Ah, I see that I have already been linked to Rethink - no time to tidy up after all. Oh well, maybe it is best to tidy up after the party - I mean after all the Internet traffic has been and gone - or maybe there is no need, and I shall leave the blog as it is. Just be aware, newcomers, that you might have to go back to the start of this blog to get an idea of what I am about.
Thank you for reading.
Saturday, 24 April 2010
Ticking along (like a clock, not a bomb)
I have been flicking about a few blogs recently, all very interesting in their own ways. Mostly on writing websites. It strikes me that nobody will have anytime to read anybody else's work if we all carry on writing at this pace. It certainly eats up more of my time than I have to spare.
Anyway, in my last entry here I wrote about Sathnam Sanghera's memoir, 'The Boy with the Topknot' and how great I thought it was. I have been motivated to blog again today because I just read a review on Amazon which said several rather negative things about it, although there were a lot more positive reviews to counteract that.
I am sure that Sanghera, as a journalist, is immune to the slings and arrows, but I did feel it is rather unfair to get at him for writing about his family. After all, he is writing about his life, and of course it will be tied up with the lives of others. A great deal of what makes our lives interesting is our interactions with others and our responses to their ideas and behaviour.
I wrote a memoir many years ago, then decided not to publish because a certain member of my family got very upset about it (that person had nothing to fear and would have found that out if they had just asked to read the manuscript instead of going off at the deep end about the fact that I had written a book). But I am aware that I am spoken about by my family, and my friends, every day in various contexts, and I would not expect to be able to silence them, even though I can't control what they are saying. Although I hope that they are mostly good things. And Sathnam is clearly devoted to his family, and doesn't seem to be 'using' them in any negative way. I think his book will definitely further the understanding of schizophrenia - which, I guess, is why it got the 'Mind' prize. Which will benefit his father and sister in the long term much more than a tactful or embarrassed silence on the subject would have done.
So. Ticking along (like a clock, not a bomb). I rather like that line. Might use it in a poem.
I have a whole day to write, becauase my other half agreed to take the children out so that I could get on with it. I had a slow start, for which I blame the world wide web. But I started to relax into it, and have tidied up sheaves of poetry, neatly filed lots of ideas for stories and novels, had lunch and even written a bit.
A while ago, Rethink expressed an interest in this blog, so my next move will be to chase that up. As it stands at the moment, you would have to read all the back blogs to make sense of who I am (for example I haven't yet mentioned in this blog that I have schizophrenia, because it is not on my mind at all today. Well, it wasn't until I wrote that). Anyway, I am going to look into whatever it is that makes blogs more readable, which I guess is to provide lots of links to other things and maybe some pictuers. And then make the whole thing shorter, because nobody has time to read anybody else's stuff properly on the Net. Which takes me tidily back to where I began. Adieu for now.
Anyway, in my last entry here I wrote about Sathnam Sanghera's memoir, 'The Boy with the Topknot' and how great I thought it was. I have been motivated to blog again today because I just read a review on Amazon which said several rather negative things about it, although there were a lot more positive reviews to counteract that.
I am sure that Sanghera, as a journalist, is immune to the slings and arrows, but I did feel it is rather unfair to get at him for writing about his family. After all, he is writing about his life, and of course it will be tied up with the lives of others. A great deal of what makes our lives interesting is our interactions with others and our responses to their ideas and behaviour.
I wrote a memoir many years ago, then decided not to publish because a certain member of my family got very upset about it (that person had nothing to fear and would have found that out if they had just asked to read the manuscript instead of going off at the deep end about the fact that I had written a book). But I am aware that I am spoken about by my family, and my friends, every day in various contexts, and I would not expect to be able to silence them, even though I can't control what they are saying. Although I hope that they are mostly good things. And Sathnam is clearly devoted to his family, and doesn't seem to be 'using' them in any negative way. I think his book will definitely further the understanding of schizophrenia - which, I guess, is why it got the 'Mind' prize. Which will benefit his father and sister in the long term much more than a tactful or embarrassed silence on the subject would have done.
So. Ticking along (like a clock, not a bomb). I rather like that line. Might use it in a poem.
I have a whole day to write, becauase my other half agreed to take the children out so that I could get on with it. I had a slow start, for which I blame the world wide web. But I started to relax into it, and have tidied up sheaves of poetry, neatly filed lots of ideas for stories and novels, had lunch and even written a bit.
A while ago, Rethink expressed an interest in this blog, so my next move will be to chase that up. As it stands at the moment, you would have to read all the back blogs to make sense of who I am (for example I haven't yet mentioned in this blog that I have schizophrenia, because it is not on my mind at all today. Well, it wasn't until I wrote that). Anyway, I am going to look into whatever it is that makes blogs more readable, which I guess is to provide lots of links to other things and maybe some pictuers. And then make the whole thing shorter, because nobody has time to read anybody else's stuff properly on the Net. Which takes me tidily back to where I began. Adieu for now.
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
Still Suffering.
Well, readers (readers? READERS? READERS??!!!) I am back for another go. The title of this entry is rather misleading - I am not actually suffering. Well, not any more than usual. I have had trouble sleeping, on and off, which worries me even though it always resolves itself. It is supposed to be one of the 'Early warning signs' which I should watch out for as a possible manifestation of the reappearance of my illness (which paradoxically I am told has not, nor will ever, disappear). Reappearance of the symptoms of my illness then. But how can I be ill without any symptoms? I have not taken any medication for almost nine years now, except for a few weeks after the birth of my second daughter when I accepted doctors' advice to take some as a precautionary measure. I have not had a breakdown for ten years. What I do know is that worrying about the possibility of the illness reappearing is enough to send me round the twist. But anyway.
It is true that I do tend to feel that I am travelling up the wall at a rate of knots if I have had two or three nights of disturbed sleep. This usually happens because either one or more of the children has been poorly, or because I have been worrying about some other aspect of life (usually unnecessarily; I am a pathological worrier, with a marked tendency towards catastrophisation).
However, luckily for me I have a card that not many other mothers of young children can play - I tell my loving husband that I will go mad if I don't get enough sleep, then he deals with the night disturbances for a while, or he makes sure that I regain my peace of mind, if that is what has been missing. I do worry about his role in all of this.
Luckily again though, my behaviour is not that erratic. A lot of people I know have more trouble with their lives than I do - in fact, my insomnia only manifests very occasionally, and my mood swings are no different than those of many other women at various times of the month (oh, the ugliness of coy euphemisms, yet I fear that I more often express myself too freely).
