Monday, 15 December 2008

Questions and Ramblings

All too often I catch sight of myself in the mirror, and demand of my reflection why I don't take myself or my mental health as seriously as I probably should - or at least as seriously as everyone seems to be telling me I should. I think in part it is complacency: despite a chaotic life over the last quarter century I have always muddled through and survived in some form or fashion. I don't really enjoy inspecting my history too rigorously, because I start to see the various embarrassments, ghastlinesses, horrible scenes, wonderful sillinesses all strewn in my wake like some old dustbin bag that the foxes have had a go at.

That chaotic and muddled self is the only one I've known. I didn't recognise the person I became on the anti-psychotics, nor the mood-stabilisers. It feels like too high a price to pay for stability: the renouncing of my precarious at the best of times sense of identity.

So, complacency, and cowardice too, perhaps - not brave enough to turn over a new leaf, forge a new self, deny my shabby, comfortable rags for a sober double-breasted business suit.

Part of me is convinced that stress is my trigger par excellence. To be honest, stress had built up to intolerable levels over the last few years: the job, the nature of the business, running the business, a growing family. I can't help thinking my mind just said "Enough! I'm out of here!" Again, cowardice.

But now it's forced a complete upheaval on my life: lost me my business, my right to drive a car, my prospects of re-employment in the field which I'm an expert in... It's not so much out of the frying pan into the fire as tipped onto the compost heap for the worms and rats to fight over. (Excuse my melodramatics).

But there is one thing that gives me pause, and makes me wonder how seriously I should be taking myself. (I know I should be serious, but if I didn't laugh I'd cry). Ever since February, when I stopped taking the quetiapine, I've suffered from such a sensitive brain, it drives me nuts. Every jolt of emotion, arousal, surprise, intellectual recognition, all feel like a burning rag swabbed over my brain from the back of my crown to the top of my forehead.

I've asked the shrinks and doctors about it, but they just mouth silently like goldfish: "Blop, blop, blop..."

I have four guesses:

i) the last episode fried my brains completely, and in a way totally different in degree to what I've been used to over the years.

ii) the quetiapine screwed up my brains - google dopaminergic super-sensitivity.

iii) the amount of whisky I put back in the bad time in the spring pickled my brain.

iv) the number of times I beat my brains against the wall scrambled my brains.

Does anyone know of anyone with this symptom? Because it is making life far more difficult that it could otherwise be. It is like having no skull.

Answers on the back of a cold compress please.

Take care everyone.

7 comments:

Lola Snow said...

Wish I had something articulate to say here, other than "Nope". It certainly doesn't sound very nice, and I wouldn't be surprised if it is a combination of all of the above! I'll put you on my list for a brain transplant, shall I? Having problems getting hold of any willing donors though....

Abysmal Musings said...

"No Igor! Not that brain!"

Immi said...

Only one thing gives you pause? Wow. Wanna trade? ;) We both survived, after all.

Abysmal Musings said...

Ha! One thing among a host of others...

Lola Snow said...

He looks familiar - I think I may have been on a blind date with him...

Abysmal Musings said...

Was he coming apart at the seams?

Abysmal Musings said...

Actually, I haven't read that for years and years... must see if I have a copy kicking about.