That long silence, think of it like the noise a body might make when it fell off the edge. That's all it was. A gentle whoosh, mouth in a silent 0, mind racing knowing that the landing wouldn't be soft. And no, it wasn't. It was horrible. An abyss so deep it took nearly two years to fall to the bottom and crawl out again.
That's the strange thing about mental health. Bedlam and stigma. I feel sure that if that had been a physical illness visually represented by say, bleeding from every orifice (eyes, ears and nose particularly) and total paralysis, the NHS might well have invested a little time and energy in me. As it was, those around me who know me as someone else, were bewildered and frightened. My family watched me both physically shrink and mentally shrink away from them. I lost the ability to have proper conversations. I lost things I had never even owned and spent days anxiously searching for them, wringing my sweaty hands together and muttering. I suspected innocent people of having the worst possible motives. All bodily processes disgusted me, including eating. I would find myself driving down the motorway with my fists clenched around the steering wheel, certain that something appalling was about to happen. And as for car park tickets and lost telephone hunts, they were a real problem. My pulse would race and I would sweat, knowing that they were both lost, lost forever, and that the consequences would be dire and unbearably complicated at best. At night I would sweat buckets and wake at 3am with a thudding heart and a million and one reasons why I had failed to be as good as I should be. And then by day I would do my very best to keep it all together. And fail. And yearn to run away, or sleep forever. And the only place I felt safe was on Facebook, where no one could touch me, and I could exaggerate the funny side of it. And then I'd get carried away and say too much and leap out of bed in the mornings to do some hurried housekeeping and editing and deleting. I still do, when the Wine and Cheese Appreciation Society meetings (Membs. 1) I hold in the kitchen late at night get a bit rowdy.
So, there. That was what it was like down at the bottom of the cliff, being dragged out to sea, swept in and pummelled on the sharp rocks for two years. Finally when I felt utterly smashed up, torn to shreds and broken, the sun came out, the sea calmed, I pulled myself up onto the rocks, caught my breath, looked up and started the climb.
I can't tell you how I survived. I'd love to, but a super injunction of sorts means I can't. I was blessed with a whisper in my ear, daily, and made to promise something that was very hard for me. Thanks alone to the whisper and the promise, I am still here.
I didn't opt for drug therapy. I was offered that, and counselling by my GP, but I was too ill for either of those options to be viable. I couldn't be bothered. I wouldn't take either. What should have happened was that I should have been hospitalized. I would have agreed to it, and one day I very nearly drove to my nearest A&E and surrendered myself as a broken doll. I don't know why I didn't really. Fear of the drugs making me fat, lumpen, compliant I suspect. And the truth is that even at my maddest I could see the funny side, the absurdity of it all.
And now I am better. The sun came out. I don't know if the Psychotherapy has made that happen or if this is just an illness that comes and goes, as it pleases, like an annoying and smelly cat. And no, knowing that bloody Winston sodding Churchill and Stephen effing Fry are both members of the club doesn't help one bit. Nothing does. And strangely, while it is lovely to be 'back in the room', I rather miss the madness, the hurly burly and the adrenalin, but not the terrible fear. The motorbike riding classes seem to be filling that gap neatly. And I can see the funny side of that too. An old Biddy in leathers humming 'Born to be Wild'. Special, in all the wrong ways.
Monday, 30 May 2011
Friday, 26 February 2010
Phew!
Perky perky perky! The default setting is back and for good reason.
Sometimes technology is my enemy. I seem to have spent most of the winter signing up to newsletters, websites, sales pitches, cinema and theatre news, fungi hunting news and garden nursery specialist sales to name a few. The resultant overwhelming chaos has been too much by far. Things were pinging into my mail boxes so fast I wasn't processing 90 percent of it, and the ten percent of it I was left me feeling only 10 percent in control. And precious little of it was worth mind storage. It's been a salient lesson on paring things down to a level where you can cope and be in control.
The time I have gained has been spent well too. Getting hold of some dollars, painting my toe nails, packing clothes suitable for 30 degree heat, ferreting out my favourite (oldest most bashed up) straw hat, bought when the Mink Trumper took me on a yoga retreat years ago. Finding that none of my shorts are any fun any more, I took the scissors to an old pair of Levis and Daisy Duked them. (You cut them as short as you dare and then roll them up to the crotch seam - Dukes of Hazard style). Now here's something you won't read on the Femail page of the Daily Mail. The resultant clump of fabric creates an interesting... well, friction. As I am going on holiday with my folks, that's one issue dealt with. Snort.
