The love of my life

Today is quite a big day for me – in 5hours time I will be about to speak at a conference on Mental Health Medicines. My paper is about my journey, and the importance of the therapeutic relationship between doctor and patient. I am perhaps writing this blog to avert the nerves which have started wiggling inside me; yet it’s also quite exciting – giving something back, and hopefully helping healthcare professionals to better understand their patients. I just need to remember to breathe. My paper is also a testament to my psychiatrist, Dr Constantine, for her support and help over the past year. She has been my rock, and I wouldn’t be where I am today without her.

Writing this paper and preparing to give it has made me think a lot, about where I’ve been and where I want to go. Despite the challenges of the past year, I’m in a good place; I feel the fittest I’ve ever felt, and my anxiety is practically zero [only 0.25mg clonazepam a day now!] – and of course, I have the unconditional love of Lifa. I’ve also realised that it’s nearly a year since I stopped drinking – and being “sober” has had an enormous effect on me. I used to drink chardonnay by the bottle, as a way of tackling my “problems” – I cringe now when I think of the oblivion and the sadness it masked. Coke Zero all the way!

I was very sad to hear of the death of Ellie Jeffreys, whose blog writtenoff.net I used to follow avidly. She was my age, and battling cancer. She was due to get married in two weeks time. Reading her blogs always gave me a new perspective – how precious and short life is.

The sunshine always brings a smile to my face [and a redness to my skin!], even though this week has been tinged with sadness. Lifa remains my absolute joy, and riding in the sun in short sleeves is just magical. I’m so looking forward to our lessons tomorrow and friday. Lana, my instructor, is a real confidence giver; and the quote “There is something about the outside of a horse which is good for the inside of a man” is very true.

Well, I had better start getting myself together … painting my nails, maybe a cup of coffee! Think of me at 12.30!

It has been a long time since I wrote anything on here, perhaps a record amount of time. Anyway, here I am, and I’m pleased to report that life is moving along, brightened by Lifa and the occasional glimpses of sunshine. I cannot credit Lifa [that's Leafa and not Lifer, by the way] enough for relaxing me, for giving me confidence and love. I am continually amazed that animals so big and strong let us get on their backs and put bits in their mouths, and do so with such submission and trust. I have a lot to learn, but our thursday lessons are going well, and every hour in the saddle creates more of a bond.

Next week I’ve got to talk to a group of pharmacists and psychiatrists at a mental health medicines conference in Birmingham. It was very therapeutic writing my presentation – my slot is 40minutes long, so I’m hoping there will be questions afterwards, as even I can only talk for 25minutes! As I sat to write about my journey, I realised how lucky I am, to have the psychiatrist I have, to have my GP, my employment advisor. The general theme to my presentation is that the therapeutic relationship is equal to if not more important than medication. From my perspective, I have certainly got “better” as the trust between myself and the professionals has grown. I feel respected and supported in all aspects of my life, and last summer seems long ago; I’ve even dropped a whole tablet of clonazepam a day, which is nothing short of miraculous.

Oh yes, and I’m 30 – that snuck up on me rather quickly, and suddenly I’m a third of the way to 90. People tell me that the 30s are the new 20s, and I certainly feel very positive about the way life is going. Last weekend I went to a horse show with Jenny and her horse Leoni. We slept in the horsebox, and there was a disco on the Saturday evening. I hadn’t been to a disco in years, and Jenny and I danced until midnight, full on dancing, air guitar and all … with a bit of karaoke thrown in!

Now all I need is the river to come down a bit so I can row again!

Sometimes in life someone comes along and you just click, there is some magnetic force far beyond human imagination or intelligence; a chemistry so mindblowing that nothing else matters. Suddenly the world becomes light and beautiful, there is colour again, there is hope and possibility. There is a constant spring of mind and body – whatever happens, however dull the daily tasks – it’s there at the back of your mind … the next meeting, the promise of a future. And then it all goes, just like that, and you’re alone again – rejected, dejected … on the scrap heap, not good enough.

And as much as you try, you can’t get beyond the tears which fall so easily for lost dreams and hopes. And the feeling of stupidity for allowing yourself to fall in love and get hurt.

How will it ever mend? I forgive everything, I long to hold a hand, to have one last kiss.

