lively and misbehaved to the point of being accused of suffering from hyperactivity. When I was good I was very, very good, and when I was bad I was horrid. I could be funny and withdrawn within the space of a few hours. I became used to people claiming jocularly "Oh Gem, you're mad!" And reader, I think I started to believe them. At 19 I was nearly institutionalised for a breakdown during the uni summer hols. At 22 it happened again. And so on and so on to the present day...
It's been five years since I was diagnosed by a stony-faced Victorian psychiatrist as suffering from a 'mood disorder' which, I was later told by my GP who had my notes, was type II bipolar disorder. Okay, I thought, fine, at least it has a name now. I took the pills they prescribed me. I got on with it. But increasingly recently when I sat back and took stock of my life since that diagnosis I realised that I have: learned to drive, held down a job for over 3 years, moved to London, passed a post-graduate teaching course and worked as a teacher in a London secondary school. So, as you can imagine, doubts had begun creeping into my mind as to the legitimacy of this diagnosis. This is not meant in any way to disrespect people who suffer from bipolar disorder and have successful and fulfilling lives, I am sure it IS possible, but since the diagnosis I have not had any episodes of depression or heightened mood that were severe or debilitating enough to affect my career or relationships. I have felt down, and I have felt a bit manic, but I have managed to get a grip on my mood and get myself back out there within a few days. I'm not so sure that if I was suffering with bipolar disorder this would be so easy, or even possible. And I think that sufferers of BPD would agree.
So it was this week that I found myself spending an hour in consultation with the psychiatrist, discussing my adventures with my good friends excitement and depression right back from as early as I can remember. Together we read all the notes from reported counselling and psychiatric diagnostic sessions. And at last I heard somebody utter the words I have been thinking over and over for the last three years: "I don't think you have bipolar disorder at all. A mood disorder, yes. Slight instability, yes. But not bipolar."
I will still need to use antidepressants in the near future, but at a reduced dose to help with the side-effect problem. I have been referred for cognitive behavioural therapy to help me cope with the mood swings. In the future there is a distant possibility that I might be able to come off medication completely. I don't know how I feel about that yet.
The only times I have been off antidepressants in the last ten years is when the b.a.d. things have happened. What if they happen again? What if the life that I have spent so long getting back is pulled away from underneath my feet, thrusting me back, head-first into the seemingly endless pit of misery and despair? I need to move forwards. I can't stay as I am. But I am very, very afraid of going backwards.
I've been off and on about 6 different types of anti-depressants since I was 16, but have been taking 150mg of Effexor (Venlafaxine) for the last five or so years. The side-effects are varied and unpleasant and the drug gets a very bad press on the internet with sites like this. I tend not to diss it too much because I've been relatively happy and sane whilst on it. Tomorrow I will take my first reduced-dose tablet at 75mg. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous. I'm HOPING that it just makes me feel a bit sick, or fluey. I don't know how I'll cope if it makes me confused or depressed.
Should I be happy? I guess so. I wept for joy on the way home, but that quickly gave way to fear and trepidation at the road ahead. I don't feel funny and I don't feel brave. I feel shit scared and isolated. It's a bit lonely out here, in the non-bipolar world.
Since I was a child I've had some instability with mood, my mother picked that up in the first five years of my life. I once refused to speak for a week because a girl at school had died of cancer, and had to be sent out of the room when the news came on because it would send me into a depression. At school I was lively and misbehaved to the point of being accused of suffering from hyperactivity. When I was good I was very, very good, and when I was bad I was horrid. I could be funny and withdrawn within the space of a few hours. I became used to people claiming jocularly "Oh Gem, you're mad!" And reader, I think I started to believe them. At 19 I was nearly institutionalised for a breakdown during the uni summer hols. At 22 it happened again. And so on and so on to the present day...
It's been five years since I was diagnosed by a stony-faced Victorian psychiatrist as suffering from a 'mood disorder' which, I was later told by my GP who had my notes, was type II bipolar disorder. Okay, I thought, fine, at least it has a name now. I took the pills they prescribed me. I got on with it. But increasingly recently when I sat back and took stock of my life since that diagnosis I realised that I have: learned to drive, held down a job for over 3 years, moved to London, passed a post-graduate teaching course and worked as a teacher in a London secondary school. So, as you can imagine, doubts had begun creeping into my mind as to the legitimacy of this diagnosis. This is not meant in any way to disrespect people who suffer from bipolar disorder and have successful and fulfilling lives, I am sure it IS possible, but since the diagnosis I have not had any episodes of depression or heightened mood that were severe or debilitating enough to affect my career or relationships. I have felt down, and I have felt a bit manic, but I have managed to get a grip on my mood and get myself back out there within a few days. I'm not so sure that if I was suffering with bipolar disorder this would be so easy, or even possible. And I think that sufferers of BPD would agree.
So it was this week that I found myself spending an hour in consultation with the psychiatrist, discussing my adventures with my good friends excitement and depression right back from as early as I can remember. Together we read all the notes from reported counselling and psychiatric diagnostic sessions. And at last I heard somebody utter the words I have been thinking over and over for the last three years: "I don't think you have bipolar disorder at all. A mood disorder, yes. Slight instability, yes. But not bipolar."
I will still need to use antidepressants in the near future, but at a reduced dose to help with the side-effect problem. I have been referred for cognitive behavioural therapy to help me cope with the mood swings. In the future there is a distant possibility that I might be able to come off medication completely. I don't know how I feel about that yet.
The only times I have been off antidepressants in the last ten years is when the b.a.d. things have happened. What if they happen again? What if the life that I have spent so long getting back is pulled away from underneath my feet, thrusting me back, head-first into the seemingly endless pit of misery and despair? I need to move forwards. I can't stay as I am. But I am very, very afraid of going backwards.
I've been off and on about 6 different types of anti-depressants since I was 16, but have been taking 150mg of Effexor (Venlafaxine) for the last five or so years. The side-effects are varied and unpleasant and the drug gets a very bad press on the internet with sites like this. I tend not to diss it too much because I've been relatively happy and sane whilst on it. Tomorrow I will take my first reduced-dose tablet at 75mg. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous. I'm HOPING that it just makes me feel a bit sick, or fluey. I don't know how I'll cope if it makes me confused or depressed.
Should I be happy? I guess so. I wept for joy on the way home, but that quickly gave way to fear and trepidation at the road ahead. I don't feel funny and I don't feel brave. I feel shit scared and isolated. It's a bit lonely out here, in the non-bipolar world.
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