I have just finished reading a book by Sathnam Sanghera, called The Boy with the Topknot. I intend to make the rest of my bookgroup read it, as I feel it would really benefit from an airing. He has an excellent understanding of himself and his situation, and the book reads beautifully. He also expresses a degree of tolerance and understanding of sufferers of mental illness that I think must be quite rare, even in relatives of those with schizophrenia, as he is. There were so many parts of the book that struck a chord with me, and I particularly appreciated the bit where he wonders why his sister isn't more bothered about the possibilty that she has a brain tumour, then realises that the reality is that she has lived with schizophrenia, and therefore she has already faced the worst that can ever happen to her. Personally, there were times when I would have been relieved if I was discovered to have had a brain tumour - there is no stigma attached to such a condition.
But the book still did my head in, as reading about schizophrenia always does. I am constantly trying to see myself in descriptions and conclusions that other peeople draw about the subject, and I find that this confuses me. I have written a memoir myself about my experience of the condition - or maybe I should say about mental illness, as I am really not sure anymore that I have a particular condition. I have certainly suffered the extremes of mental illness and there are still large parts of my thoughts and behaviour that I wish operated differently, but I really feel that to move on from this illness I have to stop living my life under a catch-all umbrella term.
Sanghera says, rightly, that this is the most severe mental illness out there, but he also says things like there is no such thing as a happy schizophrenic (or very few of them. I am wary of misquoting him because his book seems to be so immaculately researched. This is a problem with my own writing - it is interspersed with lots of chunks written in capitals along with a note LOOK UP LATER. Then I don't). I am happy. Does this mean, then, that I am not a schizophrenic?
Anyway, his book is excellent, managing to both move me to tears at times and also to be laugh-out-loud funny in places (not least in his matter-of-fact reporting of the many and various mis-spellings of his and his family's names over the years). I do wonder if he has bitten off a little more than he can chew - he states clearly in the book that he has no intention of being a campaigner for schizophrenia, but in the afternotes it is mentioned that he is a Patron of Rethink. I suppose patronage may not mean as much as, say, that he is a Trustee but I suspect that he will find himself involved more than he intended, as the mentally ill do so badly need high profile people to represent them (us!), in fact, to come alongside us and make the point that we are not that different. If only Stephen Fry had been diagnosed with schizophrenia instead of bipolar disorder. But if he had, would even he have the courage to tell the world?
Raymond Briggs' wife, who died long ago, was schizophrenic. He mentions this quite openly in his amazing story 'Ethel and Ernest', but it does not seem to have been reported widely. Maybe because out of respect for him nobody wants to bring up such an awful subject. I spoke to him once, at a book signing in Brighton, and he was lovely. I told him about my schizophrenia and he seemed quite surprised - I guess like all of us he has a stereotypical sort of image of the mentally ill, which I didn't fit into.
He seemed quite concerned too. I have occasionally thought of writing to him, telling him that I am happy now, and about my wonderful husband and children ( I remember saying at the time that what I wanted out of life, apart from a writing career, was to get married and have kids). But of course if I wrote to him he would just think I am crazy. There was an article in the Times yesterday by Caitlin Moran about all the crazy people that have written to her over the years that made me roar with laughter. I gave it to my other half to read and even he was giggling.
She did acknowledge that she has had some lovely letters too, and she can usually tell the difference between her two types of fan mail by the handwriting and stationery used. But by and large, if you can even be bothered to log on and comment on something you have read online you are probably a bit too overcome with emotion on the subject to be thinking quite straight. If you get a pen and paper out, and still send off your missive having had a chance to wonder whether it will have enough of the desired effect on your reader to be worthy of the price of a stamp, you are likley to be slightly wonklier.
I like that word, if it is one. Should it have been more wonkly? Actually, I have just realised it should have been wonkier, but I like my way better. Which is, yikes, a sign of schizophrenia - making up words! I feel like I have fallen into a trap of my own devising. Anyway, the wonky wonkly word reminds me of what I am supposed to be doing now. I have an hour to write because my husband has a day off work and is minding the boys for a bit before we take them to music group. The older one should be at school but he has a chest infection. He is not terribly ill, and we have decided that rather than let the little one miss the group, we will take the bigger one along. I find all these decisions stressful - should they stay off school? If so, should they stay home all day? I used to think it was just me who got hopelesly embedded in unimportant domestic detail, but a friend confided in me yesterday that she didn't sleep for months before her eldest took the eleven plus exam. It is good to have friends. I often wonder how anybody copes in life without a few decent friendships. People do though. My mother does. But I wonder how.
ANYWAY. So I had resolved to use my hour to have a bash at some children's poetry or a short story, but got sidetracked by this.
I logged on to this blog for the first time in months today (which is not to say I haven't looked at it without logging on, just to see if anyone else has read it and commented since I stopped writing regularly. They haven't). I only logged on to edit it, because all those times (yes, I know, drat, let it slip) I have looked I have noticed increasing numbers of inconsistencies, grammatical errors and even spelling mistakes, and this irks me. Part of the beauty of writing a blog is in the immediacy of publication, yet even the best writers (and I don't think I am one of those) must make mistakes when writing at speed or under pressure.
But I couldn't see how to edit, so I started a new entry instead. And then as usual the writing took over and began tipping rapidly out of me, creating, I am sure, more inconsistencies, grammatical errors and so on. I wil find out soon how to edit though, whether or not I continue with this blog. I hate the thought that my writing may read wrong - because usually when writing I can express myself with articualacy, something that all too often evades me in real life. If only I could erase all those times that people stare at me with total incomprehension after I have said something, as if I had spoken in a different language.
So here we are. Another entry done, for whatever reason. The main reason probably being that during and since reading The Boy with the Topknot I have started to wonder again about what to do with my book, which won't go away because its subject matter still preoccupies me. The answer is I suppose that I will attempt to revise it again. These attempts don't usually get me far, because it is already complete, just not in a form that I am ready to publish or even to let the kids read in the future. But I do want to let them read it in the future, so I need to change its form. I have tried to turn it into a novel, I have tried to change names and settings but none of this has worked so far. But I must try again, tie it up in some way so that I can move on.
Not today though. I need to have something concrete to show for my hour of freedom to write (though it has been punctuated with lots of noise from the little one, 'Dooce! Dooce! No water! Dada! Dinner!') I do wonder at times whether I have bred Hitler - apparently doting on and indulging boys is quite likely to produce a dictator. But the baby is so adorable - so sweet despite his constant demands - that I will wait until he is older before teaching him how to behave more properly.