Somebody asked me to write more about “recovery” and how I perceived it. I’ve been asked to talk to some doctors also, about Bipolar, and my experiences of being in hospital and being an out patient. Yesterday being my birthday – I thought back to last April, on Iona, where they made me a pink sparkly birthday cake – and I was ignorant of the things to come.

It would be easy to look back on the past year and focus on all the disappointments and negativity – the stigma, so to speak, of being on a psych ward. As I sit here today, I would say it was probably the best thing to have happened to me. I’d been living at such a frantic pace for so many years, searching for the unsearchable, entirely lost. It is very humbling to walk around in a hospital nightgown, queueing for your medication, longing for the next cigarette break. I made some great friends on that ward, friends who I’m still in touch with – people who sat around a table in a hospital and drew colourful pictures with me.

I left hospital on July 18th 2011. I will never forget that date, or the long journey back in the car with my Dad, largely in silence. It has been a long road, but I have learnt a lot. I have learnt to trust my GP and psychiatrist, to like them even, to know that it’s okay to slightly depend on them, and to cry on them. I’ve learnt that no one is perfect, and that life is all about choice, about making mistakes and moving on, about choosing every day to LIVE.

Recovery to me means being able to live a life without constantly analyzing it, or wanting it to be different. Recovery is about acceptance; yes, I may take pills for Bipolar, but that doesn’t define who I am. I don’t want, as Elizabeth Wurtzel once put it, to fall in love with my condition, to live my life through bipolar lenses. I’m Verity – I’m prone to get excited about nothing, and that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m manic!

This year I put Kolkata to bed, a month in that hot sultry city was enough to show me that I’ve grown beyond it. I cherish my times in India, the wonderful experiences I’ve had volunteering over the years – but those times are over. I’ve wanted so much to be liked, to be wanted. My psychiatrist gave me some wise words a few weeks ago – some people will like us, some won’t, but as long as we know inside who we are, it shouldn’t matter. You can’t please everyone. I’ve also given up my quest for “God” – or a comfort blanket to make the world okay. I am rather ambivalent to religion these days; I have no desire to go back down that route.

Another thing I’ve learnt is the power of patience, in all areas of my life; and the necessity of having a structure to my days. I’ve become immersed in riding, rowing and running. I enjoy so much the bond I have with Lifa, and I look forward to a summer of activity with new and old friends.

I also think recovery is about knowing who is healthy company and who is not. As hard as that may be, I have to distance myself from any sources of self harm, or suicidal tendencies. I don’t want to become so narcissistic that all I do is write about me [the irony?]

On friday I went to a meeting of art therapists working on various projects in a mental health setting. I’ve applied for a job as a recovery trainer assistant. Anything I can give back, or share from my own experience – is such an important part of recovery. This isn’t just about me, it’s about those people who are where I was last year – who don’t see a way out, who find life so difficult they see no option but to end it. In a sense, the psych ward showed me my vocation far more than 3 years at Cambridge did.

It is a new beginning, and an exciting one.

Beth and I, the best pair of our rowing course, medals and all!

It has been noted that I haven’t been blogging very much lately. This is an indication that I actually have a life, and have much less time to sit around musing about philosophy and indulging in self pity [I apologise, readers, if there was a lot of word vomit at times]. Tack cleaning is good for the soul.

I put my head on the pillow at night and I’m tired. I’m getting out of the house every day – to see Lifa, to pick up horse poo, to run, to go rowing [even in the rain]. I could talk about Lifa for hours, and the effect our bond has on me. She’s my star, my Black Beauty.

I’ve been asked to talk to some people [healthcare professionals] about being Bipolar and my experience of health services and recovery. Next month it will be a whole year since I was admitted to the Edith Cavell Centre in Peterborough. So much has happened in that year, but at the moment I’m in a good place, and the word recovery is used a lot. I’ve started sitting on a “Locailty forum” to feed back patient information to the local NHS trust. On friday I begin my Art Therapy placement in Worcester, and I’m the patient rep on my GP “committee”. I’ve also applied for a job as a “recovery support assistant” within the local psych unit. These are things I couldn’t have even considered just a few months ago.

