Sorry if anyone’s already posted this, but I’ve been reading more about mental health acceptance, or ‘Mad Pride’, groups in the US, and through this great article about Liz Spikol et al, I found out about this:

BonkersFest! 2008 ‘De-normalisation: The next civil rights movement?’

Date: Saturday 7th June 2008
Location: London (at the old site of Bedlam!) Bedlam, The Geraldine Mary Harmsworth Park, Lambeth Road, London SE1 & at exactly the same time and date in four other parts of the UK! (I’m working on finding out where they are now, and will post as soon as I know)

And for those who can’t make Saturday, there’s also the BonkersFest! Tea Party - Camberwell Green, London SE5 on Sunday June 8th 2008 - presumably there as it’s very close to the Maudsley Psychiatric Hospital (where I used to work as PA to the Dean, oo er)…

The blurb from the site:
BonkersFest! - the acclaimed annual arts and music festival opens a public space to a roaring creative vortex. A celebration of the pure embrace of both art and madness working to a single end, the moral purpose that great art embodies and a truly joyful exaltation of madness, creativity, the expression of individuality and diversity.

“Bonkersfest!…a huge success, you should be very proud of yourselves” - Jo Brand

So, does anyone fancy going, praps as a Crazy Like Us? group?

p.s. Toe still too buggered, according to various medical professionals, to run on. I’m going back to the doctor today, so will post results of that one later. They want to put me back on SSRIs for my anxiety…

Well, I finally finished my lil zine/booklet type thing. It’s called The Junkbox Diaries. I made it from a load of old diary pages coupled with my comments on what was going on for me last year. It’s very short and poorly photocopied (and on one copy, the pages are stapled in the wrong order) but what the hell, it’s my first try at making something that’s entirely mine! I’m going to see if some local indie bookshops in my area will take it, but if anyone who writes or comments here would like one, I’ll send you one for free. Just email your name and address to 126080@bathspa.ac.uk and I’ll send one out to ya.

I am thinking about writing a report or possibly a book in my next year of uni, regarding how personal friendships affect people who live with mental illness. I also want to focus on the role of the internet in outreaching to others in search of help, whether this is good or not, websites specifically for people who live with depression etc

I’d be really grateful if you could all fill in this questionnaire. Obviously, if not enough questions apply to you, don’t worry, but have a look through anyway. Please reply to this post with your answers. Also, if anyone has any ideas for questions I’ve missed, do let me know!

How do you classify your mental illness?

How long have you lived with it?

Are you receiving treatment for it? (therapy, medication etc)

Do you feel that your friends and family understand your illness?

Have you ever been a member of a real life non-medical group or organization specifically for people who live with mental illness?

What was your experience of this?

If not, why not?

Have you ever been a member of an online non-medical group or organization specifically for people who live with mental illness?

What was your experience of this?

If not, why not?

Do you feel that it is good for people who suffer from mental illness to seek out people with similar problems to help them get better? Why?

What do you think the effect of the internet has had in the role of reaching out to others?

 Do you think that the internet is a good way of gaining support with your illness?

Our Dark Passenger is a zine produced by anarchists who live with mental illnesses, about their experiences and about ways for the community to support those with mental health problems. I havnt finished reading it yet, but I thought it may interest some of you. It is available to buy from Katipo (Aotearoa) or you can download and print it from here - inside, outside.

PS - It comes with this warning:

WARNING

Parts of this zine are likely to be triggering to those who have a history of self-harm or mental illness, so please use your own discretion when deciding to read.

If you think you are likely to be affected negatively by this zine, please DO NOT read it!

Please see here for more information.

I’m seeing a psychologist. I’ve seen him twice to see if his sort of treatment (psychodynamic psychotherapy) would be appropriate for me. I’m on a really low income and this sort of support is only usually available on private, but he is doing some further training for two years and has said that he can offer me support for a nominal fee for two years while he is training, as a mutually beneficial deal. I have no idea what to offer him, he seems to suggest the amount is not important, but i dont want to be rude and offer him the little we can really afford. I had to see a second psychotherapist (she is in charge of the region) to give it the go ahead, she seemed to think this would be good for me, although she considers me something of a flight risk. Not surprising really, i cant fault that reasoning.