Whoops. I have gone over this, revised some parts and inserted some others, and now my time is up. Now I am in writing mood though, and will attempt more later. I have promised daughter number two that I will write a book in the style of her favourite author. She has read all three of a particular series and there doesn't seem to be another forthcoming, so Mummy promised to plug the gap. After about six months of waiting, she said quite crossly one day, 'You haven't written even one single sentence - not even one single word - of my book'. The next day I wrote several pages and read them out to her, her sister, and a young friend who happened to be over, and all three were very flatteringly in stitches. She came up to me that evening with real awe in her face and told me, 'You are going to have to write autographs for people'.
I felt so proud that I had made her proud, and so touched that she believed in me. With very little effort on my part too - I find it easy to copy the style of another writer. I thought I could probably finish the book in a week - children's novels are not long and I write fast. But then it started niggling at me - if I could do this well, I thought, maybe I should try to make it a commercial enterprise. So I decided to change the book from an obvious copy to a less obvious derivative. In doing so I completely lost the tone, ending up with a mish-mash of styles and a book that started off being aimed for one age group then suddenly switched to a readership that was at least a couple of years older. After a few chapters I gave up, then conveniently forgot about the project.
Now I am thinking I should just get on and do what I promised her, before she is too much older. I would hate her to have grown out of that sort of book before I get around to writing it. So that will be my project for this evening - another unpublishable exercise. But then I have just begun to realise how lucky I am not to be under any pressure to publish - to be able to write for no other reason than that I enjoy it.
It is true that I do tend to feel that I am travelling up the wall at a rate of knots if I have had two or three nights of disturbed sleep. This usually happens because either one or more of the children has been poorly, or because I have been worrying about some other aspect of life (usually unnecessarily; I am a pathological worrier, with a marked tendency towards catastrophisation).
However, luckily for me I have a card that not many other mothers of young children can play - I tell my loving husband that I will go mad if I don't get enough sleep, then he deals with the night disturbances for a while, or he makes sure that I regain my peace of mind, if that is what has been missing. I do worry about his role in all of this.
Luckily again though, my behaviour is not that erratic. A lot of people I know have more trouble with their lives than I do - in fact, my insomnia only manifests very occasionally, and my mood swings are no different than those of many other women at various times of the month (oh, the ugliness of coy euphemisms, yet I fear that I more often express myself too freely).
I have just finished reading a book by Sathnam Sanghera, called The Boy with the Topknot. I intend to make the rest of my bookgroup read it, as I feel it would really benefit from an airing. He has an excellent understanding of himself and his situation, and the book reads beautifully. He also expresses a degree of tolerance and understanding of sufferers of mental illness that I think must be quite rare, even in relatives of those with schizophrenia, as he is. There were so many parts of the book that struck a chord with me, and I particularly appreciated the bit where he wonders why his sister isn't more bothered about the possibilty that she has a brain tumour, then realises that the reality is that she has lived with schizophrenia, and therefore she has already faced the worst that can ever happen to her. Personally, there were times when I would have been relieved if I was discovered to have had a brain tumour - there is no stigma attached to such a condition.
But the book still did my head in, as reading about schizophrenia always does. I am constantly trying to see myself in descriptions and conclusions that other peeople draw about the subject, and I find that this confuses me. I have written a memoir myself about my experience of the condition - or maybe I should say about mental illness, as I am really not sure anymore that I have a particular condition. I have certainly suffered the extremes of mental illness and there are still large parts of my thoughts and behaviour that I wish operated differently, but I really feel that to move on from this illness I have to stop living my life under a catch-all umbrella term.
Sanghera says, rightly, that this is the most severe mental illness out there, but he also says things like there is no such thing as a happy schizophrenic (or very few of them. I am wary of misquoting him because his book seems to be so immaculately researched. This is a problem with my own writing - it is interspersed with lots of chunks written in capitals along with a note LOOK UP LATER. Then I don't). I am happy. Does this mean, then, that I am not a schizophrenic?
Anyway, his book is excellent, managing to both move me to tears at times and also to be laugh-out-loud funny in places (not least in his matter-of-fact reporting of the many and various mis-spellings of his and his family's names over the years). I do wonder if he has bitten off a little more than he can chew - he states clearly in the book that he has no intention of being a campaigner for schizophrenia, but in the afternotes it is mentioned that he is a Patron of Rethink. I suppose patronage may not mean as much as, say, that he is a Trustee but I suspect that he will find himself involved more than he intended, as the mentally ill do so badly need high profile people to represent them (us!), in fact, to come alongside us and make the point that we are not that different. If only Stephen Fry had been diagnosed with schizophrenia instead of bipolar disorder. But if he had, would even he have the courage to tell the world?
Raymond Briggs' wife, who died long ago, was schizophrenic. He mentions this quite openly in his amazing story 'Ethel and Ernest', but it does not seem to have been reported widely. Maybe because out of respect for him nobody wants to bring up such an awful subject. I spoke to him once, at a book signing in Brighton, and he was lovely. I told him about my schizophrenia and he seemed quite surprised - I guess like all of us he has a stereotypical sort of image of the mentally ill, which I didn't fit into.
He seemed quite concerned too. I have occasionally thought of writing to him, telling him that I am happy now, and about my wonderful husband and children ( I remember saying at the time that what I wanted out of life, apart from a writing career, was to get married and have kids). But of course if I wrote to him he would just think I am crazy. There was an article in the Times yesterday by Caitlin Moran about all the crazy people that have written to her over the years that made me roar with laughter. I gave it to my other half to read and even he was giggling.
She did acknowledge that she has had some lovely letters too, and she can usually tell the difference between her two types of fan mail by the handwriting and stationery used. But by and large, if you can even be bothered to log on and comment on something you have read online you are probably a bit too overcome with emotion on the subject to be thinking quite straight. If you get a pen and paper out, and still send off your missive having had a chance to wonder whether it will have enough of the desired effect on your reader to be worthy of the price of a stamp, you are likley to be slightly wonklier.
I like that word, if it is one. Should it have been more wonkly? Actually, I have just realised it should have been wonkier, but I like my way better. Which is, yikes, a sign of schizophrenia - making up words! I feel like I have fallen into a trap of my own devising. Anyway, the wonky wonkly word reminds me of what I am supposed to be doing now. I have an hour to write because my husband has a day off work and is minding the boys for a bit before we take them to music group. The older one should be at school but he has a chest infection. He is not terribly ill, and we have decided that rather than let the little one miss the group, we will take the bigger one along. I find all these decisions stressful - should they stay off school? If so, should they stay home all day? I used to think it was just me who got hopelesly embedded in unimportant domestic detail, but a friend confided in me yesterday that she didn't sleep for months before her eldest took the eleven plus exam. It is good to have friends. I often wonder how anybody copes in life without a few decent friendships. People do though. My mother does. But I wonder how.