I think it is inevitable that I want to work in a mental health setting. If there is any way that my personal experience could benefit others, then I feel it’s my duty to share. Isn’t that the point of getting better, of struggling through those dark days on the psych ward? I remember my very first morning, I’d been checked on every 10minutes in the night because I was suicidal. I walked into the living area somewhere around 5 and just sat in a chair and cried. I think I cried for two days, whilst doodling on my hospital nightgown. I understand what that feels like, but I also know it IS possible to have goals again, have dreams and things to live for.

I’m three days shy of 30, and feel quietly hopeful an optimistic that life is heading in the right direction. I will keep on blogging, but hopefully I’ll have more worldly and constructive things to say … !

Yes, I know, Mea Maxima Culpa, it has been a long time since I wrote anything on here. I suppose that’s what happens when you start getting out more and getting a life. You no longer need to know the intricacies of my shopping basket, or my intake of caffeine [which is still too much, according to the psych]. The desire to vomit everything onto a blog has not been there, until this morning – when I thought I’d say hello. I do want to keep blogging, so must be more forceful with myself! In truth, it has been an emotionally charged week.

The three R’s, riding, rowing and running, seem to be getting me through the bad patches, and Lifa is a delight. Getting out of the house and into the fresh air is really good for me, especially meeting new people and realising that life is full of ups and downs whether “bipolar” or not.

30 is fast approaching; as is my meeting with the art therapist next friday, followed by Badminton and the horse trials. Mary King only has one ride this year, and I expect most will be keeping their best mounts for the Olympics. Still, I hope the sun shines and Mary wins on Apache!

I still wish I knew what Verity would be like without the drugs, but cold turkey isn’t an option.

Thank you, lovely people ,for reading and caring, and being “there” …

The beautiful Lifa

After a strange couple of weeks when I was doubting everything and everyone, I am pleased to report – egotistically of course – that things are looking up. I saw my psychiatrist today – and far from thinking me manic, she thought I was on the road to good health, both physically and mentally. She said that the fine line between elevated mood and mania was often expressed in a faliure to carry out tasks. I’ve run 5K every day, it’s a mission, I have to finish it! She did shock me by saying that for every cup of coffee you should have 5 glasses of water! Phew! I’ll be drinking a lot of water then! I like Dr C a lot and think we have a good therapeutic relationship. I trust her, and after walking into her clinic without an appointment the other day, I respect the fact that she made time to see me even though she was busy.

Yesterday was one of the best days I’ve had in so long, spent with a new special friend; we rowed [well, I rowed, she coached!], swam, jacuzzied, steam roomed, sauna-d …. had lunch, went for a walk. It was like being on holiday, and I felt alive again, like a living, breathing human being, with blood pumping through my veins.

Then of course there is Lifa, the new love of my life. Words cannot describe how wonderful it is to get to know her and spend time with her. I’m besotted, absolutely in love with her. And it’s rowing tomorrow! There are lots of things to put on my new “Happy list” …. and for those people who have “jumped ship” in recent weeks … good riddance; life is starting to look up, and sometimes you have to make choices …

If I make the effort and diet, run, try to get healthy, I am classed as manic. If I stay under the duvet all day, I’m depressed. I can’t win. Is there ever a fine line with Bipolar? Isn’t that what my drugs should do?

I find it very hard to tell when I am going “high” – I mean, I’ve felt great the past week, I’ve really enjoyed my running, rowing, horsing, watching what I eat, making an effort with what I wear. I’m still taking my pills [and part of the exercise thing is my fear at getting fat, which so easily happens on these meds]. I was “with it” enough to get cross with comments made about my lifestyle or religion [or lack of]. When you’ve spent what seems like months under the duvet, getting up, putting on running shoes, taking care of your appearance etc. makes such a difference. It’s like the whole world is still there, waiting for you to jump back onboard, you can have dreams again, even if you can’t sleep. And then someone will say something – make a comment about you being “obsessional” or “paranoid” or narcissistic, and you can feel everything crumble around you.

Does this mean I’m ill, or does it mean I’m responding in a normal way to nasty/provokative comments? How do I know? Or am I just overly sensitive? And why do I feel the need to analyse everything?

