Category Archives: Emotional

Emotional stuff

Epilepsy update

Hello again.

It’s been a few months, hasn’t it?

Anyway, I’ve been updating some other blogs and having a break away from writing but now I think it’s time for a good old brain-fart.

L was diagnosed with epilepsy 2 years ago after a traumatic 40 minute tonic-clonic seizure. She did a three day stay on hospital where she had an EEG which (at that time) had indications consistent with Benign Rolandic Epilepsy in Childhood (BRE, BREC). She had an MRI just to make sure and when that came back all normal, her neurologist began a monitoring program.

The day before her next consultation, she had complex partial seizure. We did an ambulance journey and spent four hours waiting in A &E majors ( the bit where they have all the seriously ill patients which is pretty gruelling) to be told to go home and update her consultant the next day.

She was then put on six monthly monitoring where she would be discharged if she had nothing after a year.

Well, the first six months were fine, then she started school. We thought “magic hand” – she describes it as her hand moving on its own and says its tingly – was an aura, however when she started to get magic hand more than a couple of times a week, I began to wonder if this was far more significant.

I brought it up with her neuro at the last consultation and she said it is likely to be partial seizures, especially as its generally accompanied by a short period of confusion, clinginess, or feeling strange.

We are now into a new ball game with the epilepsy. No, it’s not severe, but if magic hand is seizure activity, she has had probably 20 seizures over the two year period and seems to have them in clusters when she’s tired. This could lead to the need for medication and that’s a pretty scary thing as it could potentially change her personality.

Anyway, as part of this new discovery, she has to have another EEG in the morning. The last one, though indicative, was inconclusive. So this time I’m hoping for some answers. It won’t change much, but it’ll better prepare us for the future.

Super sensitive

Since I’ve accepted myself as abnormal (or perhaps I am the normal one and they are all strange!) I have become a lot more sensitive to criticism. Overly sensitive perhaps?

I have always had an abundance of background paranoia caused by years of actually being the one they talked about, and this is spreading.  It’s infecting my guilt, making me question what I did to deserve such treatment.

In my world, there is no such thing as the bitchiness of others. If I am in receipt of a sour remark, this is because I have already earnt it. Bought and paid for, as you might say.

I volunteered my services recently, and perhaps the fault lies in the way they were reluctantly volunteered. Or by my precious fuck ups. Either way, I was told this person would pay someone else. As an aside, I said they could pay me, knowing that I would never charge this person. Especially not for what they wanted done, as it’s a small job and one I can teach them in minutes. I would have hoped they realised this.

They didn’t.

A response appeared with an emphasis on the negation of any charge, worded in a manner which, in the toneless world of the Internet, felt pointed and jagged.

Now I sit lost and chastising myself for even thinking anyone would want me to help. Thoughts are battering themselves against my skull and I’m doubting myself, the things I worked for and my family.

There are no such things as bitchy comments in my world.

All fault lies here.

Unclean!

I am not a tidy person. There, I said it. I’m not. I have things. Lots of things. Things I’m emotionally attached to, things I can’t live without.

Things I think I can make money with but will never leave the house.

This is my reality.

I live in a house which is covered in kids crap. I’m fine with that.  I really am.

Funnily enough, the toys are the only things which have homes. Every toy (until tomorrow!) can be put in a drawer or box or pile and peace can be restored.

It’s all the other crap.

The clothes, the towels, the bedding, the tatt. It is everywhere.

I was hoping to get a new wardrobe. A wardrobe of beauty. One which can hide most of my sins.

Then we got skint.

So now we have half our clothes in the loft, some in crates in our room, most in the laundry –

The tumble drier eeked out its death throes this morning, leaving the house smelling like burning rubber, my ears slightly sore and a large load of washing which I will struggle to dry.

I’m disgusted by the accumulation of shit. I’m grossed out by the Cheerios everywhere.

I know there are hairy spiders lurking under piles of crud.

There’s a three foot mountain of stuff by the cot.

I’m so desperately depressed about it.

It all feels a bit much.

Proper out

Innit?

I’m the least “Street” person I know, and the only time I’m cool is when I set the shower slightly too low.

My cousin had his birthday party yesterday, and, unlike my brother, invited all of the family (not just the members who make him feel young and are prepared to kiss his Golden Balls. Yuck. Mouth vom.)

It was symbolic for me, as after the weeks of feeling like I was losing my identity and looking grey on both the outside and the inside, I got to slap some make up over that shit, glue on a smile and pretend it’s all okily dokily, which sounds worse than it is because I got to be this:

image

Yeah! And who wouldn’t want to be that hot mumma for one night only?