ANYWAY. So I had resolved to use my hour to have a bash at some children's poetry or a short story, but got sidetracked by this.
I logged on to this blog for the first time in months today (which is not to say I haven't looked at it without logging on, just to see if anyone else has read it and commented since I stopped writing regularly. They haven't). I only logged on to edit it, because all those times (yes, I know, drat, let it slip) I have looked I have noticed increasing numbers of inconsistencies, grammatical errors and even spelling mistakes, and this irks me. Part of the beauty of writing a blog is in the immediacy of publication, yet even the best writers (and I don't think I am one of those) must make mistakes when writing at speed or under pressure.
But I couldn't see how to edit, so I started a new entry instead. And then as usual the writing took over and began tipping rapidly out of me, creating, I am sure, more inconsistencies, grammatical errors and so on. I wil find out soon how to edit though, whether or not I continue with this blog. I hate the thought that my writing may read wrong - because usually when writing I can express myself with articualacy, something that all too often evades me in real life. If only I could erase all those times that people stare at me with total incomprehension after I have said something, as if I had spoken in a different language.
So here we are. Another entry done, for whatever reason. The main reason probably being that during and since reading The Boy with the Topknot I have started to wonder again about what to do with my book, which won't go away because its subject matter still preoccupies me. The answer is I suppose that I will attempt to revise it again. These attempts don't usually get me far, because it is already complete, just not in a form that I am ready to publish or even to let the kids read in the future. But I do want to let them read it in the future, so I need to change its form. I have tried to turn it into a novel, I have tried to change names and settings but none of this has worked so far. But I must try again, tie it up in some way so that I can move on.
Not today though. I need to have something concrete to show for my hour of freedom to write (though it has been punctuated with lots of noise from the little one, 'Dooce! Dooce! No water! Dada! Dinner!') I do wonder at times whether I have bred Hitler - apparently doting on and indulging boys is quite likely to produce a dictator. But the baby is so adorable - so sweet despite his constant demands - that I will wait until he is older before teaching him how to behave more properly.
Whoops. I have gone over this, revised some parts and inserted some others, and now my time is up. Now I am in writing mood though, and will attempt more later. I have promised daughter number two that I will write a book in the style of her favourite author. She has read all three of a particular series and there doesn't seem to be another forthcoming, so Mummy promised to plug the gap. After about six months of waiting, she said quite crossly one day, 'You haven't written even one single sentence - not even one single word - of my book'. The next day I wrote several pages and read them out to her, her sister, and a young friend who happened to be over, and all three were very flatteringly in stitches. She came up to me that evening with real awe in her face and told me, 'You are going to have to write autographs for people'.
I felt so proud that I had made her proud, and so touched that she believed in me. With very little effort on my part too - I find it easy to copy the style of another writer. I thought I could probably finish the book in a week - children's novels are not long and I write fast. But then it started niggling at me - if I could do this well, I thought, maybe I should try to make it a commercial enterprise. So I decided to change the book from an obvious copy to a less obvious derivative. In doing so I completely lost the tone, ending up with a mish-mash of styles and a book that started off being aimed for one age group then suddenly switched to a readership that was at least a couple of years older. After a few chapters I gave up, then conveniently forgot about the project.
Now I am thinking I should just get on and do what I promised her, before she is too much older. I would hate her to have grown out of that sort of book before I get around to writing it. So that will be my project for this evening - another unpublishable exercise. But then I have just begun to realise how lucky I am not to be under any pressure to publish - to be able to write for no other reason than that I enjoy it.
Friday, 11 December 2009
Schizophrenia re-examined
It is quite odd - last night I failed to write a blog entry for the first time since I started this. I think because - taking myself by surprise - I talked myself through the illness to the point where I decided I might not have it at all, I kind of felt there wasn't much left to say.
However, I feel it would be a pity to stop blogging - I have been enjoying it so much. Apart from anything else, it is a regular writing routine, which I badly needed. Last night I was feeling quite poorly - I had been far too busy during the day, and the cold that I thought I had shrugged off earlier in the week crept back and snaffled me up. But I still missed my tapping session.
Also, there is a lot left to say, in particular about the glaring injustices present in the mental health system. And the lack of information available out there. For example, I was never told that schizophrenia is liable to burn itself out by the age of fifty. I was expressly told the opposite, by my notorious 'Team' - that I would just go on getting worse and worse as I grew older. My outlook was correspondingly bleak.
It was only because a friend of mine, a psychiatric nurse who married one of her former patients, shared this news of 'Schizophrenic Burnout' with me, that I was aware of it. In a stroke my attitude was changed - to fear of what would happen to me as I got older, to the immense relief that came with knowing that whatever happens now, I will be well in the future. What a revelation - so why was this the first I had heard of it? Even if it isn't true (and my friend certainly believes it is - she only mentioned it in passing, and was surprised I hadn't known it already) it makes me feel better. Which raises the question of why was I given such a gloomy prognosis in the first place? Surely rather than effectively informing me that life as I knew it was over, the psychiatrists coould have admitted that the prognosis was uncertain, and perhaps even said that there was some hope that I would go on to live a full and happy life. I might not then have lost the best part of my twenties in an extremely scared and vegetative state, living in fear of myself as a schizophrenic, paralysed by the knowledge that things could only get worse.
I find that when you first enter a mental hospital, the most striking aspect of this most alien of places is the uniformity of the patients' condition. Of course some of them are floridly ill - many others are withdrawn, or havily sedated. But what I am referring to is the physical condition - these people are almost all thin, shabbily dressed, and chain-smoking cigarettes.
Their thinness is soon remedied - unfortunately, in fact it is over-corrected. The medication takes care of that. The most common side-effect of psychiatric drugs is to increase the appetite. Obviously, because patients become extremely hungry, they rapidly put on weight. Then, because of the next most common side-effect of the drugs - over-sedation, they find it difficult to shift the weight, and so the cycle continues. The end result is an assortment of overweight, sluggish, demoralised and rather depressed individuals, who are however - hurrah! - not floridly mentally ill. These individuals are then sent out into the world to fare as best as they are able.
So, their extreme skinniness has been effectively remedied. Smoking is not discouraged in mental hospitals however - in fact mental hospitals, along with prisons, are virtually the only exception to the new laws against smoking in public places. I find this very odd - the medical profession know better than anyone the risks of smoking, so surely they should actively campaign to stop smoking in all hospitals? Why treat the mentally ill differently from anyone else in this respect? Does their health matter less? Or is there some fear that without the stress relief provided by their cigarettes mental health patients will become uncontrollable?