I’m seeing him next Friday for our first proper session and from then on I will apparently be seeing him for two one hour long sessions a week, for two years. Thats a helluva thing. On the basis of our first session he says he thinks it unlikely that I am bipolar, although I do share many symptoms with bipolar people. I’m skeptical at the moment but I guess we’ll see.

Actually I’m really scared right now. I’m scared he’ll think I’m a fraud and kick me off my incapacity benefit. I’m scared he’ll think i’m incurable and get me sectioned. I’m scared it will cause problems in the future with my kids - could it be used against me, could they be taken from me? I am not harming them and I love them dearly but I just don’t trust the authorities to give a shit about this stuff, just mark me down as mental and take them away. I’m scared that i’ll be cured and i won’t be me anymore. I’m scared that my mental issues are all there is to me and if they’re cured i will disappear. I’m scared to find out who is underneath it all. I’m scared that there isn’t anyone there anyway, that I’ll turn out to be just a figment of my own imagination, that i’ll cease to exist once everything has been talked away. That i really did die a long time ago and now i’m just energy hanging around trying to convince myself i’m real.

I’m scared that i really am a fraud and that i’m wasting someone elses needed time.

I talked through my life in a nutshell with these two psychologists and they both noted how out of it I am, how matter of fact, how much I refuse to cry or feel. How I laugh about abuse i’ve been put through, because, I say, “in retrospect it’s quite funny really”, to their nothing-expressions. There is concern I will run away if I feel they care about me, about what I’m saying. Because I can’t deal with people expressing sorrow or care without feeling patronised, feeling I should show manly strength in the face of assumed weakness. People say “i’m sorry for what you have been thorugh” and I respond, why, *you* didnt do it, other people have it worse, i’ll survive, i always do. And then the psychologist says to me, why cant you cry for yourself? Why do you hold it back? Why do you stop yourself from feeling? And I think - because it’s all I have, this pseudo-strength, its what keeps me from dying. And then I don’t want to talk about it anymore, it hurts so much, I just want to die.

Wish me luck, i’ll be posting updates as I can. I’m trying really hard to take this seriously because it’s too easy for me to use humour and skepticism to not take it seriously, and I don’t want to waste my time and money.

And on money - any suggestions on what it is appropriate to offer? £5 a session? I can barely afford that - that’s a tenner a week too much. £1 a session? Seems so rude. I have never been one for haggling and this guy has left it totally up to me - i’m not sure if it’s a test, but i see tests everywhere, all the time.

Anyway - money - how much - help??

One of the things I’ve struggled with over the last few years is how my mental health has affected my career and vice versa. A large part of my identity has always been entwined with what I do and how well I do it, and it all started to unravel when I found myself deeply unhappy at work.

Obviously, the first thing I thought about was changing my job, but I wanted to stay in academic librarianship and there were very few positions available at the pay rate I was receiving. I did get interviews for all suitable vacancies in the vicinity, but didn’t get any of the jobs. This happened over the course of several months and I was gradually having more time off due to stress related illnesses such as IBS and asthma. Things spiralled downwards until I was routinely bursting into tears at home (though I did my best to hid tears and distress at work…), and feeling out of control. Ending in being off sick for several months.

Since I was a teenager I’ve always wanted to live by some “feminist ideals”- I wanted to go to Uni, get a well paid job, support myself financially, get my own place etc. I didn’t want to get married or be dependant on a man (though I always envisioned having a male partner). I managed all that, so it came as a shock when I realised I had depression. I shouldn’t be depressed! I was living by my ideals and hadn’t had any major upsets in my life.

However, through counselling and therapy I’ve realised I wasn’t just living my ideals, I was trying to be ideal… I put a lot of energy and care into trying to be very good at everything, and didn’t like to ask for help.

It all came back to that common cause of distorted thinking: Perfectionism.

