Are the voices in my head too loud for you?

Showing

I had a demanding art therapy session today.  Difficult because I had chosen to set the bar high.  I have been painting, as you know, for a few months now.  Part of my illness is a pervasive sense of emptiness - and as a consequence I have no sense of the value of the work I produce.  The same is true of my personal worth.  I am not suffering from low self-esteem so much as an absence of an opinion on the subject.  I decided to take some canvases into the session as well as a few photos of other pieces.  To my astonishment my art therapist received them very positively as far as I can remember.  I can't recall the compliments she made, but I know she made some - and she even suggested I should work up some more pieces with a view to a solo exhibition in Inverness.  That souns serious.  I always long to be taken seriously - more than I need to belong.

We talked about our mutual love of coastal scenes and I shared my desire to improve technically.  She set to work showing me an alternative way to paint the sea and showed me how to assess my work with a more detached, critical eye.  All good.  The hardest part of the session was working with other patients in the room.  The patients weren't the problem - I was.  I am still reticent to spend time with other people for too long because I seem to have lost the capacity for small talk.  Although I was slightly panicked, I had several things to focus on and was able to enjoy their company by the end of the session.

It was an emotionally powerful moment to be in a session with other people with a similar diagnosis.  I recognised in them the very traits that I live with - and that in itself was reassuring and affirming.  I realised how much energy I am putting into editing and normalising my behaviour for fear that I may appear rather odder than eccentric.

Spending time with others living with mental health issues has also helped me realise that I am still pretty ughie.  The world we inhabited together for three quarters an hour felt very homely and real.  A year ago as a mental health chaplain my response would have been rather different to our shared behaviours.

I wondered briefly whether I should try being even more as I am even if I am displaying ticks and strange turns of phrase and imagery.  I've decided that while I can normalise - even if it is tiring - then I should.  I don't feel this is denial so much as trying to benchmark a sense of personal wellness rather then perceived health.  While I can inhibit certain extremes of behaviour I am weller than when I am unable to get out of bed or sit rocking, silently in a chair.  Sometimes referencing social convention can help to monitor what feeling and being present actually means. 

I think I could grow to love these sessions with other patients.  They are hard work emotionally but restful on a psychic level.  I fit without having to try.

My painting is good enough to exhibit.  I am holding on to that thought and using it to motivate.  On to a new canvas, all being well, tomorrow.  I want to try out my art therapist's teaching about seascapes.

Otherwise I am struggling a lot with anxiety but I am working hard at believing I can mop up my own mess.  This can take a little time but I am getting reasonably good at it.  Anxiety is an illusion and as long as I can identify either a way of distracting myself or teasing myself into a counter-reaction I know I can ride the feelings.  I am not always terribly speedy at this - but I can now do it.

Today, given half a chance, I would have bounced going into the hospital for therapy on the grounds of acute anxiety.  I warned my partner off helping and sat it out this morning.  It wasn't easy, but I not only got there but felt a huge sense of achievement that I had worked it through.  The more I do this - the more this condition will feel workable - and even enjoyable.

I will gardually feel once more like a round peg in a round hole.

For Now

A reflective session with my CPN.  I am realising that I am still pretty unwell - I can sense this because I am avoiding anything which is outside my fairly limited array of activities.  The worst part is that I am not bored by this current arrangement - I am actually quite emotionally exhausted by just doing the little I do.  The conclusion: I still have a way to go. 

Strangely, perhaps, this feels right and a little bit of a relief.  At some level I have been worried, deeply concerned in fact, that I am not doing nearly enough to make myself well.  The reality is that I am doing well, but genuine, meaningful progress means learning, facing and resolving some deep-seated issues. I cannot resort to old patterns - or I do at my own risk.

One of the areas of transformation is an addiction to care.  It is a very common addiction amongst clergy.  I consider myself to be a person in recovery and I am learning not to take opportunities to prop up my psyche and esteem with occasions to support others in need.  It is a struggle to say no - but a necessary and ultimately liberating process.  I am of little use to anyone if I am largely elusive to myself.  Owning this sense of disassociation is also an important aspect of process.  For now this is pretty much all I have to work with - so I am doing all I can with that.  In some senses that's quite a lot - it's just a rather limited palette compared with what I have been used to doing.

So, for now I am not sure when I will be well enough to return to running The Sanctuary; working as a volunteer chaplain and teaching Theology.  I am delaying a final decision until the end of July to maximise the time I have for a fuller restoration.  This will be tough for those I work for and alongside - but as I said in an e-mail to a colleague earlier - if it were a case of willing myself better I wouldn't have become ill in the first place.

The hardest part of Borderline Personality Disorder just now is that I have a sense of a fragmented self - rather like looking at my reflection in a cracked looking glass.  On one level it has a distorting quality and my sense of avoidance and disassociation is heightened.  On another, the shards in the reflection are revealing some unexpected facets to my personality and resurrecting attitudes, skills - and sometimes most uncomfortably - the memories that have shaped me into the personality I now am.