I have given some thought to this matter, and I still cannot fathom it. I speak as an ex-smoker, one who is aware that smoking is bad for mental and physical health. I have stopped and started smoking on several occasions over the years, and it is one of the clearest indicators as to my state of mind. I have often warned my husband that if I should start smoking again he should immediately contact the mental health services.
I am sure that this ties in with my third point, about the fact that patients are shabbily dressed. What I am getting at here is not of course their attire, but their poverty, and thus their place in society. The mentally ill, almost to a man, are down on their luck, destitute and thus desperate. I have seen this time and time again in the people I have been hospitalised with over the years - and of course in myself.
Having said this, I am not quite sure what can be done about it. I just feel that something should be done - why should a lack of money equate to such suffering? An effort to assimilate people back into society as quickly as possible, preferably through the workplace, would be ideal. But I know from my experience that I was laid so low after hospital that I would have been quite useless in the workplace. This is why there are so rehabilation centres, or half way houses, like the day centre that I attended for years after my second breakdown.
But these places set their standards far too low - no-one is expected to do anything, or think anything. Televisions are on all day, and most of the patients sit around smoking. It is certainly not the right atmosphere to foster motivation in anyone.
By contrast, those people who can afford private treatment fare much better. There is far less stigma associated with a stay at the Priory - indeed, such a stay might be seen as a badge of honour, or a status symbol. And I am sure that at the Priory, and other such hospitals, patients are involved as early as possible in programmes to attempt to educate them about playing a part in their own recovery, and that they are not just allowed to sit around smoking and watching TV all day. This is all pure guesswork, and I am not the betting type, but if I was I would wager that in the Priory nobody is allowed to smoke indoors - because the issue is treated with the gravitas befitting a hospital.
Enough for now. I have no idea how long I have been writing for - I am glad to be back on track though.
However, I feel it would be a pity to stop blogging - I have been enjoying it so much. Apart from anything else, it is a regular writing routine, which I badly needed. Last night I was feeling quite poorly - I had been far too busy during the day, and the cold that I thought I had shrugged off earlier in the week crept back and snaffled me up. But I still missed my tapping session.
Also, there is a lot left to say, in particular about the glaring injustices present in the mental health system. And the lack of information available out there. For example, I was never told that schizophrenia is liable to burn itself out by the age of fifty. I was expressly told the opposite, by my notorious 'Team' - that I would just go on getting worse and worse as I grew older. My outlook was correspondingly bleak.
It was only because a friend of mine, a psychiatric nurse who married one of her former patients, shared this news of 'Schizophrenic Burnout' with me, that I was aware of it. In a stroke my attitude was changed - to fear of what would happen to me as I got older, to the immense relief that came with knowing that whatever happens now, I will be well in the future. What a revelation - so why was this the first I had heard of it? Even if it isn't true (and my friend certainly believes it is - she only mentioned it in passing, and was surprised I hadn't known it already) it makes me feel better. Which raises the question of why was I given such a gloomy prognosis in the first place? Surely rather than effectively informing me that life as I knew it was over, the psychiatrists coould have admitted that the prognosis was uncertain, and perhaps even said that there was some hope that I would go on to live a full and happy life. I might not then have lost the best part of my twenties in an extremely scared and vegetative state, living in fear of myself as a schizophrenic, paralysed by the knowledge that things could only get worse.
I find that when you first enter a mental hospital, the most striking aspect of this most alien of places is the uniformity of the patients' condition. Of course some of them are floridly ill - many others are withdrawn, or havily sedated. But what I am referring to is the physical condition - these people are almost all thin, shabbily dressed, and chain-smoking cigarettes.
Their thinness is soon remedied - unfortunately, in fact it is over-corrected. The medication takes care of that. The most common side-effect of psychiatric drugs is to increase the appetite. Obviously, because patients become extremely hungry, they rapidly put on weight. Then, because of the next most common side-effect of the drugs - over-sedation, they find it difficult to shift the weight, and so the cycle continues. The end result is an assortment of overweight, sluggish, demoralised and rather depressed individuals, who are however - hurrah! - not floridly mentally ill. These individuals are then sent out into the world to fare as best as they are able.
So, their extreme skinniness has been effectively remedied. Smoking is not discouraged in mental hospitals however - in fact mental hospitals, along with prisons, are virtually the only exception to the new laws against smoking in public places. I find this very odd - the medical profession know better than anyone the risks of smoking, so surely they should actively campaign to stop smoking in all hospitals? Why treat the mentally ill differently from anyone else in this respect? Does their health matter less? Or is there some fear that without the stress relief provided by their cigarettes mental health patients will become uncontrollable?
I have given some thought to this matter, and I still cannot fathom it. I speak as an ex-smoker, one who is aware that smoking is bad for mental and physical health. I have stopped and started smoking on several occasions over the years, and it is one of the clearest indicators as to my state of mind. I have often warned my husband that if I should start smoking again he should immediately contact the mental health services.
I am sure that this ties in with my third point, about the fact that patients are shabbily dressed. What I am getting at here is not of course their attire, but their poverty, and thus their place in society. The mentally ill, almost to a man, are down on their luck, destitute and thus desperate. I have seen this time and time again in the people I have been hospitalised with over the years - and of course in myself.
Having said this, I am not quite sure what can be done about it. I just feel that something should be done - why should a lack of money equate to such suffering? An effort to assimilate people back into society as quickly as possible, preferably through the workplace, would be ideal. But I know from my experience that I was laid so low after hospital that I would have been quite useless in the workplace. This is why there are so rehabilation centres, or half way houses, like the day centre that I attended for years after my second breakdown.
But these places set their standards far too low - no-one is expected to do anything, or think anything. Televisions are on all day, and most of the patients sit around smoking. It is certainly not the right atmosphere to foster motivation in anyone.
By contrast, those people who can afford private treatment fare much better. There is far less stigma associated with a stay at the Priory - indeed, such a stay might be seen as a badge of honour, or a status symbol. And I am sure that at the Priory, and other such hospitals, patients are involved as early as possible in programmes to attempt to educate them about playing a part in their own recovery, and that they are not just allowed to sit around smoking and watching TV all day. This is all pure guesswork, and I am not the betting type, but if I was I would wager that in the Priory nobody is allowed to smoke indoors - because the issue is treated with the gravitas befitting a hospital.
