Having had another shitty day, and sleeping again this afternoon, I was concerned I’d wasted yet another day in my sad life.

Being bipolar and with my mood stabilising drug (Lamotrigine) knocking out my moderate highs but not doing anything for my serious lows, and my recently started heavy-duty anti-depressants (Venlafaxine – prolonged release variety) after a good start now failing miserably, means I am wasting rather a lot at the moment.

Having said that I have managed to spend a few hours working on the new play this evening, so I’m at least a little happier about things than I was.

Admittedly, I haven’t been writing this evening; I’ve been working on the play’s structure. It has changed considerably since the ideas and story first appeared in my head during my holiday in Cyprus over Christmas and the New Year.

I knew it would. The plot is still the same. It’s the same story, just told a little differently.

When it started it was just a straight ordinary play telling a story with a number of characters; two main ones and a number of others played by a male and female, and a boy and a girl.

And now, well now it’s just the two main characters. They also narrate a bit, talking to us about what’s happening as well as their own feelings, and there are some interesting sort of weird bits that you can really only do in theatre.

And so this evening I’ve moved some scenes around; re-wrote my notes for each one on the index cards in my writing software; checked off what was still to be started – three scenes; which ones were in the stage of being written – six; and how many had reached first draft – eight. I then created a pdf of the play as written so far.

It’s 60 pages, about an hour in length; so two thirds of the way there in first draft terms. It’ll be longer that it needs to be; my plays always are, so there will be some cutting as I need about 90-100 minutes worth.

To be honest, I am loving this play.

My last attempt, ‘Antigonish’ back in October, just wasn’t going to get anywhere because although I liked it, it never going to be easy to stage (it was an episodic/mosaic play set on staircases) and I lost interest with it. I have used some dialogue from it, though, and indeed there is one 20 minute monologue from it that will stand on it’s own, so all is not lost.

This new one is a hard one to write, it’s all there and coming out nicely (when I’m not so depressed I can’t do anything) but it comes from deep inside me and is a challenge at times.

My deadline, since this is my graduation piece for my Nuffield Theatre Writers Group, was Jan 31st. So I’ve missed that, but I’m not bothered. When this finally all gets out of my head, into my Mac, and then onto paper, it’ll be the best thing I have ever done in my life. I know that.

Oh, and I’m sorry, but you won’t be offered the chance to read this one; I will though, be inviting friends to the first night.

Watch this space.

You know you’ve finally reached the dark and dismal depths of a deep depression when you start planning your own demise.

It’s odd with me. Although I do get the vivid and detached images of the finished result, ie: me in some deceased state or other, it’s very difficult for me to work out the actual doing; the final act, if you see what I mean.

What I do end up doing when I really am at such a depressingly low point, is just planning my disappearance. Hoping then, that nature will take it’s course. Hypothermia, for example.

I also think it is important for me to state, even though I don’t and indeed can’t actually plan the final act, and only get as far as planning a ‘disappearance’, the end result has to be the same.

Planning a disappearance rather than the final act itself is not some form of cop-out or attention seeking, hoping someone will find me and rescue me.

It isn’t. I can assure you.

My bipolar disorder is severely debilitating, and the only thing that could possibly be worse for me is living a sectioned and thus state controlled life as a patient in a secure mental hospital. And that terrible life would start the second someone found me alone and by that time, in a highly distressed state, having ‘disappeared’.

This time – in bed, last Friday afternoon – I spent a good few hours going through all the procedures necessary for me to effect my disappearance, and wake up dead.

I calmly planned which day it would be, what time, and where it would happen. (I don’t wish to alarm anybody so I won’t give you the details.) I worked out where I would leave the car, my phone, my wallet and indeed my keys, and in which direction I would start walking.

Then there’s the practical stuff, like what shoes would I need to wear, and what clothing, and have I left any stupid clues – remember I’m not wanting anyone to discover what I’m in the process of doing so would need as much time as possible to do it before anybody realised something was wrong.

I then think about which of my friends would find out first, who tells who, what they say, and indeed how many days it would be before those friends would actually discover I had departed.

Of course, I naturally assume it will be weeks before my close friends find out I’m not actually here any more, which of course provides further self-justification for doing the deed, since obviously no-one cares.

Yes, that’s a fucking stupid statement, I know, but unless you have experienced a deep suicidal depression, you can’t argue with the logic…

Then you have to go through the whole ‘inquest’ thing. If and when I depart, I would have to make sure that it was very clear why I had died. I wouldn’t want some coroner thinking I must have just had a bad day and wandered off somewhere – another accidental death.

Er, no. Actually.

If and when I have shuffled off this mortal coil under such circumstances it will have been purely and simply because my mental health was at such a low ebb that my brain had finally succumbed to the (believe me) immense pressure of taking what at that incredibly desperate point was the only possible exit (indeed permanent relief) from my indescribable hell of depression.

And that the act was indeed a delibrate and successful attempt of suicide.

Sorry to sound so blunt, but suicide is just that – the act of killing oneself intentionally. It doesn’t just happen by accident.

I read recently, that in order for a verdict of suicide to be returned as the cause of death, the coroner’s court has to go through a process of investigation of the evidence akin to that of a murder trial. (I guess suicide is considered to be murdering yourself.) And, in fact, it is easier to get a conviction for murder, than it is to get a verdict of suicide. Which probably explains why most suicides are recorded as accidental deaths or worst still, left as an open verdict.

Anyway, I digress.

The point of this post is for me to recognise that I am indeed back from a particularly long period of a deep, dark and indeed suicidal depression.

Having had the best part of two weeks of this shit, where I’ve only left the house twice, lost nearly 10% of my body weight, and spent twice as many hours horizontal as I have vertical, I can now go through the process of rebuilding again.