I am feeling as though I am very much work in progress.  The hardest aspect is having the patience to make lasting connections and changes in behaviour.  The greatest temptation is to paper over the cracks and hope I'll be OK.  The reality is I am making some brilliant connections - but it is demanding, forensic engagement with myself. 

Jane W-G writes:

When I love as I deserve to be loved I realise that the gift of this moment in this place; in this mood is more than enough.

Invisibility Cloak

I've been giving a lot of thought lately to what wellness means to me.  Inevitably it has been something of a shock to find my 'take' on the world is actually a mental health conditiion, but at the same time it is how I have always been to some greater or lesser degree.  Over the last years of caring for foster, and now an adoptive child, I have learnt how to live my life in a way which puts the needs of the young person first.  I have repressed many of my desires to a point where I am not at all sure what I actually want.  I am feeling invisble just now - which is something of an anachronism because I am also exercising better self-care at the same time.

One thing I have discovered is that caring for people who hurt has meant that I have lived in a continual state of hyper-vigilance.  Now that I am out of the mire of illness and rebuilding by the moment, I have noticed the vigilance pattern is still very strong.  Now I am not constantly focused on the needs of another - but 'locked' into the 'beam' of my day-to-day progress (or lack of it).  I am working on reducing this with  a strong emphasis on mindfulness.  I am also trying to be absolutely true to my feelings as they occur.  I have begun to express my anger as it appears and not attempt to rationalise it away.  I have stopped seeing everybody else's point-of-view at the expense of my own.

Affirming these behavioural changes feels remarkably hard work.  My fantasy had always been that if I really did ever come to a time when I could really do what I chose - I would have absolutely no problem grabbing it with both hands!  Instead I am genuinely surprised how insecure a having a choice makes me feel.  It has helped me see why being involved in a faith community was so important to me for a lomg time as it helped me to avoid making decisions about what I wanted - as I had a set of expectations, conventions and values to embrace.  I suspect it is no surprise that I am challenging my priorities and values in the months after my remaining parent's death.  I am an orphan - and at last have the potential to become fully an adult.  I no longer have to please anyone - although there is much  pleasure still to be gained in pleasing some.

The sense of invisibility I feel is disconcerting and I hope will pass.  I think it is related to a lack of confidence just now in which parts of me I want to embrace and celebrate and which parts need a good kick up the backside and still know they are loved.  I suspect some of the loss of self may be drug induced.

Right now I need to check out some things about myself and get honest feedback.  I am going to take a couple of canvases to art therapy on Friday - I want to talk about them - but also find out how I could improve on them next time.  I would love to be able to paint alongside my writing and earn my living that way - but I have more confidence tight-rope walking over the River Ness than in that as a possibility!

I am petrified of being humoured and I hate the look in people's eyes when they hear my diagnosis.  I know rationally it is mostly ignorance or inexperience - but I can smell the fear and sense the desire to backtrack.  I am no longer quite what I seem and I am less reluctant to fit in uncritically in the name of belonging.  I guess I am an uneasy companion to have around just now because even when I try, I can't seem to smooth the rough edges between the thought entering my head and leaving my lips.  I guess I could say I am much more fully me - the fear now is just how acceptable/valuable is that actually going to be to me - or anyone else?

Jane W-G wrote:

When I loved myself and humanity enough I asked in a gentle whisper if we could discuss just how much we all choose to pretend...or is it just me who wants to belong so strongly?

Cairn Stones and Paint Splats

Unusually diverse period since my last blog; highs and lows and in-betweens.  I have started engraving the remembrance cairn stones for my mum and the two dogs.  The stones weigh a ton and I am currently filling the kitchen with dust!  It is very rewarding but quite hard work chiselling away with a multi-tool.  I have started with my first guide dog's cairn stone.  He was called Teddy, a magnificient beast, and a Blue Peter Guide dog to boot - son of Bonnie.  The next will be Jessie's - our Newf' who died last summer and lastly when I have got the hang of things my mum's.  The child in me is petrified that there will be a spelling mistake on her stone!!!  The other side of eternity hopefully she would see the funny side of it.

I have found solice and peace in painting each day - sometimes for several hours.  The canvas I have almost finished I've called 'Nosey Neighbour' - it is not as 'busy' as it sounds.  Painting is a joy and a challenge.  I am learning a huge amount with each composition.

My highs and lows are mostly around setting appropriate boundaries and limitations and managing my anger in the moment rather than imploding.  The boundaries stuff is particularly difficult as I still feel pretty invisible to myself as a person.  I have my CPN's voice in my ear reminding me to go gently and to always re-frame into the positive.  I have found it hard to admit that right now I seem to be pretty different from how I used to be.  I loved the me before this last relapse - but as yet she remains elusive - and some parts of her seem to have gone long term walkabout.  I am quite surprised by how mouthy I am becoming about politics, theology and social justice.  I am less patient and more edgy.  ("Hell!"  I can hear colleagues and friends saying!)