Enough for now. I have no idea how long I have been writing for - I am glad to be back on track though.
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
Christmas is near; are you stressed?
We watched a Nativity play this morning, and this evening we have been out at another carol concert - so lovely, all these opportunities to revel in the amazing children we have been given. I really feel so proud of them all, and so priveleged to be their mother.
I am looking forward to Christmas - although I feel detatched from the religious aspect, I enjoyed singing at the last carol concert I attended, in church at the weekend, and I was surprised to enjoy it.
Having children means being given the chance to relive your own youth and improve on it. I don't mean by living their lives vicariously, but by getting the opportunity to go to theme parks, fairs, pantomimes; all those leisure activities that would otherwise be lost in the mists of time.
It may sound strange, but being a mother is such a healing experience for me. There are occasions when I become stressed, but mostly I am too grateful for the chance to be a mother to risk getting it wrong.
This is all for tonight - a paean of gratitude.
I am looking forward to Christmas - although I feel detatched from the religious aspect, I enjoyed singing at the last carol concert I attended, in church at the weekend, and I was surprised to enjoy it.
Having children means being given the chance to relive your own youth and improve on it. I don't mean by living their lives vicariously, but by getting the opportunity to go to theme parks, fairs, pantomimes; all those leisure activities that would otherwise be lost in the mists of time.
It may sound strange, but being a mother is such a healing experience for me. There are occasions when I become stressed, but mostly I am too grateful for the chance to be a mother to risk getting it wrong.
This is all for tonight - a paean of gratitude.
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
Forecasting the Future
As far as yesterday's blog went, I think I am going to try thinking of myself as not being schizophrenic for a while, and seeing how the change of attitude affects my life. I realise that when the diagnosis was made the doctors thought there was a dead cert of them being right - I had all the symptoms, I broke down on more than one occasion, I must have fitted the model that they base their diagnoses on.
But the trouble with the diagnosis is that it is one that is meant to last for life. I was told that I had an incurable illness in a pronounced form and that I was going to get worse over the years - effectively, that, 'There is no hope for you lady, so you might as well give up now'. And I did give up, for a number of years. It is a bit like the old witch doctor routine. Witch doctors scared people to death; they got into the pysche of their victims and made them believe they were going to die, and so they obligingly did.
Well, it is finally beginning to occur to me that no one can forecast the future. I am not living the life those doctors forecast for me - thank God. And I really should stop myself thinking that I come under the umbrella term that they tried to tar me with - although I am scared to stand out against it, because that would be termed non-compliance and I could be said therefore to have no insight into my condition, and so on, culminating in the worst-case scenario that I end up sectioned - I know, I have an over-active imagination, but I also have a point).
I do have many failings as a human being. I often wish I was not so nervous. I wish I could communicate more effectively in spoken conversation. I get very stressed at times. I have many other shortcomings. However, by and large these things are improving as I get older - as is to be expected.
In my case, the events of my childhood were, I believe, the main cause of my trauma. Now I am older, calmer and more in control of my life. Also, now I am a parent myself and so I have gained some understanding of why things might have been so difficult for my parents in the light of their own shortcomings. I am on the path to forgiveness of the wrongs that were done to me when I was young, and during that journey some of my own problems are becoming fixed. There are many sources of help out there, once you start looking - Al Anon, for example have a wonderful spiritual and non-judgemental outlook on how to salve the wounds caused by our upbringings.
I feel that I am healing gradually, but I am aware that just as doctors cannot predict the future, neither can I. It is perfectly possible that if life were to place another trauma in my path, I might be unable to cope and could retreat into psychosis again. I do not wish to become complacent. But neither do I want to build a wall in the path of any progress I might make - to say to myself - you can never be completely well. That would be stupid - and yet that is exactly what I have been doing for years, by agreeing that I am a schizophrenic.
In some ways mental health treatment has not moved forward for centuries. We have gone from a complete lack of understanding, and completely inhumane treatment - lobotomies for instance, to the position we are in now, where individuals are still denied recovery, but by more insidious means.
The thing I find most shocking - and most undercover - is the chemical sterilisation of women. Most people today are horrified to learn that not too long ago, in this country, mentally ill women were subject to forcible sterilisation - as were single mothers, and other 'social deviants'. However, this horror is still alive today - although under cover. Many years ago, when I expressly asked my 'team' of psychiatrists, social workers, psychologists, mental health nurses and so on, whether my medication would stop me conceiving, I was categorically told that it would not.
I was engaged to be married. I was well, but compliant with the fact that I had been told that I should stay on a low dose of medication, for prophylactic purposes -ie to prevent the likelihood of my becoming ill again. I accepted that this medication was safe, and had very few side effects, because that is what I was told by the doctors - who I thought were trustworthy, honourable people with my best interests at heart.
I later found out that the drugs I was on - like many psychiatric drugs - had caused levels of a particular hormone, prolactin, to be 'sky high' as the GP termed it, in my system, and that the presence of this hormone in this concentration definitely prevented ovulation. I refuse to believe that the 'Team' were ignorant on this matter - to me it is obvious that they have full knowledge of the effects of these medications, over and above anything a layman could be expected to know or discover. I only found out by pure luck, but the information was in the public domain. I happened to be reading a health and fitness magazine and a tiny paragraph mentioned that some medications can prevent conception, and I picked up on the possibility that mine was one of those drugs, then went to my GP to check. He looked at me askance when I mentioned that I thought my prolactin levels might be high 'Your what?', but he did fill out the forms to send me to the hospital for a hormone profile test.
I still remember the look on his face when I went to see him to get the results of those blood tests, and he told me, 'Your prolactin levels are sky high'. It was a look of something almost approaching respect. And from there he referred me to see an endocrinologist, and under her supervision I was weaned off the drugs. It strikes me now that had I not read that magazine article, my life now would be hardly recognisable - and four of the most wonderful, marvellous people on this planet would not exist.
So, in my opinion; in my experience, sterilisation of mentally ill women still occurs, but by underhand means. This is a real tragedy, because many of the women I met over the years in hospital and in so-called 'rehabilitation centres' longed to have children, and would have made wonderful mothers. I believe their illness was in some cases caused, in others compounded, by their childlessness.
As a mother myself, and someone who so nearly might not have been, I recognise how important, how awfully important, this issue is. I do not believe psychiatrists would willingly inflict such misery on women if they recognised them as people - instead of as patients, dangerous ones who must be controlled.