And of course, for me at any rate, writing about it helps greatly.

Luckily for me, I understand that when I start the process of planning my demise, I am at the very bottom, and know the only realistic way out is back up again – I always come back up eventually.

And if for some stupid reason I don’t?

Well, at least this post should help to return the correct verdict of suicide.

Time for a quick update.

I’ve had a feeling of not really being part of this world for a few months now. I was down again last week and quite badly too.

What was frustrating was the fact that the previous week, I was just able to gain a sense of normality for a few days before sliding back down again.

My current dose of medication appears to have wiped out my highly creative hypomanic phases, and left me with too many depressive episodes. Obviously, if I had to settle for one or the other I’d much rather have the hypos.

Actually, in the last few months, I’ve had very little normality. And by normal, I mean just having an ordinary life, not affected by my condition.

It can be very hard walking around in a daze, completely disconnected from the world.

And hard on others too.

And it’s when I realise it is hard on others that I get to feeling maybe it would be better if I wasn’t here. That way, my mental disorder isn’t a problem any more. For others, and of course, for me.

Sadly, being down really does cloud your judgement. You lose all sense of rational thinking. The black stuff just takes over. You end up doing things you’d rather not talk about.

But I am going talk about this.

It helps me and others to understand and deal with this condition. If I had a broken leg, everybody could see the plaster. But with a broken brain, I can only use words to convey the torture…

–

My main problem last week was my thinking negatively in a different way than usual.

And that scared me.

I’ve been down. Not hugely down, but down enough to have those all-consuming thoughts of complete and utter worthlessness; the thoughts that I know of course are not true, but they seem really fucking real when you’re depressed, I can assure you.

I’ve been trying to get back into writing for a long time. Being down a lot hasn’t helped. And during a reasonably mentally okay period over the bank holiday, I had a good idea.

During one of my sessions at my Nuffield Writers Group in Southampton, we were doing characterisation work; making up the complete life history of a fictional character.

One of the group came up with a retired woman who loved adventure. Once a month she would use her free pass, get on a bus and just see where she ended up.

She’d spend the day experiencing a new town she’d never been to before and then get on the bus home. Even took an overnight bag with her, just in case she was too far away to get back and needed to stay in a B&B.

I thought this was great.

We got on to talking about characters from different regions of the country, and with me having only lived on the Surrey/Hampshire border, most of my characters just tend to be from here too.

It was suggested that maybe I should get on a train one day and go north to nowhere in particular, like the lady on the bus, and be inspired by listening to and observing the people in the town I ended up.

And I thought this was a great idea too.

Well, over the bank holiday I decided that on the Tuesday I would buy a travelcard, go to Waterloo, stick a pin in a map of London, get on the tube or bus, and go to wherever the pin was to take me.

That way I’d be in a part of a huge multicultural city I’d never visited before. The classes and cultures would be different to my own and I could observe, listen and jot things down in my notebook.

I was really looking forward to it. The thought of being ‘lost in London’ for research purposes was very appealing.

But then on the Bank Holiday Monday, the switch switched itself again and I started going down. I was annoyed that I’d only just come back up again and was determined to carry on with my plan for Tuesday regardless of how I felt.

I was thinking also that maybe going out to London for the day would help.

How wrong I was. Tuesday morning came, and I was even worse.

And it was then that I was aware my down thinking pattern had changed: I wasn’t going to get ‘lost in London’ and discover a new place to inspire me, I had made the decision that I was going to get ‘lost in London’ with the sole intention of maybe not coming back.

It took me ages to shower and decide on what to wear. Silly things were going through my head like what clothes should I be wearing in case I was found somewhere. Should I be wearing clean underwear, or didn’t that sort of thing matter if I wasn’t coming back.

It took me two hours to shower and dress. I wouldn’t normally bother with either when I’m down. Half of me really didn’t want to go, procrastinating like hell. The other half did, and was very frustrated that I wasn’t moving quick enough.

I finally got out and caught a train from Woking; by which time I was already a nervous wreck.

I’d had a few tears when hugging Richard and leaving the house, but he was cool with it. He knew I was down and a few tears is not at all unusual at these times, as all my emotions get completely fucked and I’ll cry for no apparent reason.

Of course I was hoping he’d stop me. But he didn’t. He simply assumed that if I was going out then I was okay, since if I was really depressed I’d be upstairs in bed – ie: staying safe.

Sadly that wasn’t what my stupid brain had in mind.

On the train I wrote in my notebook:

Suicidal today. 50/50. Probs mixed episode. On way to London. Gunna get lost. Don’t know yet if I’m coming home. Help. Please.

I spent the rest of the day dealing with huge waves of the black stuff. I’d be okay for a bit, and then I’d be crying and shaking and my teeth would be chattering away as I became very tense and scared.

All the while I walked. Across Westminster Bridge, back along the Victoria Embankment to the Millennium Bridge, around the Tate Modern, and back towards Waterloo.

There I sat for ages and ages, before heading to the National Theatre where I sat on one of the huge green and rather funky AstroTurf chairs.

And all I could do was try to hide how I was feeling. The last thing I wanted was someone to notice me, because if they stopped or asked me if I was okay, I knew I would simply crack up and land in a big heap on the pavement.

And fuck knows what would have happened then.

Thankfully the hoards of people in London that warm sunny day completely ignored me, save that is for a young homeless woman in a pink sleeping back at the top of the steps by the National. I didn’t look at her – I didn’t look at anybody that day – but as I passed she simply said “Cheer up, Love”, and it was then it struck me: I must have looked pretty terrible.

I eventually found a seemingly deserted bit of concrete thoroughfare at the side of what I think must have been the Royal Festival Hall.

And there I sat, leaning against the wall in the sunshine.