Now if anyone can help me find all the things I've lost whilst marking unread e-mails as read, and groaning under the weight of information knocking at my noggin, I'd be grateful. Camera, brown flip flops, earphones, and the password to my Orange account are top of the list.
Sometimes technology is my enemy. I seem to have spent most of the winter signing up to newsletters, websites, sales pitches, cinema and theatre news, fungi hunting news and garden nursery specialist sales to name a few. The resultant overwhelming chaos has been too much by far. Things were pinging into my mail boxes so fast I wasn't processing 90 percent of it, and the ten percent of it I was left me feeling only 10 percent in control. And precious little of it was worth mind storage. It's been a salient lesson on paring things down to a level where you can cope and be in control.
The time I have gained has been spent well too. Getting hold of some dollars, painting my toe nails, packing clothes suitable for 30 degree heat, ferreting out my favourite (oldest most bashed up) straw hat, bought when the Mink Trumper took me on a yoga retreat years ago. Finding that none of my shorts are any fun any more, I took the scissors to an old pair of Levis and Daisy Duked them. (You cut them as short as you dare and then roll them up to the crotch seam - Dukes of Hazard style). Now here's something you won't read on the Femail page of the Daily Mail. The resultant clump of fabric creates an interesting... well, friction. As I am going on holiday with my folks, that's one issue dealt with. Snort.
Now if anyone can help me find all the things I've lost whilst marking unread e-mails as read, and groaning under the weight of information knocking at my noggin, I'd be grateful. Camera, brown flip flops, earphones, and the password to my Orange account are top of the list.
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
46... do I feel any different? No, not really.
The contrasts that co-exist in my life are as dark and light. Some days the colours are vibrant, the noises exciting and uplifting, the smells beguiling and enticing. Other days its all a bit grey. Yesterday had a bit of both.
My husband and daughter both wished me happy birthday, which has kind. And then I logged on to Facebook with my breakfast coffee and within moments I was being wished well and being sent delightful messages. I was genuinely moved and felt very loved and valued. But then..is it real? Who knows, in this virtual revolution of ours.
I had organised to have lunch with a few very close girlfriends in the pub, with champagne pre-ordered by Darling thrown in. This isn't the season for a big party. I keep finding people's mouth fall open when I say things, so I limit my outpourings to the friends I know will stand by me come what may. Kind Wigs was the driver and she came back and had a cup of tea with me and discussed what matters in life. She gave me a wonderful present (thoughtful as ever) of a little bag full of things travelers need. Let's hope it precipitates some real travel, sooner or later. And the Mink Trumper gave me a hand made leather bound pink book, embossed in silver with the words 'Luce's Novel'. 500 blank pages and then a wine stain, so far. Just looking at it makes me weep, like looking at an ultrasound of a foetus. It really reminds me of being pregnant for the first time. The fear, the uncertainty, the awareness of the bleak and frightening truth that if it goes wrong (the book either won't spill out, or worse still is crap) then I am not the person I hoped I was, I am a lesser person. Not so clever and witty after all. Which, like a pregnancy or birth that goes wrong, will lead to intense grief. That was what I was trying to explain at lunch.
And, after all that social interaction with real people, I retreated back to Facebookland (aka Crackbook around here, for obvious reasons) and yet more time spent alone, but not alone, in the way you can only be on the net. I crawled back into my den, and Darling slumbered on the sofa in his. Poor bewildered Darling, who can see the stress written large all over me, and has no idea what to do.
Today a huge step has been made, however. Nina the Cleaner has arrived and is being effective and energetic. So there are four hours a week I have to dedicate to writing, because that was the deal. It is time for Lucy to spit and shake on some of these deals I think. Nina, who is delightfully perky, is polishing brass locks as I type. I am intoxicated by the smell of Brasso and the thought that when I turn around, things will be brighter and shinier.
London tomorrow. I don't want or need anything (this is backed up my most recent credit card bill, which alleges that I have had it all already), but I prebooked the ticket long ago, and for reasons which don't exist now. I'll go though, if only to remind myself what bustling cities are like, and what tarmac under foot feels like, rather than mud. Anything but stay home and write a bit of a chapter..... grrrr
My husband and daughter both wished me happy birthday, which has kind. And then I logged on to Facebook with my breakfast coffee and within moments I was being wished well and being sent delightful messages. I was genuinely moved and felt very loved and valued. But then..is it real? Who knows, in this virtual revolution of ours.