There is a quote by Voltaire which suggests that the Christian sect, throughout history, has done nothing but harm. You may wonder why I chose to write about God on this rainy Easter Monday, but my partner is doing a masters in religion/philosophy, so we often end up debating. Religion [latin = re-bonding] has always intrigued me. I suppose I’ve been a bit more radical in my intrigue than others – joining the Poor Clares for 3months before running off with another sister, for example. I’ve spent many hours kneeling on the floor of the chapel in Kolkata – way back in 2002 I did a “Come and See” with the Missionaries of Charity in Prem Dan [incidentally I felt like I had joined the army, and was very glad to leave!]. I worked in the home for the dying in Kolkata, trying to understand. Looking back, I wanted desperately to be a part of something greater, and I wanted the unconditional love which they proclaimed. I’d been raised Church of England – but never quite understood how a church could rise from one man’s arrogant desire for a divorce. Forgive me for my ignorance, but it seemed Sundays were an occasion for nice clothes and coffee and biscuits afterwards; chocolate digestives too, if you were lucky.

At Cambridge, I would go off the rails – regularly being carried to my staircase paralytic by the porters; and then have times when I would go to mass, and feel terribly guilty for my lifestyle [it was around this time I was diagnosed bipolar]. I once found myself sobbing to Sr Pauline, a Dominican sister who was at Fisher House, the Catholic chaplaincy. She made me a cup of tea and listened to my woes by a crackling fire. Similarly there were trips to Arundel and the Poor Clares there, with whom I spent a wonderful Christmas – with a group of strangers. We bonded so well, and created our own family.

There came a point, whilst trying to digest all that nuns and priests were telling me … when I began to question not only why I believed, but what I believed. Did I believe in Jesus, in the bible, in the words of “the church”? No. Quite simply, no, I didn’t. I had seen the look of starvation on the faces of children, of families in India – and could not quite resolve this to the huge wealth of St Peters and “the church”. I have seen babies dying of AIDs, easily solvable with the presence of contraceptives. But then suffering buys you brownie points, doesn’t it? I took issue with priestly celibacy [absence of which would surely have saved many young boys from years of abuse, then covered up by the Vatican] – and the refusal to ordain women [got to love Lavinia Byrne.]

Once upon a time I went out with a New York Orthodox Jew. Whilst dating him [in secret, it must be said, think goya] – I kept a kosher kitchen, I even ate matzos at passover and ate off paper plates. Yet still he fucked me every night. Something a bit wrong there?

Some people have said that God is greater than the church …. but what is this “God”? I do not know. Sometimes I wish that I could believe …. but for the most part, I am glad that I am “free” [yes Lacey, free] – to decide for myself. After all, as Iris Murdoch said “Anything that consoles is fake”.

I’m sitting here at my desk looking out on a beautiful garden drenched in morning rain. Where did it come from and where will it go to? Death is a mere whisper away from us, from those we love. If we believe in an after life, surely death is somehow cushioned …. unless we also believe in the fires of hell, and the agonising word of purgatory.

Many of you know that earlier this year a very dear friend of mine was brutally murdered. Next week is her memorial service. She was the kindest most generous person you could meet. No God who is “all loving” could have let that happen to Betty. I realise there are many other examples, but I feel all the more passionate about Betty’s murder – because I knew her, because I loved her, and because I miss her. She died alone, and I feel sick when I think about how frightened she would have been.

I realise there are no answers, merely more questions. I am happy to live my life without religion … I think we all have an innate conscience about what is right and wrong. It’s what we do in the day, in the week, not getting on our knees on a Sunday and singing hymns.

I bear no malice to my religious friends, and I do not mock your beliefs; indeed, sometimes I am jealous of your capacity to do so.

Here endeth the lesson according to Verity.

Easter @ Worthington Towers

Seeing as it’s Easter Sunday, I suppose I’ll be classed as EGGotistic today [haha, I know I'm funny]!

I woke up to a brightly coloured Easter Egg on the doorstep. I’m sitting here, getting ready to go and help Jenny at the Midland’s Showjumping Championships, looking back on the past week. In Kolkata, Holy Week was intense, even on Iona last year – when on Easter Saturday Catherine and I slept out on DunI – the highest point on the island – there was a suffocating intensity. This year I am free of the religious chains, yet funnily enough – I’ve learnt a lot this week – a lot about who my friends are, and what I want from life. This morning I deleted my old email account, rid myself of several contacts, and set up a new one. It felt liberating to delete those old stagnant folders dating back to 2008 …. Out with the old, in with the new.