By now it was probably about half five, and I’d managed to walk (very slowly) for a good few hours, and all the while fighting the very strong urge to just get on a bus and never ever come back. (At one point, walking along the Strand earlier in the day, I counted nine buses in row.)

I was now a total wreck. Plenty of people passed by on route to somewhere and it would have been quite easy for me to have slit my wrists there and then without anybody even noticing.

Not that I would ever do that, you understand. I could never do that. The pain and the blood would be far too much for me. It’s a headfuck even thinking about it.

Then two police officers walked past. On the beat I guess. And neither of them noticed me either.

It was then I actually made a decision. As they walked away I worked it out. I planned to go up to them and just say: “Help. I’m suicidal. Please take me to a safe place.”

You see, the odd thing is, there are times when the natural human survival instinct just kicks in.

But then all the stupid thoughts started rushing through my head about how it would just cause so many problems and that I’d never be able to deal with the consequences.

I then accepted it would be far less hassle for all concerned if I just got on a bus, disappeared, and then found a quite deserted place in a park somewhere in which to lie down, go to sleep, and die of hypothermia during the night.

Of course, by now I was practically screaming for help on the inside; and crying, shaking and looking a complete wreck on the outside.

And yet, still nobody noticed.

I kept looking at my phone willing it to ring with a call or vibrate with a text.

I was then about ready to suffer the consequences and just do something stupid when, thank fuck, I did get a text.

It was a text from a close friend simply saying hi and checking I was okay.

Obviously I wasn’t.

But with loads of texts and calls from this friend, listening, caring, understanding, helping, and just being there for me, two hours later I was persuaded to accept I would be much safer at home, and finally got back to Waterloo to catch a train…

–

Fuck me, what a day!

I don’t recomend it; it’s horrible.

Every minute you just want to call someone and tell them what’s happening, but you can’t ’cause when you’re like that you don’t want to put anybody out or give them cause for concern.

And all the while you’re hoping and praying that someone will think to call or text and just ask if you’re okay.

Sadly, the longer this goes on, the more your fucked up brain tells you that nobody cares anyway, so what’s the point in prolonging the agony?

You are constantly fighting yourself. And it’s a battle to the end.

There’s just no way of describing the torture of trying to think rationally when your brain and thought processes are just so completely fucked up.

Anyway, it took time to return from my hell deep inside the black stuff, but I’ve been back a few days now and, having had the support from Richard and close friends, I’m okay.

Okay that is, until the next time…

Thanks for reading.

Day 4

I’ve been down again. Well not in the usual sense. I’ve been in a vacant void for the past week or so, and haven’t left the house since last Thursday. I haven’t spoken to anybody (apart from Richard) since last Wednesday. And I’ve only just managed the odd email and text, and a couple of sentences in conversation on msn.

I’ve slept a lot; broken down in tears a couple of times; completely messed up my eating and sleeping routines; haven’t shit, shaved or showered for days; and have generally been wandering around in my dressing gown in a complete daze.

Richard thinks it’s the medication; saying he can remember me being like this before when I was on 150mg of my Lamotrigine. We upped the dose a couple of weeks ago because I was getting bad lows again during March.

But if anything it’s just made things worse. I’m not down to the point of being suicidal, but down in a sense of being completely lost and out of touch with everything. You could liken it to being a vegetable. Accept that I am fully aware of the fact.

February wasn’t exactly brilliant, but at least I was productive; well as productive as I could be under the circumstances.

March was, well, nothing actually.

Now it’s mid April, and I’m trying desperatley to write a blog post. I have a number in draft form, but have systematically failed to find enough concentration to finish writing them.

Looking back in my daily journal I see that I managed about 2 productive days in March, two full weeks of depression, one of which so bad I spent 7 days in one room, and then the rest in this stupid state of limbo.

Now it’s mid April and I’m still completely lost in this fog.

A void where nothing happens. The brain is neither here nor there. There are no thoughts, no nothing. Dead for all intents and purposes. Not full blown suicidal depression, but depressed enough to render the brain completely useless for anything other than wandering around in a daze, conversing only when necessary and generally sleeping far too much.

After six weeks of this, and with only a couple of ‘good days’ I’m ready to throw in the towel and scream: “Fuck this for a game of soldiers, I’m off!”

I should be happy. I have a fortunate life. I have some good friends. I have a loving and very supportive partner. I have a lovely home, and don’t need much to survive. Most people would kill to have my lifestyle. No mortgage, no worries, and yet, for me, this is shere hell.

There is nothing there. In my brain there is nothing.

I am a void. A black hole. No personality. No nothing. Just empty. I hate it. I hate it with a passion. At least if I was seriously depressed wandering around trying to commit suicide I would at least have some thoughts, all be it very negative. As it is, I have nothing.

My head is empty. And I hate it. I am vegetable. And the worst thing is, I am perfectly aware of the fact.

I have experienced this before. Generally after a depressive episode, or just before. It’s a transition state between the up and the down somewhere in between where you know you are neither high nor low, but also know you are still not at all well. A nothingness, a state of limbo.

And yet for me, this has so far been six weeks. Six whole fucking weeks. And it’s now beginning to grate. Beginning to get serious. Beginning to get me down to the point where I just want to end it all to get out of it.

I want to run away. I want to go and sit on the top of a mountain and just freeze to death. I want to stop eating and starve to death. I want to go swimming out to sea till I get tired and drown. I want to go to sleep and dream and keep dreaming and never actually wake up again.

I just want to give up now. I want to just stop fighting. I want to just stop, and let my body come to a natural end.

I don’t feel depressed enough to want to commit suicide. I don’t want to hang from the nearest tree, or jump in front of a train, or take a massive overdose, I just want to give up and simply stop functioning.