I had organised to have lunch with a few very close girlfriends in the pub, with champagne pre-ordered by Darling thrown in. This isn't the season for a big party. I keep finding people's mouth fall open when I say things, so I limit my outpourings to the friends I know will stand by me come what may. Kind Wigs was the driver and she came back and had a cup of tea with me and discussed what matters in life. She gave me a wonderful present (thoughtful as ever) of a little bag full of things travelers need. Let's hope it precipitates some real travel, sooner or later. And the Mink Trumper gave me a hand made leather bound pink book, embossed in silver with the words 'Luce's Novel'. 500 blank pages and then a wine stain, so far. Just looking at it makes me weep, like looking at an ultrasound of a foetus. It really reminds me of being pregnant for the first time. The fear, the uncertainty, the awareness of the bleak and frightening truth that if it goes wrong (the book either won't spill out, or worse still is crap) then I am not the person I hoped I was, I am a lesser person. Not so clever and witty after all. Which, like a pregnancy or birth that goes wrong, will lead to intense grief. That was what I was trying to explain at lunch.
And, after all that social interaction with real people, I retreated back to Facebookland (aka Crackbook around here, for obvious reasons) and yet more time spent alone, but not alone, in the way you can only be on the net. I crawled back into my den, and Darling slumbered on the sofa in his. Poor bewildered Darling, who can see the stress written large all over me, and has no idea what to do.
Today a huge step has been made, however. Nina the Cleaner has arrived and is being effective and energetic. So there are four hours a week I have to dedicate to writing, because that was the deal. It is time for Lucy to spit and shake on some of these deals I think. Nina, who is delightfully perky, is polishing brass locks as I type. I am intoxicated by the smell of Brasso and the thought that when I turn around, things will be brighter and shinier.
London tomorrow. I don't want or need anything (this is backed up my most recent credit card bill, which alleges that I have had it all already), but I prebooked the ticket long ago, and for reasons which don't exist now. I'll go though, if only to remind myself what bustling cities are like, and what tarmac under foot feels like, rather than mud. Anything but stay home and write a bit of a chapter..... grrrr
Sunday, 21 February 2010
Half term
Half term drew to a close today with the return of the older two to their Club Quarters. Neither of them seemed remotely phased by it. Probably glad in many ways. Whilst I hope they enjoyed the down time, it was a bit dull. But then the February half term is always dull, and dull is better than disastrous or heartbreakingly awful in other ways. Much to be grateful for.
Having cleaned the house from top to bottom in advance of Nina the Cleaner's scheduled visit tomorrow, (yes, I know) I left the place immaculate when I set off to do my four hour school drop off trip. I came back to carnage. Darling has 'sickups' (you know, the one's that burn) and has spent the whole day wandering about with a sick bowl. Girl 12, was still up and had clearly had a Marmite moment. No one had fed poor Terrier,7, and all the lights were on upstairs. I had to whirlwind clear up three bedrooms (one of which was home to beer cans ffs), and sitting room and kitchen, dispatch Sicknote to the spare bedroom, plump up cushions and generally make the place look like someone with a social conscience lived in it before I got my laughing gear around so much as a glass of water. Now, it may sound mental to have a cleaner coming for an interview tomorrow, and to have cleaned in advance but there is a good reason. The last lot that came out 10 years ago, wandered about, sniffed a bit and then rejected the idea out of hand. Why, they asked, would I think they would want to get involved with Traffic wax, Brasso, Silvo and hard work, when they could get £7.50 an hour (10 years ago remember) for pushing a Hoover around a bungalow down the road. Good point. One I have pondered for many years. Why indeed? Why do I do it, when I could live in a nice warm bungalow down the road?
Having cleaned the house from top to bottom in advance of Nina the Cleaner's scheduled visit tomorrow, (yes, I know) I left the place immaculate when I set off to do my four hour school drop off trip. I came back to carnage. Darling has 'sickups' (you know, the one's that burn) and has spent the whole day wandering about with a sick bowl. Girl 12, was still up and had clearly had a Marmite moment. No one had fed poor Terrier,7, and all the lights were on upstairs. I had to whirlwind clear up three bedrooms (one of which was home to beer cans ffs), and sitting room and kitchen, dispatch Sicknote to the spare bedroom, plump up cushions and generally make the place look like someone with a social conscience lived in it before I got my laughing gear around so much as a glass of water. Now, it may sound mental to have a cleaner coming for an interview tomorrow, and to have cleaned in advance but there is a good reason. The last lot that came out 10 years ago, wandered about, sniffed a bit and then rejected the idea out of hand. Why, they asked, would I think they would want to get involved with Traffic wax, Brasso, Silvo and hard work, when they could get £7.50 an hour (10 years ago remember) for pushing a Hoover around a bungalow down the road. Good point. One I have pondered for many years. Why indeed? Why do I do it, when I could live in a nice warm bungalow down the road?