Having to re-evaluate my life due to my ill health (mental & physical) has made me come to the somewhat painful realisation that I am not what I do. Therefore, my job can be just a job and I can be good at it without it being the major focus of my life. It doesn’t matter if the house is a mess, or what wage I’m earning (as long as we have enough to live on) or whether I’m the perfect friend. I can be me, with all my imperfections and the people who matter will still love me.

Now I just have to figure out how to be just me!

I have been registered as a writer here for some time, but have been reading everyone else’s contributions and thinking “there’s no way I can write as well as that!” Regardless of my feelings of inadequacy, I feel the need to at least introduce myself and do what I promised the group and myself I was going to do, by beginning to contribute properly to the blog.

I have been affected by depression for many years. My mother (a nurse in psychiatry, with depression herself) can pinpoint times when I was only five or six years old where I showed signs of depressive illness. It really started manifesting when I was 15-16 and I went through several years of bouncing from one doctor to another, trying drug after drug after drug, and all the time spinning downwards with self-destructive behaviour; self-harm, drug and alcohol abuse and four separate suicide attempts, all to try to quiet the voices in my head and end the feelings of despair. When I became pregnant with my son I stopped the alcohol and drugs, was put on paroxetine and adopted a healthier, more ’stable’ lifestyle. It was around this time I started to be taken seriously by doctors. I am almost certain that had I not become pregnant, I would not be here today. My son indirectly saved my life. It felt like because I was pregnant, the medical professionals saw me as an adult all of a sudden, and they needed to ‘make me better’ so that I would be an adequate parent. I was put on the paroxetine because my (male) doctor didn’t know what else to try. There was nothing else to try. The benefits to my mental heath outweighed the risks to the foetus who later became my son, so my pregnancy was also my first experience of the dullness of a drugged mind.

Paroxetine is numbing and addictive. It prevents me from reaching the very lowest of my lows, but in kind it also prevents me from reaching the highest of my highs. As a teenager I was a creative soul; an artist, a painter, a poet. Paroxetine strips away my creativity, it leaves me standing cold with a paintbrush in my hand and a furrowed brow as I stare at a blank canvas, wondering what it is I am supposed to do. My anxiety makes me very forgetful, and sometimes I forget to take my tablet. It has a very short ‘half-life’ so the effects of withdrawal are felt rapidly in comparison to other antidepressants - within 24-48 hours. I begin to feel dizzy and unbalanced, like the fluid in my ears has frozen over and I have no idea if I am upside-down or back to front. When that dizziness begins I have to take the tablet within a few hours, because otherwise I will begin shaking and vomiting. When I pop that pill after forgetting, I know I have a two to three hour ‘window’ of creativity. There is just little enough of the drug in my system that colours look right again, and everything is bright and glowing and loud and my brain buzzes with ideas. Then it kicks in again and I go back to normal, struggling to squeeze out even a sentence or brush stroke.

I moved to the house I live in now two years ago, and met Dr R. Dr R is a wonderful woman, a feminist, the kind of doctor who never hurries you and takes her time and doesn’t fob you off with antibiotics or painkillers or long words. Dr R has admitted I am likely to be on paroxetine for life. It took me a while to become comfortable with this, but I accept it now. The withdrawal is physically painful, and the slight dampening of experiences and medical dependency is a small price to pay for the sake of staying stable around my small child. I don’t advocate antidepressant drugs - in fact I advise strongly against them - but I recognise through my own experience and from the experiences of others that for some of us, they allow us to lead fairly normal lives.

Alongside my depression I suffer from anxiety disorder, and this is more detrimental than the depression, which surprises many people. The general public seems to perceive anxiety disorder as ‘worrying’ or occasional panic attacks but it is so much more than that. My own experience of it includes not only anxiety and panic but also obsessive-compulsive disorder, extreme paranoia, delusions and aural hallucinations. I was recently referred to an organisation which deals with psychosis, as the gateway psychiatrist feared that my previous drug abuse had triggered it (a theory that not all psychiatric professionals agree on). I had a session with the psychologists there, who concluded that it was not psychosis but anxiety that caused my symptoms. I was loathe to become dependent on more drugs, and am now in the beginning stages of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy with a wonderful woman who treats me respectfully, with dignity, like a normal person.