If I’m honest, I’m pretty much nearly there anyway.

I want someone to understand what this is like, and yet I know that very few people, if any, can really understand this.

I feel like my brian has been scooped out. Like I’m on a life support machine. Some mechanical computer thing is breathing for me. Keeping me alive. But for what?

I don’t know what there is anymore. I can’t do anything. I have a few odd days where I can manage a few tasks, and then days and days of nothing; of falling asleep; of going back to bed; of simply nothing.

Days and days of knowing there’s loads of things I could be doing. Things I should be doing. Things that I find enjoyable, things I love and want to do, things I hate but need to do, things to procrastinate over, things to relish, things to do just for the fun of it. Movies to watch, plays to read, and a whole host of other things, and yet here I am in a void.

A void in which there is nothing, no motivation, no inclination, no desire, no thrust, no sence of wanting, no sense of achievement, no panic even, just nothing.

I don’t feel anything. I don’t have any feelings, (apart from a severe loathing of this situation) no opinions, no sence of being. I am vegetable, rotting away.

And I guess I must really hate this cause I’m now aware I’ve been going on and on about this. I’m letting it out. The nothingness is pouring out.

And that’s just it, isn’t it. It’s nothing. None of these words actually mean anything. Nothing here describes the nothingness.

How can I expect to describe this void. This emptyness. This total lack of human existance.

I’m dead.

At least this is what being dead must feel like.

I think.

Can’t think of anything worse really.

Alive but dead.

Shit.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck and fuck again.

There. I don’t feel any different for having written this load of nothingness, but hey, at least you’re aware of what my nothingness might feel like.

I want to go. I want to walk out of the front door and just walk and walk and walk to nowhere in particular.

Trouble is, I can’t.

I can’t leave and walk and walk and walk.

Assuming I did manage to actually get dressed and leave the house, Rich would get worried. I have no idea how far I would get. But sooner or later Richard would get worried. He’d see that I didn’t take my phone, or my wallet. He’d see I’d gone and wasn’t coming back. And he’d know why.

He’d probably call his Mum first. Then the police, I suppose. And Rich would have to tell them I’m bipolar and that I’d probably be in danger.

And here’s where I give up even thinking about it.

I don’t want to get that far, but I’m already reading up on my rights under the Mental Health Act starting, just in case, with Section 136 (Mentally disordered persons found in public places).

Now you know why there are times, too many times, where I dare not leave the house. Times when I know if I did, I wouldn’t come back.

Tempting though.

Times like this it is tempting.

Very tempting.

I could finally give up fighting. Just go for a long walk without caring what would happen next. Let someone else take control of my life. What there is of it.

I could go for a very long walk.

And never come back.

Don’t worry. I’m still here. The fact that I’ve actually managed to edit and publish this post must mean I’ve managed to concentrate for bit. Though this must be the fourth or even fifth attempt at finishing this post.

I started writing this the other night.

And today I very nearly gave up the fight.

After pacing back and forth crying with my head in my hands for ages, I just completely crashed. Ended up in a huge heap on the bedroom floor. Sobbing. Head pounding. Ready to just give up and go for that very long walk, and never come back.

Ironic then that I was so utterly physically and mentally exhausted that I couldn’t even get up off the floor, and when I did, I could only manage to half get into bed.

I went to sleep for another four hours.

I recharged.

And now I’m feeling a little better. Maybe I got to the bottom again.

God I hope that was the bottom.

I really do.

I saw my psychiatrist yesterday. My last appointment was 5 months ago, so it’s been a while; which for me is a good thing, not that I don’t want to see my psychiatrist (she’s very good) but simply because if I’m not seeing her then I’m doing well.

And I am doing well, considering.

Following a severe downturn back in late November, early December where I went back to some nasty ultra-rapid-cycling and experienced some pretty damn awful lows, Rich and I decided it was time to up my daily dose of Lamotrigine to 125mg.

I’ve been doing fine again since. Yes, there have been some ups and some downs, but short, and not too high or too low. ‘Manageable’ would be the right word.

And now?

Well now I’m feeling like I actually have a life. I am more active, I have a better routine (in part, down to working with my psychologist), and I’m enjoying things more. My mind is clearer, I can think better, I am far more productive and don’t have this horrible ‘need to catch up’ air about me.

And I’m writing a lot more too. Which is great for me, because that’s what I love to do.

A down side?

Well, yeah. At the moment, I have a lot of stuff in my head. Too much? I’m not neccessarily worried about it and to be honest it’s all on in my Mac too as I have an excellent piece of easy to use simple software to keep track of everything in a GTD fashion, as well as in iCal, it’s just that there are a lot of things happening now in various parts of my life and where as before I would spend many, many days in a void, now my life is filling up and becoming more meaningful on a daily basis.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, it’s just that this level of freedom from such a destructive force as ultra-rapid-cycling bipolar II is difficult to adjust to. There’s a sence of ‘is this really right?’

I have more confidence in myself and my abilities and actually consider myself to be a playwright now, and know I will make a living from it and hopefully sooner rather than later.

It’s a weird feeling to know you’re finally going in the right direction after two long decades of going absolutely nowhere in various states of hypomania and depression.

Having said that, I wouldn’t be where I am now, if I hadn’t spent that time going round in circles. I don’t regret it all.

So there you are, just a quick five hundred and sixty seven word report on my mental health for those of you that are interested in these things, and I know that some of you are.

And my psychiatrist?

Well she was just as pleased as I am, she gave me permission to up my dose again if I ever felt it necessary and we agreed to meet again in another five months.

Lets hope the next five are as good as the last five, though judging by the phone call I received while shopping in Morrison’s after the appointment, I have a sneaking suspicion they’ll probably be better.