But the trouble with the diagnosis is that it is one that is meant to last for life. I was told that I had an incurable illness in a pronounced form and that I was going to get worse over the years - effectively, that, 'There is no hope for you lady, so you might as well give up now'. And I did give up, for a number of years. It is a bit like the old witch doctor routine. Witch doctors scared people to death; they got into the pysche of their victims and made them believe they were going to die, and so they obligingly did.
Well, it is finally beginning to occur to me that no one can forecast the future. I am not living the life those doctors forecast for me - thank God. And I really should stop myself thinking that I come under the umbrella term that they tried to tar me with - although I am scared to stand out against it, because that would be termed non-compliance and I could be said therefore to have no insight into my condition, and so on, culminating in the worst-case scenario that I end up sectioned - I know, I have an over-active imagination, but I also have a point).
I do have many failings as a human being. I often wish I was not so nervous. I wish I could communicate more effectively in spoken conversation. I get very stressed at times. I have many other shortcomings. However, by and large these things are improving as I get older - as is to be expected.
In my case, the events of my childhood were, I believe, the main cause of my trauma. Now I am older, calmer and more in control of my life. Also, now I am a parent myself and so I have gained some understanding of why things might have been so difficult for my parents in the light of their own shortcomings. I am on the path to forgiveness of the wrongs that were done to me when I was young, and during that journey some of my own problems are becoming fixed. There are many sources of help out there, once you start looking - Al Anon, for example have a wonderful spiritual and non-judgemental outlook on how to salve the wounds caused by our upbringings.
I feel that I am healing gradually, but I am aware that just as doctors cannot predict the future, neither can I. It is perfectly possible that if life were to place another trauma in my path, I might be unable to cope and could retreat into psychosis again. I do not wish to become complacent. But neither do I want to build a wall in the path of any progress I might make - to say to myself - you can never be completely well. That would be stupid - and yet that is exactly what I have been doing for years, by agreeing that I am a schizophrenic.
In some ways mental health treatment has not moved forward for centuries. We have gone from a complete lack of understanding, and completely inhumane treatment - lobotomies for instance, to the position we are in now, where individuals are still denied recovery, but by more insidious means.
The thing I find most shocking - and most undercover - is the chemical sterilisation of women. Most people today are horrified to learn that not too long ago, in this country, mentally ill women were subject to forcible sterilisation - as were single mothers, and other 'social deviants'. However, this horror is still alive today - although under cover. Many years ago, when I expressly asked my 'team' of psychiatrists, social workers, psychologists, mental health nurses and so on, whether my medication would stop me conceiving, I was categorically told that it would not.
I was engaged to be married. I was well, but compliant with the fact that I had been told that I should stay on a low dose of medication, for prophylactic purposes -ie to prevent the likelihood of my becoming ill again. I accepted that this medication was safe, and had very few side effects, because that is what I was told by the doctors - who I thought were trustworthy, honourable people with my best interests at heart.
I later found out that the drugs I was on - like many psychiatric drugs - had caused levels of a particular hormone, prolactin, to be 'sky high' as the GP termed it, in my system, and that the presence of this hormone in this concentration definitely prevented ovulation. I refuse to believe that the 'Team' were ignorant on this matter - to me it is obvious that they have full knowledge of the effects of these medications, over and above anything a layman could be expected to know or discover. I only found out by pure luck, but the information was in the public domain. I happened to be reading a health and fitness magazine and a tiny paragraph mentioned that some medications can prevent conception, and I picked up on the possibility that mine was one of those drugs, then went to my GP to check. He looked at me askance when I mentioned that I thought my prolactin levels might be high 'Your what?', but he did fill out the forms to send me to the hospital for a hormone profile test.
I still remember the look on his face when I went to see him to get the results of those blood tests, and he told me, 'Your prolactin levels are sky high'. It was a look of something almost approaching respect. And from there he referred me to see an endocrinologist, and under her supervision I was weaned off the drugs. It strikes me now that had I not read that magazine article, my life now would be hardly recognisable - and four of the most wonderful, marvellous people on this planet would not exist.
So, in my opinion; in my experience, sterilisation of mentally ill women still occurs, but by underhand means. This is a real tragedy, because many of the women I met over the years in hospital and in so-called 'rehabilitation centres' longed to have children, and would have made wonderful mothers. I believe their illness was in some cases caused, in others compounded, by their childlessness.
As a mother myself, and someone who so nearly might not have been, I recognise how important, how awfully important, this issue is. I do not believe psychiatrists would willingly inflict such misery on women if they recognised them as people - instead of as patients, dangerous ones who must be controlled.
Monday, 7 December 2009
Is there any such thing as Schizophrenia?
I was thinking today about how to explain the incident I hinted at yesterday, to do with something that happened in hospital when I was nineteen. I decided that I can't go through all that here. It will have to be enough to say that it was assumed that I was accusing somebody of doing something when I wasn't intending to say that at all, and I put the record straight at the earliest opportunity, and luckily no harm was done.
I was also thinking that I should probably ask to look at details of the records kept when I was in hospital - but I haven't the energy for it. Whatever has been said about me is done now, and I have very little hope of changing any inaccuracies. The best I can do for myself is make sure I stay out of hospital henceforth.
I think a laissez faire attitude can be very useful in life, essential at times. In practical terms, when things go wrong you have to move on. You cannot afford to linger on thoughts of the past, or fret about things that can't be changed.
I am aware that my writing is rather obscure today. I am just really, really tired. It is the time of year when the children have to be all over the place several times a week for performances of this and that, and it takes its toll on all of us. It is wonderful in a lot of ways - I am so proud of them all, and I love watching the carol concerts and so on - but it is exhausting.
I had all sorts of scribbled notes about what I was going to write in this blog today, but I am going to shelve them for now. Luckily, nobody will complain - the beauty of blogging is the complete control that it affords the author.
What I have been considering today, is what a shame it is that I feel so hidebound by my diagnosis. It stops me doing things that I would otherwise enjoy - like helping more at the schools - for fear of what people would think of me being close to their kids if they knew about my schizophrenia.
As far as I know the diagnosis is not apparent to those who know me, and my kids are well balanced and properly behaved. I know that I pose no risk to anybody. But I do worry about what people would think even of letting their children come to play with mine after school if I revealed my mental health history. There would be a lot of nervous parents out there.
The psychiatrist who I saw after my last three children were born - who kept an eye on me for signs of disturbance - ended up being quite convinced of my normality, and even offered, completely of his own volition, to get my diagnosis reviewed, when I told him how it bothered me.
He spoke with 'The Team' and came back with a completely changed attitude - almost as if he thought that I had tried to pull the wool over his eyes and the others had luckily set him straight. He made it clear that the diagnosis was founded on very firm foundations and there was no question of changing it.