Living as a woman with mental health problems is difficult; living as a mother with mental health problems is more difficult still. I remember a few weeks before my son was born, out with his father (now my ex) and his mother (my son’s grandma). She, not being well-endowed in the tact area, expressed her concern about my mental illness, and wondered whether I was worried my son would be taken away once social services caught wind of my inadequacies. I had not even thought of it until then. I laughed it off and assured her that I would be a fit parent, but in the back of my mind I wondered. Did she think I was going to ‘go loopy’ and harm my child? Did she think I would be a bad parent because of my illnesses? After my son was born I was scared to go to my doctor, scared to talk to anyone about my mental problems because I was afraid they would perceive it as a sign of weakness and decide I was unfit to look after my baby.

This of course compounded on top of the anxiety I already suffered, plus the inevitable anxiety of the new mother. My ex, though a sufferer of depression himself, had no sympathy for my feelings and my dependency, anxiety and feelings of inadequacy were the cause of many, many arguments. Then my son had a near-fatal accident at three months; my ex tripped on the stairs and dropped him. He suffered a broken skull and collarbone and massive brain haemorrhaging. We were told he would die, and then after two bouts of brain surgery when it emerged he would live, we were told he would remain blind forever, he would probably never walk or talk, he was lost to us. By some miracle he made a full recovery; the only signs now are the large scar which arcs over his head from the surgery, and hemiparesis in his right arm - stiffness and slight inability of movement. A few months later my ex and I were irreparably damaged and we went our separate ways. Living alone has helped my healing considerably; our relationship was a destructive one and he could not give me the support I so desperately needed.

This has gone in a totally different direction to that which I intended when I first sat down and began typing! It turns out I have a lot to say; about the ways men and women are treated differently by the mental health system, about the ways mentally ill men and women are treated differently by society, about being a mother with mental illness, about the inadequacies of the system (I ‘live’ on Incapacity Benefit, though it’s barely enough to live on), about the history of mental illness and women’s ‘hysteria’, about theories on genetic predisposition towards mental illness. I can’t fit it all in today, but I have at least broken the ice and told you part of ‘my story’, how I came to be in the place I am now, how I came to this blog, what I am all about. I have never written about my mental health issues in detail before. It is cathartic, and it is important that our voices are heard. Now you know me, and I have my topic ideas here to jog my memory, I have a feeling you’ll be hearing a lot more from me. Thank you for giving me your time, and thank you to the creators and other writers of this blog for allowing me to have a voice.

Suggestion To My University/Universities In General/The Government: Money, please?

I have a part-time job, which I was extremely lucky to get. I work in a lovely shop, with good people. It has a fairly relaxed atmosphere and I don’t feel under pressure. In fact, I actually look forward to being there most of the time. I was worried about getting a job while being at uni because I knew that there would be time, and most definitely energy, conflicts. With all my uni work to do, I wasn’t sure whether I’d be able to handle it. I can’t say it’s easy, but generally having this job is a really positive thing and helps with my mood. The thing is, like most students with part-time jobs I’m on minimum wage and am actually told by my uni not to work more than 15 hours a week. I earn roughly £56 a week… and I pay £37 of that to my therapist.

As most people who have tried to obtain therapy through the NHS know, it’s basically impossible. All through my teenage years I was kept on waiting lists, offered counselling instead (which I didn’t find helpful at all) and given anti depressants which generally made my mood drop even further. I started seeing private therapists a few years ago, and eventually I found someone I felt could really help me. And she has. In the year I’ve been seeing my current therapist, I’ve seen such significant changes to my mood that I actually feel like I won’t always be depressed. I’ve felt positive about my life. This is a huge thing.

When I look back over my bank statements for the past year I cannot believe I’ve survived up until now without getting (even more) massively into debt. I pay for rent, bills, a monthly bus ticket (which I need to get to my therapist’s office), food, books and my weekly appointment out of my student loan and my savings (which are rapidly diminishing). I’ve bought basically nothing for myself in the way of treats (clothes, CDs etc) because I just can’t afford it.