More soon.

PS: If you’re reading this in Facebook or via RSS, you may want to check out my new look website I’ve had a well overdue overhaul!

I’m hypo again.

Had difficulty getting to sleep last night, my brain was far too busy thinking!

Future thinking, which for me is always pleasant, but can at times be somewhat irritating, especially when laying in bed trying to sleep at two o’clock in the morning approaching 48hrs with only three hours sleep.

My body was aching; desperate for a chance to regenerate a few dieing and indeed dead cells, and all my brain could do was say: ‘Sod You! I have an idea and I’m gonna visualise and plan it in every single detail.’

Luckily for me the idea is nothing out of the ordinary, and apart from a little planning, will be relatively easy to pull off and indeed be great fun.

But still, it would have been much more helpful for me to go to sleep last night rather than future thinking. Ho, hum.

Anyway, the subject of today’s post (and with grateful thanks to Rianna for inspiring the writing of it) is the term ‘hypomanic‘ and its definition, as I now believe some clarification is in order.

Firstly, for those who don’t know, hypo- and hyper- are in fact two different prefixs and as such when talking about being hypomanic, I am not, in effect, simply referring to being hypermanic and spelling it wrong.

The prefixs are different. In fact ‘hypermania’ doesn’t actually exist, and you’ll see why later in this post.

So hypo- versus hyper-

Well they are probably best described as the medical equivalants of the Latin prefixes ‘sub‘ meaning ‘under, close to‘ and ‘super‘ meaning ‘above, beyond‘.

So we have hypo- from the Greek ‘hupo‘ meaning ‘under, below‘ and hyper- from the Greek ‘huper‘ meaning ‘over, beyond‘.

Now this is pure supposition but I’m guessing we use these Greek meanings in medicine as opposed to their Latin equivalents because Hippocrates, the 4th century BC father of medicine was Greek.

Okay, two examples:

The first being about your thyriod, the gland in your neck that controls how quickly your body burns energy, makes proteins, and how sensitive your body should be to other hormones.

Now, there are medical conditions know as hypothyroidism which is abnormally low activity of the thyroid gland, and hyperthyroidism which is abnormally high activity of the thyroid gland.

Another example is that of blood sugar levels. A deficiency of glucose in the bloodstream is referred to as hypoglycemia, whilst an excess of glucose in the bloodstream (often associated with diabetes) is refered to as hyperglycemia.

I am sure you’ll be familiar with the ‘hypodermic needle’ often contracted to just ‘hyperdermic’; This, of course, is a needle used for administering a drug under (hypo) the skin (dermic – from the modern Latin, suggested by ‘epidermis‘).

And I’m sure you’ll know of hyperactivity as in ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder – any of a range of behavioral disorders occurring primarily in children, including such symptoms as poor concentration, hyperactivity, and impulsivity.)

In fact, we are so familiar with the term ‘hyperactive’, that it is usually just referred to in its contracted form: ‘hyper’; so much so that we refer to anyone getting overexcited as simply being hyper.

Anyway, hopefully now you can understand the ’sub-, below, under, deficient, low, down, sub-‘ meaning of ‘hypo’ and the ‘super-, above, over, excess, high, up‘ meaning of ‘hyper‘.

And therein lies some confusion since:

a) I often refer to being ‘low/high’ or ‘down/up’ in terms of my mood swings (bipolarity) meaning of course depression and (for me, hypo-) mania.

and

b) I often refer to my brain as being ‘over-active’, which can be confused with being ‘hyperactive’, and since the term ‘hyper’ is actually a contraction but now a recognised word in itself and thus far more widely known than the prefix hypo-, this could also be causing confusion since when I say I am, or, am going, ‘hypo’ I do not mean ‘hyper’

And just to finish off and referring back to the inaccurate term ‘hypermania’ at the beginning of this post, since mania is indeed at the top of the mood scale, with depression being the bottom, you can’t technically go above ‘mania’ so the term hypermanic doesn’t exist.

I go to hypomania, ie a level ‘below’ mania.

And as an aside, in my research for this post I have just read online a rather interesting analogy to help you understand what is happening with my brain.

I often refer to Bipolar Disorder as being mood swings between two (bi) poles (think of the North Pole and the South Pole, ie two opposite ends) on a scale between 0 (at one end, ie depression) and 10 (the opposite end, ie mania) where most people experience life in terms of mood swings between the levels of 4.5 and 5.5.

Well, an easy way to picture this is to use the ‘processing speed’ of the brain.

Lets say most peoples’ brains operate in the speed range of 45mph to 55mph with 50mph being the norm (I am simply using ‘mph’ – miles per hour – as measurement of ’speed’.) ie if you are sad and pissed off your brain would be going at 45mph and if you were happy and excited it would be going at about 55mph.

Well my brain operates at any where between 5mph (with 0mph being dead, obviously) and about 75mph.

I am Bipolar II where (in this analogy) around 70-80mph is refered to as hypomania ie ‘below’ mania. With someone who experiences full blown mania their brain would be processing things at the speeds of up to 100mph. (I have done this, though thankfully only because of a reaction to the wrong medication. I’d really hate to experience this as a normal part of my cycle.)

And just for your information you may well have gathered that my brain is currently rattling around in my head at about 70mph! (And those of you who saw me last week will appreciate the difference, since I was then struggling to get above 20mph.)

–

So there you go, prehaps a rather convoluted and over complicated explanation of the term ‘hypomania’ and the confusion I may have caused in using it, but seeing as I’m rather hypomanic at the moment I tend to write like this, so there!

Oh and my darling 50mph Rich (its our 13th anniversary today) has just remined me that I haven’t eaten at all today and maybe perhaps I’d better stop writing and eat some breakfast or indeed lunch instead!