Ok, maybe a bit over enthusiastic, but the point is that I looked passable and felt ok, actually.

My kids were well behaved (ish) and I didn’t embarrass myself (much). I mean, of course there was dancing, and maybe a bit of singing, even a little shock when Bro said he’d like to partay with his older Sis. (Oh, alcohol, you make people talk bollocks.) but I got to see my family, which is the most important part.

(And the looking good, obviously!)

Cliquey cliquey

I have been subjected to the horror that is the playground far too many times for my delicate nerves to take recently.

L finished preschool today. And I could not be happier.

We walked in and she immediately ran off to be with all her friends – all the girls she has invited to her birthday party (only one has responded so far).

Only my child could choose to be friends with the group of girls who have probably all known each other from birth.

So I was forced to sit with a clique.

This clique blanked me, talked over L’s head and were generally very clear about their exclusivity, which has left me feeling very raw.  Not only for myself and my accentuated “poor parenting” (I was the only parent to get up and dance and sing with L though.  I might be shy and anxious but I don’t mind making a complete dick of myself if it means L gets what she needs.  And I quite like dancing.) but also for L.

I wanted desperately to be the cool kid at school, and I could see so much of myself in her. The thing is, now I’m wondering how much of a part the other parents in my exclusion.  I’m thinking in my case not much – I’m still repeating the same cycles now I’m older – but L is so lively and confident.  The other girls wanted to sit with her and hold her hand.  She does get invited to parties.

She’s not any more sensitive than the other girls and she is certainly a bright spark. It was so hard to watch the mothers talk over her head, hold their children close, ignore her, while she tried to play with her friends.  Maybe I exaggerated it because my childhood (my own doing!) was so bitter and ended with me crying in a corner a lot.

I’m terrified she is going to get cut out of situations because of who I am which has already happened in the past.

Chalk up another parenting fail.

 

Health Visitor

Today a health visitor came to see me after concerns were raised about my mental health at a routine appointment.

I’m sure I feel fine.

I’m exhausted as last night was a bad night for Ru and talking about certain subjects always makes me upset but is my mood that low?

She pulled out the questionnaire I know so well and I did it while she took Ru out in the sun because he was crying uncontrollably (again, thanks boy.)

Twelve. I scored twelve. So yes, I’m in the not good place, apparently. Weird thing is, I don’t really feel any different. I’ve felt pretty consistently like this for years so I’m not sure that there is anything that can be done to “fix” me.

More terrifyingly though, I disclosed my pain about not feeling like a proper parent and the torture I put myself through every time I’m out with my older children. Then followed that with the wallop of guilt I get when I’m not looking after them but not doing much else (like now).

The only way to “fix” that is to go out more with them and take time to get to know them.

Is this more pressure I need to put on myself to try and be the parent I want to be?

*Ticks yes to having ALL OF THE ANXIETY*

Worse than I thought

Last night, I had an anxiety attack. My first, real, proper, self-preserving anxiety event. And it was absolutely horrible.

As soon as I climbed into bed and closed my eyes, it started. I felt very odd, as if nothing were real. I was smelling odd things, like wood chips, and the plastic from toys I had when I was young. Nothing generated by the real world.

I was convinced the vomit was coming and wouldn’t stop, then I wouldn’t be able to feed Ru, or make it through the day.

I thought writing a full, meandering, but distant account of the events from the beginning – the very beginning – would be therapeutic. I even went as far as to think I would enjoy the process, fictionalising aspects as I saw fit.

I did enjoy bashing out two thousand words of absolute drivel, letting my brain follow its thought processes and writing it all down.

What I was actually doing, without realising, was triggering myself, over and over again until I came to bed where I lie down, the last few bars of the psytrance going round and round in my head. Then the horror came.
I detached. But not in the way I used to during my teens while I self-harmed. That was controlled. This, this was far more scary.

I felt like my brain was going on some kind of journey without me and that everything felt odd. Even the skin on my body was odd. I had waves of nausea as I panicked about feeling so strange and thought that maybe I would never feel normal again.

I’ve had broken sleep plagued by dreams of drowning.

Is this what Post Traumatic Stress Disorder does? There were no flashbacks from the birth, or the few hours before and these were the images which kept jumping into my mind which had raised the concerns of a very gentle and loving health visitor. Feeling odd after writing about finding out I was pregnant and letting my mind explore a calm and factual way of storytelling wasn’t part of the deal.

Now I just feel jumpy and exhausted and a little frightened.

I need to write this, but as I become more ingrained in the story, I’m worried I might trigger myself into oblivion.