I applied for Access to Learning (a grant you can apply for if you are struggling financially). This took forever. I had to obtain bank statements from the last three months, my housing contract and a letter from my therapist’s office, photocopy the whole lot, fill in a ten page form and return the whole lot to the welfare office. This is great when you’ve got little to no time/energy/willpower to do anything… */sarcasm* They took weeks to process it and then sent me a letter telling me I hadn’t included a copy of my Disability Assessment Report which they had right there in the welfare office. I finally had to go to the Welfare office to talk to someone who informed me that I needed to provide them with another piece of evidence before they could begin to assess the application. I was exhausted and feeling terrible. At this point, I hadn’t been eating properly because I basically couldn’t afford food. I broke down in tears in front of the man I was talking to. He didn’t really know what to say. I finally obtained the last bit of evidence and after more time had passed received a letter stating I would receive a lump sum of £691.

This sounds like a good result (and don’t get me wrong I’m grateful!) but all it meant was that I didn’t go overdrawn. Within two months I was right back where I started. The money had disappeared: rent, bills and weekly therapy took it all.

About a month ago I made the decision that I would try and cut my therapist’s appointments from once a week to once a fortnight. I was not happy about this decision at all, but my situation being what it was, I didn’t feel I had a choice. I had survived a couple of breaks like this when my therapist took time off last summer so I thought that maybe it would be all right…

In short, it hasn’t been. Turns out there’s a big difference between weekly and fortnightly therapy sessions. In no time at all I’ve felt hopeless, suicidal and like I’m sliding back into my old ways, how I felt before I started therapy… It has made me realise that I need to keep seeing my therapist every week. There’s no other option.

But can I afford it? I’m currently trying to apply for my loans for next year, screaming with frustration because it looks like my parents earn just over the amount required for me to get extra financial help… My financial situation doesn’t seem to count for much. Even though I’ll be 21 this year and I have moved out of their house, I am still apparently dependent on my parents. They help out as much as they can, but to be honest I feel awkward asking them. My father is currently in therapy himself and is having to halve his working hours because of his own depression and my mother is retired. I don’t honestly feel like I can just ask for money as and when I need it.

My Disability Allowance doesn’t seem to cover things like therapy. It covered my laptop (definite plus) and my fortnightly (or thereabouts) sessions with my mentor but not much else of use. I guess it’s assumed that if you turn your nose up at the NHS, then you have to fork out for private therapy out of your own pocket. Never mind that the NHS have either ignored me or treated me with disbelief regarding my depression for years… My point is, if my Disability Allowance is willing to provide me with things like ‘textbooks specifically to help with my disability’ (which is what? Self-help books?) and ‘taxi journeys’ (presumably when I don’t feel I can get the bus, but to be honest phoning for a taxi is even more difficult, let alone having to ask for a receipt to photocopy and send off for reimbursement), then why isn’t it possible to gain help with my therapy costs?

The reason for the title of this entry is that I’m sure this is a government issue rather than one personal to my uni, but it is infuriating nonetheless. Why should I have to put a price on my own sanity? I’m not saying it is my university’s responsibility to pay for my therapy, but if they’re willing to give money towards other issues regarding disabilities, they’d do better not to make it so complicated for me to gain financial help when I need it.

WHEN OUT ALONE:

-         Where possible don’t walk alone after dark.

Well, this is the one we’ve all been told for years, isn’t it. Up until I became a feminist I’d be nodding fervently and planning my TV schedule for the dark, dark night ahead. But think about winter in England. Basically, if you have a vagina, you can’t go out alone after five pm. I don’t live alone but I’d feel uncomfortable about dragging my housemates with me every time I need to go up to the shop… Not out of politeness but just… personal freedom, maybe? Remember that? No? Oh, we haven’t quite got it yet, have we. I just don’t understand why it’s universally accepted that if you’re female, you shouldn’t go out alone at night because you can and will get attacked. I have walked home alone late at night hundreds of times before. I have never once been attacked. I’ve been intimidated, yes, I’ve had nasty comments made, yes, but not once have I been attacked. I’m not saying it could never happen, but if I think about all the stories I’ve heard from friends, acquaintances, websites and the news, the majority of people being attacked out after dark are male.