Right, food, well in minute maybe; I have another post or two to write first….

PS: Thank you, Rianna.

Just wanted to say thanks for all the wall messages, texts and cards for my birthday a couple of days ago.

Had intended to write a thank you on various walls, reply to texts, etc, but it’s not to be, so this will have to do.

Sorry, but I’m not functioning properly again.

I had a massive crash down on Sunday and spent most of the afternoon in various states of utter despair.

With the help and support of Richard to get me going again I eventually got to Riverside for the tech run of ‘Lunch In Venice’, but was soon a complete wreck again. (Thanks to all for your support.)

I was up till about 2am, not being able to sleep, feeling a little more postive having succeeded in getting through the day, if a little embarressed at visually showing the world how bad this can get for me, and then slept for 12 hours like I do when I’m down.

Which meant most of my 40th Birthday was spent in bed.

BiPolar Disorder has no regard for birthday celebrations.

I should be happy; I have a lot of good things going on. ‘Lunch in Venice’ is fantastic and tonight is the dress rehearsal, but having just got up and feeling very sluggish I’ll struggle to get there. I have ‘Room 20′ being performed in a couple of weeks, but I have things to sort and emails to reply to and I can’t deal with them like this.

I should be happy, but I’m not. There’s this constant gloom. A constant feeling of failure and wouldn’t it just be better if I didn’t have to cope with it anymore.

I know it’s bollocks, but that’s the struggle. The constant battle with myself, telling myself that what I am feeling is just that, a feeling, and not based in reality.

But it wears me out. The constant questioning of myself. I get frightened that one day I might not be able to keep up the battle.

And it’s the decisions I can’t cope with aswell.

Rich is trying to make cards for me and asking what I want on the front, but I can’t answer him. I should have provided him with a template, which is what I said I’d do at the end of last week when it was planned. But of course I haven’t. And now there isn’t time, and I’ll struggle to write whatever I was meaning to say in the cards anyway.

So as with most of things during my depressive periods, the thought was there originally, just not actionable now.

What would I like for lunch? I have no idea. Now’s he’s asking when should we get Euros for our Christmas trip to Italy, and I can’t answer that either. Too much for my brain. Can’t deal with that amount of information. Can’t process it.

I’m sat here at my Mac and I can only do one thing. At this moment in time I am writing my blog, but the rest of the world doesn’t exist. There are no other thoughts. Everything has slowed right down and has almost stopped.

I have to shut it out and just focus on one thing else I get completely overwhelmed and end up in a heap. And I’m constantly aware of the things that need to be done and aren’t getting done. Even the stupid little things like sending a text. I hate it.

And now I’ve lost my train of thought again.

My writings crap. I did some last night. It’s not coming out the way it was. And that just adds to my overbearing sense of failure.

Rich and I decided it was best if we upped the dose of my lamotrigine. I have been rapid cycling again for about a month at least now, with higher ups and much deeper downs than I’ve had for ages.

I haven’t been eating properly, or sleeping properly and I’m completely out of sync in all directions.

I feel like shit.

100mg just isn’t doing the trick anymore.

I was supposed to be at 150mg anyway, so I’m not doing anything bad by upping it to 125mg. Not due to see my psychiatrist again till February, but will have to get an earlier appointment if this continues.

I hate this, I really hate this.

So, I’m up. (Mentally – not ‘up’ in the sense of getting up out of bed, lol. I’ve already confused myself re-reading this, so probably confused.com you too!)

And about time too. (Coming up, not confusing you! lol – Jeez this is gonna be one of those posts I’ll look back on and have a bloody good laugh at.)

I’m little concerned actually. Think maybe the Lamotrigine isn’t doing the job properly anymore. I’m experiencing some much deeper lows than I was a few months ago, and my highs are becoming a bit unmanageable too, so I’m not best pleased.

Maybe I’m gonna need to up the dose.

Last Thursday was the lowest I’d been for a long time. I was not in a good place.

I spent the entire day in bed wishing I wasn’t here anymore, trying to work out the best way to do it. Usual stuff; how do I effectively dispose of myself without inflicting pain, (I have a very low pain threshold) and without hurting Richard. Luckily I haven’t been able to work out a way yet.

And I never got down to the Nuffield in Southampton for my writing group.

And that seriously pissed me off even more.

By Saturday, after what felt like a three week down with a few odd days of hopeful ‘am I going up again’, I was back up again properly (actually a bit too up – ie hypo), and as a consequence I am totally out of sync. I have not been in bed before 2am in the last week, and often times not asleep before 4.

And now my brain is all over the place. (It’s gone 3am now and I’m on YouTube and sort of editing this at the same time, lol. Can’t remember where I got up to even! Hallo Spaceboy!)

NT: Ground to Major, bye bye Tom
DB: This chaos is killing me
NT: Dead the circuit, countdown’s wrong
DB: This chaos is killing me

Yeah, thanks David, this chaos is killing me alright.

There’s lots of good things happening, but I can’t concentrate on the things I need to be doing.

I haven’t yet managed to do the one simple but important thing I had intended to do when I got up this morning.

And I’m really frightened I’ll go back down at some point in the next week or so, which for me will be absolute hell, and will cause Major problems.

In fact, another bad deep down any time between now and the New Year will be a serious problem. If it happens, I have absolutely no idea how I’ll cope with it.

Starting tomorrow, (actually today now, I’m feeling pathetically pedantic in my editing) I will be out late every night for 10 days in succession.

This weekend is the build up to the Riverside Youth Theatre’s December production, Triptych, an evening of three one act plays which I’m directing one of – Lunch in Venice.