In some ways I don't mind - my life at the moment is generally satisfactory. But I do feel hidebound and typecast by the diagnosis - sometimes I wish that I had never accepted its validity. After all, I lead a very busy life, and I function well without medication, and have done so for many years.
So why should I accept that I 'am' something so awful sounding as 'Schizophrenic' just because that is what I have been told? By the same people who told me that the prognosis was very bad, that I would gradually deteriorate, that in other words I might as well give up all hope of a normal life. By the same people who told me that the medication I was on twelve years ago would in no way stop me conceiving, when the truth was so very different. Why did I ever trust these people?
There is no test for schizophrenia. It seems to me to be possible that I suffered three breakdowns because events in my childhood and early adult life led me to feel under such overwhelming pressure that I could no longer cope with reality, and so I retreated from that reality. And that by dint of a combination of luck and determination I am now in a place in my life where I am much more able to cope and so all memories and thoughts of those breakdowns can be consigned to the past and forgotten.
I can thus ignore the medics if I choose - I have no need of them for drugs or therapy, and I don't really need their permission to stand up and say, 'Hey, I am not schizophrenic just because you say I am'.
The reality is more complex though. I have been labelled, and for many years I have accepted that label. To shrug it off now I would need a lot of strength, and a pile of self-conviction.
I have always had a lot of faith in the medical profession - and felt a lot of awe for doctors in particular - but as I get older I come to realise that they are only humans as fallible as the rest of us.
I have read that nowadays psychiatrists are much less ready to diagnose mental illnesses, or to divulge diagnoses if they do make them. Largely because they realise what great margins for error there are, and because they are starting to see what implications these diagnoses have on individuals. Tell somebody they are a schizophrenic and watch them flounder - it certainly worked for me.
So if they are changing their attitudes to diagnosis now, I wonder why they are so loathe to say that they may have been wrong in the past? Could it possibly be professional pride? Is there a chance that the aim of some these psychiatrists is not solely to mend minds, but also to try to keep their patients in their proper places, to make themselves seem even loftier in comparison? Psychiatrists surely know even better than most how thin is the line we all tread. What it comes down to surely, is that the only person who is able to free me is me - if I am only willing to do so.
This really is heretical thought for me. Also, it is rather rambling. But it's fun to be a rebel for a change. Interesting how this blog keeps leading me in directions that I had no notion of exploring. It is quite a revelation.
I was also thinking that I should probably ask to look at details of the records kept when I was in hospital - but I haven't the energy for it. Whatever has been said about me is done now, and I have very little hope of changing any inaccuracies. The best I can do for myself is make sure I stay out of hospital henceforth.
I think a laissez faire attitude can be very useful in life, essential at times. In practical terms, when things go wrong you have to move on. You cannot afford to linger on thoughts of the past, or fret about things that can't be changed.
I am aware that my writing is rather obscure today. I am just really, really tired. It is the time of year when the children have to be all over the place several times a week for performances of this and that, and it takes its toll on all of us. It is wonderful in a lot of ways - I am so proud of them all, and I love watching the carol concerts and so on - but it is exhausting.
I had all sorts of scribbled notes about what I was going to write in this blog today, but I am going to shelve them for now. Luckily, nobody will complain - the beauty of blogging is the complete control that it affords the author.
What I have been considering today, is what a shame it is that I feel so hidebound by my diagnosis. It stops me doing things that I would otherwise enjoy - like helping more at the schools - for fear of what people would think of me being close to their kids if they knew about my schizophrenia.
As far as I know the diagnosis is not apparent to those who know me, and my kids are well balanced and properly behaved. I know that I pose no risk to anybody. But I do worry about what people would think even of letting their children come to play with mine after school if I revealed my mental health history. There would be a lot of nervous parents out there.
The psychiatrist who I saw after my last three children were born - who kept an eye on me for signs of disturbance - ended up being quite convinced of my normality, and even offered, completely of his own volition, to get my diagnosis reviewed, when I told him how it bothered me.
He spoke with 'The Team' and came back with a completely changed attitude - almost as if he thought that I had tried to pull the wool over his eyes and the others had luckily set him straight. He made it clear that the diagnosis was founded on very firm foundations and there was no question of changing it.
In some ways I don't mind - my life at the moment is generally satisfactory. But I do feel hidebound and typecast by the diagnosis - sometimes I wish that I had never accepted its validity. After all, I lead a very busy life, and I function well without medication, and have done so for many years.
So why should I accept that I 'am' something so awful sounding as 'Schizophrenic' just because that is what I have been told? By the same people who told me that the prognosis was very bad, that I would gradually deteriorate, that in other words I might as well give up all hope of a normal life. By the same people who told me that the medication I was on twelve years ago would in no way stop me conceiving, when the truth was so very different. Why did I ever trust these people?
There is no test for schizophrenia. It seems to me to be possible that I suffered three breakdowns because events in my childhood and early adult life led me to feel under such overwhelming pressure that I could no longer cope with reality, and so I retreated from that reality. And that by dint of a combination of luck and determination I am now in a place in my life where I am much more able to cope and so all memories and thoughts of those breakdowns can be consigned to the past and forgotten.
I can thus ignore the medics if I choose - I have no need of them for drugs or therapy, and I don't really need their permission to stand up and say, 'Hey, I am not schizophrenic just because you say I am'.
The reality is more complex though. I have been labelled, and for many years I have accepted that label. To shrug it off now I would need a lot of strength, and a pile of self-conviction.
I have always had a lot of faith in the medical profession - and felt a lot of awe for doctors in particular - but as I get older I come to realise that they are only humans as fallible as the rest of us.
I have read that nowadays psychiatrists are much less ready to diagnose mental illnesses, or to divulge diagnoses if they do make them. Largely because they realise what great margins for error there are, and because they are starting to see what implications these diagnoses have on individuals. Tell somebody they are a schizophrenic and watch them flounder - it certainly worked for me.
So if they are changing their attitudes to diagnosis now, I wonder why they are so loathe to say that they may have been wrong in the past? Could it possibly be professional pride? Is there a chance that the aim of some these psychiatrists is not solely to mend minds, but also to try to keep their patients in their proper places, to make themselves seem even loftier in comparison? Psychiatrists surely know even better than most how thin is the line we all tread. What it comes down to surely, is that the only person who is able to free me is me - if I am only willing to do so.
This really is heretical thought for me. Also, it is rather rambling. But it's fun to be a rebel for a change. Interesting how this blog keeps leading me in directions that I had no notion of exploring. It is quite a revelation.
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