-         Always be alert

Well, yes… But I’m sort of like that anyway because I don’t like walking into lampposts.

-         Avoid shortcuts and dark deserted areas

Yep. Makes sense. I will walk home after dark, but I’m not going to go dancing through Dodgytown.

-         Walk near the kerb away from bushes and buildings.

Ah. For all those tiny little men lurking inside bushes ready to attack… Seriously, I’m not making fun of this, but if I walk away from the buildings, I’m closer to the road which is also dangerous because presumably if I’m going to get abducted someone could just pull their car over and shove me inside. What to do, what to do.

-         Do not hitch-hike

Well, no, not generally a good idea, but I don’t come across situations where I would need to do that often. I have a travel-card.

-         Carry a torch after dark

Yeah… as covered before, who is actually going to do this? I suppose you could use it to bash someone on the head if you need to.

-         To avoid delay, keep your keys in your hand when approaching car or home

This one’s pretty good, not just to avoid delay but a) if you really need the loo, it’s better to be able to get into your house as soon as possible and b) if someone does attack you, you can punch them with your keys in your hand. They’re a pretty good weapon.

-         If you are attacked scream and shout as loud as you can

Yep. Your voice is your best weapon. Even though as British people we just love to bury our heads in our newspapers at the thought of being involved in a scene, a lot of the time people love a bit of drama. Scream your lungs out and, hey presto, Bloke Next Door To The Rescue. Seriously, though, it’s a good trick. It’ll distract your attacker enough for you to get away.

SHOPPING: (because, y’know, it’s just a given that women will need a special section just for this. We are such silly, frivolous creatures. How about a ‘Football’ section in the men’s pamphlet? ‘If someone starts a fight with you, the headbutt is a much underused attack etc etc.’)

-         Carry your handbag close to your body and beware of persons approaching you from front or rear

I don’t have a handbag, but thanks for the assumption.

-         Don’t put your handbag down where it can be easily stolen

I don’t have a… oh, never mind. Well, a place where it can easily be stolen… Gee, like anywhere?

-         If someone snatches your bag don’t fight, you may be injured

Damn right. I’m not getting my head kicked in for a wallet full of old bus tickets and a half-price phone.

-         Get as good a description as possible and tell the police immediately

Again, fine in theory…

-         Don’t leave your purse on top of your shopping bag or pram

Because as a woman it’s a guarantee I will have either one or both of these items. Sigh.

-         Avoid unlit or deserted car parks or areas

Yees… but where exactly would you be? I’m assuming we’re talking about the daytime because not many shops are open in the dead of night.

-         Don’t carry excessive amounts of money in your handbag

Hah! Chance would be a fine thing. This does make sense, though, but again it’s not really specific to women and I don’t have a handbag.

-         Do not carry your credit cards and cheque book in the same bag

Personally, I don’t think you should carry a cheque book at all. Most shops don’t accept cheques any more and you’ll just hold up the queue at the ones that do. But besides that… that means you have to take two bags with you? Or just leave one or the other thing at home? Hmm. Perhaps construct a weird krypton factor bag with so many pockets that your attacker will get confused and just hand the thing back to you and run away…

-         Remember protect yourself first and then your belongings

Because us women are so stupid we will actually throw ourselves in front of a bus for a pair of shoes. Again, this seems like common sense. Is anyone actually going to pick up this leaflet and think ‘Ah, I shouldn’t die for my shopping. Great advice!’

Thus ends the great advice of the safety leaflet. Is anyone else confused and slightly scared? With my mind being as it is I find it hard enough to walk outside most days as it is without having to fear being attacked because I’m not carrying a torch or walking on the right side of the pavement…

What it really boils down to is this: 99.9% of the population can and should be held accountable for their actions. Why, then, are the people who are attacked being told what to do to avoid being attacked by these people? If someone is going to attack you, they will do it no matter where you are, what you’re wearing, whether you’re carrying your handbag two degrees to the wrong side of your body and whether or not you’re carrying a sodding torch.