After a few days of dress/tech rehearsals we go into performances and then on the Saturday after having got up at 5am to go to Coventry to work at the Ricoh for the day, I’ll be driving back down the M1 to get to Sunbury for the last performance and then the (all night if the last one was anything to go by) cast party. (Y)

After set down on Sunday I’ll probs get some sleep.

As well as performances next week I’ll also be playing Santa at my neices’ school, but don’t tell anyone. Don’t want them to know I’m not the real Father Christmas, lol.

And a some point I have to acquire an MOT certificate for the car (praying it won’t fail) and get it insured.

Yes, I know; this chaos is killing me.

I have taken on commitments on the basis that my mood has been stablising over the last six months or so since starting the Lamotrigine, but now I’m unstable again; going up and down to ever increasing extremes and this is worrying me. Big time.

And I don’t know if it’s me doing this, or not enough Lamotrigine.

I need to work, cause I need the money to live – don’t we all – and I earn pretty good money doing the event stuff, but driving 2hrs to Covenrty, working like a lunatic for 10 or more hours straight, with little food and no time to eat it, and then driving the 2hrs back home at midnight can’t be good for me with my condition.

The thing is, I really really really enjoy the work. It’s a pleasure. It’s not ‘work’ for me. I just get paid for doing something I love to do – working with young people and helping them to achieve things; and in this case, helping them to learn skills that will always be useful to them.

And anyway, the ad-hoc-ness fits in well with the way I live.

Oh I dunno, I’m spouting off in all directions again. I can’t even focus on getting the right information out in the right words. I’m going off at tangents, and have completely forgotten the subject of this post, lmao.

I’m in msn mode too, (having had at least 3 conversations during the writing of this post) so my written english is crap, lol.

Is this me? Am I doing this to myself? Taking on this stuff that I love so much? Is this what is causing my brain to go stupid again? Do I need to up the dose of my Lamotrigine? Do I need to see my psychiatrist again, when she said I didn’t need to see her for five months – next app’ in Feb.

I dunno. I just don’t fucking know!

Oh, and earlier I agreed to work four consecutive days at the Ricoh Arena where I help run the restaurant for the Coventry City football matches.

I’ll be managing the waiting staff for corporate christmas parties – basically a big circus in their huge exhibition hall with 3 course meal.

It’ll be fun, and I will enjoy it, but it will be bloody hard work, since we’ll be setting everything up during the day (probs 1000 covers) and then serving food and drinks all night, with the guests leaving at 1.30am and us clearing up for an hour or so after them.

I’ll be staying up there, so won’t have to travel, but I’ll be away for four days; I’ll miss Rich and I’ll have no time to do anything, though I will take my Mac in case I get a few minutes in the mornings to catch up with the world.

Oh and did I mention it’s my birthday on Monday too? Yep December will come in with a bang cause yours truly hits the magic four-oh. (Shit!)

Funny really, last time I had a landmark birthday, my 21st, I was doing my panto out in the States. This time I’ll be at a tech rehearsal for Lunch In Venice. – Actually, can’t think of a better place to be on my fourtieth. I will have a nice birthday lunch with Rich in London somewhere, then spend the evening with some great friends.

Shit, I really need to finish this post.

I’ve got another one to write on a different subject. I have set up a ‘page’ on facebook to promote me as a playwright and it imports my blog posts, but I have set it to only import posts under the topic of Writing.

My main facebook profile, of which I now have 105 friends – oh, and welcome to my new facebook friends from Cov; Mark, Helen, Nathan, James and Martin – you’ve probs not known much about me, having only met the ‘restaurant managing’ side of me, but I guess you’re now discovering a whole different side to my persona!

Going off in tangents again!

What I meant was, I wanted my “PAFoster-Playwright” page to be about me as a playwright so people could become ‘fans’ as my work became known and I could promote my work too.

Didn’t want them being put off by the fact that I’m actually a gay sucidal manic depressive with a pet parrot! Having said that, they could read all this on my actual blog from which the ‘facebook notes’ originate.

Oh well, we’ll see. I only have two ‘fans’ atm anyway! (Thanks Rianna and Jon.)

Right, one down, one to go! (Umm, on second thoughts, maybe I should just post this and go to bed.)

Spaceboy, you’re sleepy now,
Ashes to ashes, funk to funky,
Goodnight Major Tom

how do you explain
a fucked up brain

how do you explain that you feel like shit all the time
how do you explain that the only reason you go back to bed is cause you wish you never got up in the first place
how do you explain that you want to stay up at night cause it’s quiet
how do you explain that you really do want to help out around the house but don’t have the energy or the slightest inclination
how do you explain that you have to fight the urges to turn the steering wheel violently to the left when you you’re driving down the motor-way on your own
how do you explain why it’s only to the left
how do you explain that you don’t care about yourself anymore and the only reason you’re here is cause you can’t stand the thought of hurting others
how do you explain the constant worry that maybe the day you don’t care about hurting others will finally come and sooner rather than later
how do you explain that half of you wants to live to a hundred and the other half doesn’t want to last the night
how do you explain the feeling of total and utter worthlessness
how do you explain the feeling of not wanting to exist anymore
how do you explain the feeling of wasting your life
how do you explain the feeling of nothingness
how do you explain the feeling of emptiness
how do you explain the thoughts about a world which you’ve just left
how do you explain the feeling of despair
how do you explain the feeling of being certain that no-one cares
how do you explain the feeling of being a constant failure to yourself and others
how do you explain the annoyance of not being able to say words that you know you know
how do you explain the feeling of uselessness when you can’t make a simple decision
how do you explain the feeling of knowing that one day you will make it big and be rich and famous
how do you explain the fear that that day might never come so what’s the point
how do you explain that all you want to do is a achieve something with your life
how do you explain the constant fear of not being able to achieve anything
how do you explain the feeling that you know for certain that you will either die of old age or you’ll commit suicide
how do you explain the feeling of paranoia
how do you explain the fear that one day something might just click somewhere in that brain of yours and you do it even though you know you definitely don’t want to at this present moment in time
how do you explain it scares you that you may actually want to at some other present moment in time
how do you explain that you spend so much time in bed when you are down so that you don’t get the opportunity to do it
how do you explain seeing images in which you jump from high up in a tree with a noose around your neck
how do you explain that you see yourself climbing up higher so that when you jump the force of gravity rips your head off
how do you explain that you wish you could talk about all this but are frightened that no-one would ever be able to listen
how do you explain you have a mental illness that destroys your way of thinking to the point that you don’t know what’s real
how do you explain you’re ill and really don’t want the hell anymore
how do you explain that you know you’ll be okay again soon, but have no idea when
how do you explain how stupid you’ll feel when you read this again
how do you explain that you really want to publish this shit but don’t want to in case people will think less of you than they already do
how do you explain the fear of losing your mind completely
how do you explain the fear of dying
how do you explain the exhaustion
how do you explain the headaches
how do you explain the hell
how do you explain the
how do you explain
how do you ex
how do you
how do
how