I do get anxious about not having a sense of the future - but for now I am immersing myself reasonably successfully in the moment.  I am easily waylaid or disturbed - a comment here - or an expectation there can set me off into an anxiety attack. The tremendous news is that for the most part I can pull myself round.  But I am still relatively easily caught out.

I have recently discovered where Tommy is.  Tommy is a ventriloquist's doll that my father used and was a part of our family - a wooden foster child - literally - who sat in an armchair more often than not in our sitting room at home!  I am very much hoping I will be able to buy him back to add to the Wall-Man Theatre Archive.  I am also trying to trace my Grandpa's full, adult size ventriloquist's dummy called Jut.  Again it would be great if he is traceable.  It is strange to reflect what an important part puppets played in my childhood.  It is probably part of the reason why I have gone on to paint and write.  I can still remember my heart swelling with pride and admiration as I was 'allowed' to sit at the kitchen table and watch my mum painting puppet faces and other props.  I thought she was the bees knees.  She was a very good artist with a graphic style which worked beautifully on stage effects.

The Sanctuary is now up and prepared once more, but I am not signed off as medically fit - so friends can now use the space - for a small charge - but I am placing severe limitations on contact with me.  I am not a sociable animal just yet - and I cannot listen well or support for long a friend in need.  For now I have stepped off my chariot, propped up my shield and spear; sent my helmet for repair and put thec hariot in the yard and the horses out to pasture.  Jane 'Bodicea' W-G is invisble and enjoying it that way.  I am working out what I love doing and how I can do what I love.

Kim McMillen:

When I loved myself enough I began taking the gift of life seriously and gratefully.

Poppy Shakespeare and Other THings

I am sorry I haven't blogged for a while.  I have been through a tough patch.  Anxiety through the roof and quite unable to 'see the wood for the trees'; 9/10 on the W-G Anxiety Scale.  Nothing for it but to retreat to bed.  One of my 'benchmarks' for how ill I am is to see if I can actually sit through Diagnosis Murder and enjoy the storyline.  If I can I know I am ill.  Dick Van Dyke is such an amiable actor it is a shame the production values for this show are so excrutiatingly naff.  Great for depression and anxiety though.

I fell ill - or lost my fotting on the treadmill of life on Saturday night.  I realised symptoms had returned very suddenly and with incredible intensity.  I physically hurt.  The timing was, as these things always are, impeccable.  Our son was home for a short holiday from school and I had coped for barely twenty four hours before I was feeling wrung out and distraught.  I was extremely angry with myself - which is just about the most counter-productive place I could choose to be.  I had hoped I would be well enough to spend time doing things with our son. 

In reality that was probably my motherly Waltons fantasy rather than reality.  Our son is passionate about his games and peripherals - when he is at home - his eyes lock like lasers on familiar games and apart from eating, drinking and sleeping - that is pretty much all he seems to want right now.  I had been bracing myself for a trip over to Ullapool; another to the cinema; a third into town - and it quickly became apparent this wasn't appropriate or what was needed by our son.  Somewhere between realising we were going to be home for almost all the holiday watching him play games and my huge, overbearing expectations of myself and our son - my stitching came undone again and the stuffing popped ouy.  Bother.

I have spent the last five days in bed - literally.  My level of aggitation was high over the weekend and I could feel myself slipping into believing that the whole process wasn't worth it.  At moments like this the critical voices in my head become very strong and goad me arguing that I have no quality of life and am a thorough nuisance to everyone.  Fortunately these days the thoughts last hours rather than days but I am left feeling wasted and ill at ease in my skin for a while until some sense of genuine perspective is restored.

My sense of purpose returned as suddenly as it departed yesterday evening.  I was watching something uninteresting on TV and as my mind wandered I caught myself day-dreaming a different sort of way of organising the space we have here.  At the moment I paint in our sitting room;  I was imagining a studio and gallery space.  It wasn't about making such a thing a reality - so much as delighting in the fact that my head was full of future possibility and not simply inert with anxiety and pain.  I knew I had turned the corner.

I didn't hurry to get up this morning because these next few days are almost bound to be a little shakey.  I guess I now have a sense of what it might feel like for a person with bi-polar or an alcoholic who is coming to after a serious bender.  It's starngely thrilling to still be here and in one piece.

I am not analysing why this incident happened yet - that forensic stuff can wait until I feel stronger - for now it is simply being up, about  and smelling the roses that counts.  Actually it is enjoying a fantastic display of daffodils just now in the front garden.

Talking of which did any of you see Poppy Shakespeare on Sunday night?  I know I was pretty ill, but I was terribly disappointed with the drama.  Set in a psychiatric day centre it tried to cover the concerns around for people living with mental health issues and the political changes that are around to the services provided for them.  It was about as subtle as a brick through a window.  The portryals of mental health professionals and their clients were excruciating sterotypical.  Attempts at humour were at the expense of reality.  Diasppointing.  Such a gorgeous title.  So not Channel 4.

Kim MacMillen:

When I loved myself enough I stopped blaming myself for choices I had made - which made me feel safe and I took responsibility for them