Saturday, 20 February 2010
A Spring Day in February.
Here we are, racing up the hill at Cheltenham racecourse, the final fence is behind us, the crowd is roaring and we just have to get to the end of winter safely in order qualify. I have heard many, many SOS calls over the last new weeks, the best of which arrived today from a friend in Yorkshire. 'Snow is for Christmas and ski resorts, I wish it would go now'. I agree, enough is enough.
I will never forget the obituary of an old (young) friend in Country Life years ago...'The sun shone brightly at the funeral of...' Well the sun shone brightly today and I made a point of lying in it, for an hour, in the field. The family all went off to Stroud to the Farmer's Market and came back laden with very very little indeed. I don't quite get why they went - perhaps it was to give me some peace and quiet. Eddi Reader, Angels & Electricity filled the silence while I sat and drank coffee and thought. My step-father-in-law once told me that February always steals a day from June... come on February, love, we are running out of time.
And then back they came and Girl 12 asked me to iron her half term project on wind turbines, which I did, to disastrous effect. The heat of the iron made the ink disappear. The subsequent hysterical laughter was as welcome as the sun, and the music. And then I got over ambitious and decided to effect some repairs to Slinky, My Malinky. Washing the balsamic vinaigrette off the sleeve may have been a bit crazy and just didn't work, but the surgery to the seams and hems went well. I hope she recovers her gloss and sheen when she dries.
Weird week. Not quite what was prescribed. Let's start again with the old rules, next week.
I will never forget the obituary of an old (young) friend in Country Life years ago...'The sun shone brightly at the funeral of...' Well the sun shone brightly today and I made a point of lying in it, for an hour, in the field. The family all went off to Stroud to the Farmer's Market and came back laden with very very little indeed. I don't quite get why they went - perhaps it was to give me some peace and quiet. Eddi Reader, Angels & Electricity filled the silence while I sat and drank coffee and thought. My step-father-in-law once told me that February always steals a day from June... come on February, love, we are running out of time.
And then back they came and Girl 12 asked me to iron her half term project on wind turbines, which I did, to disastrous effect. The heat of the iron made the ink disappear. The subsequent hysterical laughter was as welcome as the sun, and the music. And then I got over ambitious and decided to effect some repairs to Slinky, My Malinky. Washing the balsamic vinaigrette off the sleeve may have been a bit crazy and just didn't work, but the surgery to the seams and hems went well. I hope she recovers her gloss and sheen when she dries.
Weird week. Not quite what was prescribed. Let's start again with the old rules, next week.
Friday, 19 February 2010
Lucky me. The crucible of life has dealt me a mini-break, with my parents. I was duped into it by an e-mail from my Father offering me a trip to Sri Lanka.
Having just been conned into scratching a month long hike down Chile by Girl 12 ('You shouldn't have had children if you weren't going to see it through to the end'.....What?!) I jumped at the idea. It was then that Dad told me when he and Mum wanted to go and asked me to organise it. Hmmmm
The most significant result of this is that I have been buying and hoarding books to take with me. My parents are largely somnolent, waking, like male lions, only to feed. (Oh God no, not to mate too... oh no I am getting a mental image that won't go away...not good). I, on the other hand will do just about anything to avoid sleep. So, my iPhone is loading with films I've always wanted to see, music I love and which makes me happy, and which will block out any unwelcome noises ('Luce? Luce? Where are you, Luce?) and books to fill my mind. The 12 volumes of Anthony Powell's A Dance to The Music Of Time arrived today. I have decided that Vol 1 is coming on the plane with me, and nothing else. I'll be like a sow in a farrowing crate.... So even if it isn't the best of the lot I will be forced to get on with and into it.
Coincidentally I also found myself in a British Heart Foundation Bookshop, in Bristol today. I prefer to buy my books in Charity shops rather than on line. Then, if I hate them, I can throw them at the wall and accuse the writer of having had a lucky break, being undeserving of his deal, having family in publishing or just being a total tosser. My investment has been a small donation to charity... no big deal. I also picked up Martin Amis, Money. He may make me puke, but he is good at it. And then some lousy tacky love stories, for break times. Armistead Maupin, Tales of the City and Selden Edwards, The Little Book. Life is a lousy, tacky love story sometimes and if someone can write about it well, and make it bearable, I'm in, and maybe I will learn something.