fuck
it’s out
thank fuck it’s out
sorry

Oh the joys of a fucked up brain!

I’m completely pissed off with myself because I can’t deal with the way my brain works.

I’m wide awake, got loads to do and here I am blogging again. It’s nearly 2am and there is no point whatsoever in me going to bed because I will only lay there beating myself up for not getting anything done today, or yesterday for that matter.

Which is exactly what I did till 4am this morning. It’s not that I don’t want to sleep, I do. I just want to have a normal routine. A ‘going to bed to sleep and then getting up 7 or 8 hours later’ kind of routine.

Instead I have a ’spend a week not really sleeping much cause my brain’s to active thinking and planning loads of things in the future followed by another week or two of not really sleeping because I’m so depressed at the thought of being totally useless not being able to get anything done and not getting any sleep.’

Actually, I do sleep. If I’m honest I probably get a lot more sleep than I should. It’s just that the sleep is never of any ‘quality’ and never at the right time, assuming of course there is a right time.

Am I making any sense?

Probably not.

It’s just that when my brain is like this everything goes out the window. I wake up at say 10.30am if I’m sleeping on my own in the little bedroom, which invarably I am because it’s not fair for me to disturb Richard’s 11.30pm – 7.30am sleep routine, and then spend the next couple of hours catching up with myself.

I don’t shower or shave, since I don’t have the time, and generally end up eating some sort of breakfast lunch thing. Richard always does me a smoothie, which I generally eat, but today I didn’t which means tomorrow he’ll eat what I didn’t, which means I won’t get one tomorrow because he won’t need to make any.

Actually, its lucky he does make them, ’cause at times like this my brain says I haven’t got time to eat anyway, so i’d never make myself breakfast, or lunch for that matter.

Stupid, self-perpetuating?

Yeah, I know. Believe me, I know. I keep telling myself. Richard keeps telling me. My psychologist keeps telling me. But does it make any difference?

I am trying. Believe me, I am trying. But my brain doen’t work properly.

If I am down, which I have been for a while now, it takes me a long time for my brain to wake up. Generally it’s not until after lunch, say 1pm or even 2pm before my brain is awake enough to do anything remotely productive.

Today, (being a Tuesday as far as I’m concerned) and yesterday come to think of it, I got through to about 1.30pm not having achieved anything, despite having a variety of things that needed doing, like my Nuffield homework for example, things that I actually want to do, and then (you can tell I’ve lost it – my sentences are getting longer) I get so frustrated because I can’t do anything that I go and lie down on the settee in the living room – can’t go to bed, that would be wrong; though I do if I’m really down – in the hope that I can switch off a bit, recharge and then pray that my pathetic excuse for brain will be able to focus enough a little later. And that’s when I fall asleep for a couple of hours.

You’re getting the picture, right?

Anyway, so there I am a couple of hours later and I’m wide awake and raring to go. And then what really pisses me off is that I manage about an hour of actual focused work, (and by ‘focused work’ I mean writing an email or reading a play or part thereof, or some other seemingly inane task, and certainly not something anybody else would consider as anything other than just an everyday task of which they do dozens of in any one day) before my brain ceases, sorry seizes, and I’m back to a fucked up existance.

I’m not tired, not physically anyway, and I haven’t left the house all day. Some weeks I don’t get to leave the house for three or four days. And in those days, I don’t shower or shave or wash or shit or eat or do anything actually. Oh, but I can sleep. Boy, can I sleep.

So you see. My brains fucked. Ironic, isn’t it; I can write a decent blog post. And I’ll probably do a few other things before I find my way to the little bedroom on the second floor, close the curtains and get into a cold bed.

And tomorrow?

Well, now you see, that’s when I’m really fucked, ’cause tomorrow, I have to be somewhere. Farnham, actually.

I’m going to using some of my talents to earn some money in an interesting and ongoing project. Something that I’m good at (and there are very few things I’m good at) and something I will greatly enjoy.

It’ll be hard, focused work. Proper work. I’ll be there all day, and probably half the night, and somehow or other I’ll do it. I’ll be brilliant, will actually achieve something.

But don’t ask me how. I don’t know how.

It’s like this, I’m just coming up on a wave at present, and I’ll surf (tec – private joke) it so to speak, all the way to the beach where my wave will rapidly disappear and I’ll crash into the pebbles and lie there for a week telling myself how fucking useless I am.

Okay, so I’ve lost the plot. (And contrary to popular belief I didn’t leave in on a train on the way home from Newcastle.) But hey, wtf!

I’m hungry now. Anyone for cheese and biscuits?