I haven’t posted for a while because I’m not very well.
Hold on, that’s the meat and drink of this blog. That’s what
it’s all about. Why have I been so reticent?
Because the nature of this illness means that I don’t want
to do anything. I can’t do a lot of the things I used to, like smile or cope or
cross the kitchen to turn off the execrable Call
You and Yours.
I have depression.
It was inevitable that this would come round again at some
point. I've had it once every year, give or take a few, for fifteen years. It
isn't triggered by anything external, and the only thing that makes it better
is ECT.
But even though I had ECT in my last pregnancy, they won't
give it to me this time, because the anaesthetist has concerns. I am now on the
NHS, rather than being seen privately, which shouldn't make it a difference -
but it does.
However, although we felt fully reassured last time that
there was no significant risk of having the treatment once I was in my second
trimester, I don't want to go back and have it done privately because the
concerns have scared me a bit. And because I am crap at making decisions at the
moment.
So I have started some new pills, despite the fact I have
had pretty much every pill under the sun in the last 1.5 decades, and none of
them have worked. But everyone's mad keen on this one. (I'm less keen,
especially on the side effects - nausea, jitteriness and heartburn like someone
has poured acid down my throat.) But realistically it is all they can do.
Well, the other things the mental health professionals do is
to ring me up every now and then to remind me not to kill myself (apparently my
family would be 'devastated' - which would never have occurred to me), and do
other helpful things like inform the health visitor that Logie has a depressed
mother and report me to Social Services as being a pregnant women with 'a
problem'.
But I stress to them, and everyone, that it is not affecting
Logie. I am looking after him fine. I don't cry in front of him, we get out of
the house every day and do something physically tiring, he is fed and watered
and generally as happy and bouncy as ever.
It's very very hard, but I do it. I don't doubt that if I
didn't have him, I would barely get out of bed. Don't even ask where I've got
to with Christmas shopping. But I look after my son. I love him, and even
though he is an exasperating handful quite often, he also is a source of love
and humour that touches me in a way that nothing else does.
So the upshot is that I'm sitting it out, and feel
increasingly less like confiding in any of the medical professionals. It took a
while to get the NHS cogs moving and for them to take me seriously, but now
they are grinding relentlessly through various admin procedures, none of which
actually HELP me, all of which make me cry more (has anyone ever asked you if
you are hearing voices? In a totally conversational 'do you like mince pies'
tone of voice? I find it humiliating every time, even though I know they have
to ask) and some of which add to my worries, eg Social Services.
Then again, look at it from their point of view. What else can
they do? Depression is a hard thing to treat. Medication is the standard, and
it works for a lot of people. I am pregnant, so my treatment options are
limited. And even though my depression has never been caused by life events or
hormones, maybe this once it is linked to my circumstance: I have been pretty
wobbly and moody through this pregnancy.
So long as I am not suicidal, starving myself or shitting
the bed, they won't class me as severe enough to have ECT. The waiting list for
therapy is months long, and probably wouldn't be useful to me at this stage
anyway. They are massively under-resourced, and judging from the type of
flatulent, noisy, scary people in the waiting room they have much more severely
troubled people to worry about than me. I have the backing of a loving and
supportive family and group of friends - many don't.
So they medicate, monitor, and pass the parcel between
departments in order to cover their backs.
Meanwhile, I have a constant sob in my throat, that
threatens to choke me (what the marvellous Sally Brampton calls the throat
monster - something I thought was peculiar to me til I read about it in her
memoir of depression, Shoot the Damned Dog), I feel sad and numb and paralysed
and tormented all the time. I sleep barely four hours a night.
People ask me if it helps to know that it will pass, because
it has before. Not really is the answer. And it's not the right question. If
someone was holding a needle to your eye, and you were shouting 'ow ow OW' all
the time, having someone in your ear reminding you that it might pass in a few
weeks or months isn't a great comfort.
But my friends and family (especially Jon, without whom I
would be utterly lost) are what keep me going. It's just that I find it hard to
tell people. Initially because I don't want to admit that it's happening, and
then because I don't want them to worry. Or because I don't really want to have
to pretend to feel better than I am.
But I feel an awful fraud, because I bang on about depression
when I'm well, write articles about it, give advice and am generally
clear-headed on the subject. So it seems that this should stave it off, or at
least help me cope when it comes back. But it doesn't, because that's the
nature of the beast. I feel embarrassed. And helpless.
But at least I've written it down. It was very hard to do.
In order not to leave this on such a bleak note - and thank
you for bearing with me during the longest post I've ever written - I'll
include a few details about Logie and his words. They are suddenly coming on
apace. Wellies are 'wallies'. Satsumas are 'hahumas', like some sort of
Hawaiian delicacy. Trucks are 'tyghhhucks' like a guttural German command.
Smoked salmon is 'ham' - which amused my friend so much this morning it's
become her West London middle-class quote of the week.
Also, here's a picture of him, the first I've ever posted, just to prove that I am not making him unhappy...
