.....which means On Going to Bed, a title nicked from Rickard Strauss' Four Last Songs. What started as a good day deteriorated late this afternoon - I have been jittery and anxious, with problems filling my time. I've tried to listen to music and I've tried to read - I've got a book on how to deal with distressing voices and paranoid thoughts, but my eyes slide away from the print, and I have to read each sentence twice or three times. It still doesn't stick, so I've given up, and it's back to channel hopping until it's time to go to bed and take my tablets.
The Home Treatment team has just visited and helped me calm down a bit - they gave me a form to complete about going into the Recovery House in Weymouth, if I felt I wanted to for some respite. I don't want to be admitted, but the house would be far more acceptable to me than an inpatient unit. It's something to keep up my sleeve. We also discussed my meds: at the moment I'm taking quetiapine, aripiprazole and venlafaxine, with nitrazepam thrown in for good measure and prn lorazepam - I can put the venlafaxine up if I have to, so that's another string to my bow. However, I tend to get rebound psychosis if my antidepressant is too high, so I'll have to be careful. You would think that I could a. sleep and b. lose the voices with all those antipsychotics inside me - I have to keep on hoping that they will kick in. Or that time heals, which it will do eventually.
I've still got itchy hands, which is most annoying and probably caused by the quetiapine as my skin is sensitive to antipsychotics. Roll on tomorrow when the piriton arrives - I can't wear my signet ring at the moment. Not that I give the tiniest jot about how I look - I haven't had a shower today and I'm still in my pyjamas. The psychiatrist is visiting tomorrow, so I really must make an effort - but why?? She knows perfectly well that I'm low and miserable, so do I really care what she thinks? No, is the stern reply. She was supposed to visit me today, but she was off sick.
I'm listening to The Armed Man, by Karl Jenkins - some of it is very good, and some completely incomprehensible. I don't, as a rule, like modern classical music - I don't get it - but the Agnus Dei is wonderful and uplifting. I suppose I ought to eat something - I've got some of Erle's homemade tomato soup, which is delicious, so maybe I'll have that. My ADLs (activities of daily living for you non medical people) are all to pot, but something keeps me going, even when I don't want to keep going. I must do some washing, for example - even though pyjamas are my dress of choice, I have to wear clean ones from time to time. Maybe I'll tackle that tomorrow - I managed to put the rubbish out and do the dishwasher today, so I'm quite pleased with myself. Or I would be if I had any self esteem. I find it amazing how difficult things become when one is depressed. Washing my hair was out of the question yesterday - I might try to have shower this evening and do it then, but I'm not promising anything.
The phone has been ringing its bell off, but I just can't face it - when the number is withheld it's often the Home Treatment team, so I answered it, and it was the bloody Battersea Dogs Home after a donation. Honestly. I could weep.
It's 8pm - is that too early to go to bed? I'll give it half an hour, then take my tablets, in the abiding hope that I can sleep. If I can't, I'll be back here later.
I spent 16 years in the RAF defending the Free World , then got bunged out unceremoniously for being bipolar. I and was subsequently diagnosed with PTSD. Funny old world, isn't it?