I leave on the 2nd March and come back 9 days later. Little Lulu, with Mummy and Daddy. Little Lulu and her very own Big Bar Bill. And her charity shop copy of the 2006 Lonely Planet Guide to Sri Lanka. I might as well read about what I would be looking at if I wasn't babysitting the Olds on some Spa compound somewhere... And actually at this point I would like to say that I catagorically do not do 'Fanny Parlours' All that massage, facial, and mud mallarkey makes me very uncomfortable. Give me a tub of Nivea, a good book, a packet of fags and a bottle of Blue Nun any day. And quit your daft whale music too.
Having just been conned into scratching a month long hike down Chile by Girl 12 ('You shouldn't have had children if you weren't going to see it through to the end'.....What?!) I jumped at the idea. It was then that Dad told me when he and Mum wanted to go and asked me to organise it. Hmmmm
The most significant result of this is that I have been buying and hoarding books to take with me. My parents are largely somnolent, waking, like male lions, only to feed. (Oh God no, not to mate too... oh no I am getting a mental image that won't go away...not good). I, on the other hand will do just about anything to avoid sleep. So, my iPhone is loading with films I've always wanted to see, music I love and which makes me happy, and which will block out any unwelcome noises ('Luce? Luce? Where are you, Luce?) and books to fill my mind. The 12 volumes of Anthony Powell's A Dance to The Music Of Time arrived today. I have decided that Vol 1 is coming on the plane with me, and nothing else. I'll be like a sow in a farrowing crate.... So even if it isn't the best of the lot I will be forced to get on with and into it.
Coincidentally I also found myself in a British Heart Foundation Bookshop, in Bristol today. I prefer to buy my books in Charity shops rather than on line. Then, if I hate them, I can throw them at the wall and accuse the writer of having had a lucky break, being undeserving of his deal, having family in publishing or just being a total tosser. My investment has been a small donation to charity... no big deal. I also picked up Martin Amis, Money. He may make me puke, but he is good at it. And then some lousy tacky love stories, for break times. Armistead Maupin, Tales of the City and Selden Edwards, The Little Book. Life is a lousy, tacky love story sometimes and if someone can write about it well, and make it bearable, I'm in, and maybe I will learn something.
I leave on the 2nd March and come back 9 days later. Little Lulu, with Mummy and Daddy. Little Lulu and her very own Big Bar Bill. And her charity shop copy of the 2006 Lonely Planet Guide to Sri Lanka. I might as well read about what I would be looking at if I wasn't babysitting the Olds on some Spa compound somewhere... And actually at this point I would like to say that I catagorically do not do 'Fanny Parlours' All that massage, facial, and mud mallarkey makes me very uncomfortable. Give me a tub of Nivea, a good book, a packet of fags and a bottle of Blue Nun any day. And quit your daft whale music too.
Thursday, 18 February 2010
The Pianist
Today I took a step back from the edge. I took a Mental Health Day and watched Polanski's The Pianist, swaddled in eiderdowns, drinking endless cups of tea and weeping. The film tells a true story based on the autobiography of a Polish holocaust survivor. Clever Boy 16 saw the need for perspective and delivered it, along with all the tea.
It is hard sometimes to appreciate the impact of middle age. I was driving around Clifton, near Bristol recently on a Saturday morning (shortly after a meltdown in PC World which also involved tears and snot and fury) and I saw a couple in their twenties on a motorbike. She was wearing what I would guess was the previous nights micro skirt, thin tights and killer heels and a very large leather jacket. He was doing without his leather jacket. I smiled and guessed that they had met the night before and that the party was carrying on into the weekend. With all my heart I wished them well. How wonderful to be young.
And it snowed again today. Huge, wet flakes of snow, like white mice falling from the sky.
So, onwards. This may not be funny but at least it is calm and logical and not laced with madness and sprinkled with fairy dust. And sometimes, not funny is better.
It is hard sometimes to appreciate the impact of middle age. I was driving around Clifton, near Bristol recently on a Saturday morning (shortly after a meltdown in PC World which also involved tears and snot and fury) and I saw a couple in their twenties on a motorbike. She was wearing what I would guess was the previous nights micro skirt, thin tights and killer heels and a very large leather jacket. He was doing without his leather jacket. I smiled and guessed that they had met the night before and that the party was carrying on into the weekend. With all my heart I wished them well. How wonderful to be young.
And it snowed again today. Huge, wet flakes of snow, like white mice falling from the sky.
So, onwards. This may not be funny but at least it is calm and logical and not laced with madness and sprinkled with fairy dust. And sometimes, not funny is better.
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