A Sort of Christmas Blog

I don’t know if it’s just me but as a carer you sometimes feel tragedy deeper than you used to… you think more sometimes of those left to pick up the pieces from whatever has happened, and easily get emotional about things

 

Like many, I imagine, when I first heard the news of the tragic incident at the Sandy Hook school in Newtown USA my initial feeling was of horror, disbelief… but as the evening wore on, and we heard Mr Obama speak of the tragedy my horror turned towards emotion, the human aspect took over from the more practical earlier response, and I came very upset, emotional.

 

A couple of days later I sat transfixed as the President delivered the eulogy or speech at the memorial in the school… I felt overwhelmed by the emotion, I did shed tears… more than one… as I started to wonder how those who were left would cope with things, especially at this time of year. The shooter has stolen Christmas for a whole town… a state… and I just don’t know what any of us can do to help those broken souls.

 

However, I am not writing about that incident, it serves as a lead in and to introduce a point I will raise later.

 

I want to introduce you, especially those in the UK, to an army of lost and broken people, people who have no hope other than that despair may lessen… people that are left isolated in a world of their own that none of us can penetrate, none of us can understand, which we all fear… for ourselves and in others. The group of people who get so little support… they are not in the public eye, or given a second thought until something goes wrong.. something like Sandy Hook.

 

I am talking about the 25% of us who through no fault of their own are suffering with a mental illness, and for all of those who care for them.

 

Christmas is coming, as we right a week today is Christmas day, and after a very nice day this evening I have attended the most bittersweet uplifting heartbreaking evening I can ever remember.

 

It was the unit Christmas party at the hospital.. a treatment and recovery unit within the NHS where they look after long term mentally ill, with serious issues, and restricted hope of re-entering society.

 

If you don’t think that these people, and their carers, need and deserve massive support from the medical profession and also from the public at large… come with me the next time… open you eyes to what is happening… it may just change your life. It will change you mind and heart.

 

So, to the party, we arrived just as the carol service was starting, I greeted the staff who were standing around the back, and could see the patients, mostly with care workers, sitting at the front. She sat there, looking blank, not looking towards where anything was happening, but maybe not really seeing anything anyway.

 

The OT next to her called me over to take her seat, with my wife, and I sat there, took her hand… she barely responded.. the patient on the other side took my hand and acknowledged me then turned away.

 

The Chaplain was doing a reading… I was really listening… I looked at her… saw no sign of recognition or understanding… the pain in my heart just grew… and grew… I looked round looking for some hope, something to focus on… I saw the gentleman who wanders around all day in food-covered clothes, dribbling, and grunting… he was in a smart suit, collar and tie… mind you ill fitting, he had obviously lost weight through his illness… and still looked so ill… but his face was radiant, he tried to sing the carols, at the top of his voice, the sounds that came out were not particularly intelligible, but he looked so radiant it made me go weak at the knees… here was a man so devastated by his condition but able to rise above it for a special occasion… hope is never far away, but seldom rises above the surface as it did here.

 

I looked back at her.. still looking blank, still holding her hand but still no real sign of the love, passion and understanding we had almost taken for granted for so many years… I continued to look around, looking for hope, for understanding..

 

I saw rows of patients, all singing, trying to sing, the carols… I am not a “Christmas carol” sort of person, I am now frightened of Christmas… but this was somehow uplifting… these people are so lost, lost within their own bubbles… there seems no hope, no respite, but they were singing Christmas carols, looking angelic, looking dare I say happy… I give me hope, I tgace me encouragement… perhaps that is why I was crying by them… the tears were flowing freely.

 

I looked back at her... her mouth was moving, just, but no sound coming out… was she trying to sing the carols? I don’t know… I’ll never know. She used to love that.

 

I know if she had been the well one she would have sung beautifully, without needing the songsheets, and said how uplifting the event was.

 

But she sat, unsmiling, unseeing, whether she was hearing, understanding, enjoying we will never know.. I like to think she was… I have to think that.

 

After the service, as the tears started to slow, a shutter opened and dinner was served. I took her to the servery… she pointed at the vegetable curry… good choice, she would always have gone for that, and I took it back to a table and sat her down with it.

 

It looked good, tasty… I gave her her knife and fork to eat… she put them down pushed the food away… by now most other patients had their food and were eating it energetically… she barely looked at it… I gave her the knife and fork again… she looked resentful, I tried to get her to eat and eventually she had a forkful and pushed it away.

 

After about 15 minutes persuasion and cajoling she sarted to eat, reluctantly… she always seems to think she doesn’t deserve to eat… she was like that, and said it repeatedly, before she was hospitalised.

 

As everyone else was going for seconds, and the carers were going for firsts, she was struggling to take her second forkful.

 

After the meal I went to get a desert.. some were piling for or five pieces of cake onto their plate and eating it hungrily… spraying it everywhere… over clothes and tables… innocent joy at what is normally a forbidden pleasure. Compare that to the lady looking so lost with a piece of cheesecake in the bowl of her spoon… holding the bowl with fingers in the cheesecake…. Trying to put the handle in her mouth

 

After the food the karaoke.. now that always brings me out in dread and a cold sweat… but the patients were going up to the mike, opening up, singing… for the most part even with the lyrics on the screen the singing was unintelligible, the tone awful.. but there is no doubt that these lost souls were absolutely glowing in the joy of the event, of the fun….

 

I look at her again... the same blank look… where is she focusing? Who knows? What is she thinking? Who knows.. occasionally she will clap a couple of times more or less to the music.

 

While I am looking around I have commented on the way the staff are sitting with the patients… why is that… its because most of them don’t have visitors, family, with them… I’m there with her… the cantankerous guy in her unti has his family with him.. but then again, they are there as much as I am… and the others… well, they have the staff with them.

 

That is why I call them lost… their conditions have become too much, visiting is so upsetting that people gradually stop.. they become forgotten… pray god I don’t do that, but I can feel it in me… I will fight against it…

 

And what of the carers? They are easily recognised… the patients look lost… the staff are in uniform… the visitors, the carers, always look tired, stressed, burnt out cases… you will have seen it many carers you know.

 

So, as we leave, what are my emotions… so mixed… I have seen hope and joy on the faces of people who have been abandoned by society and friends… I have heard them sing carols and recite the Lords Prayer.. my spirits rose with that… but I have seen her there… she would have loved it if she’d really been there… looking blankly at the window… struggling to understand the food before her was hers to eat… unable to manage cutlery… unable to speak or communicate and no facial expressions or body language to suggest whether she got any pleasure or anything out of the event… I have to think she enjoyed it… one of the nurses said she seemed to have enjoyed it, nut I am long past the being able to recognise that in her.

 

The tears flowed, as I said, during the service… even while I felt some uplift because of the look on other faces, but my overriding feeling is of heightened loss and despair… tears are close to falling even now, probably will before the evening is over… but I cant change anything.

 

And here we come back full circle to the shooter who robbed a town of Christmas… nothing, but nothing can justify or excuse what he has done… forgiveness is not possible. We still seek answers to so many questions… but one thing that seems to be clear is that the man had a mental illness… now that doesn’t excuse his actions… I cannot condone any aspect of what he’s done… but I also have questions. My experience of the Mental Health Service in the UK, and what I hear of the service in the USA, show so many failings, so much neglect and a huge level of disengagement, so we have to understand if his mental condition has been allowed to fall through the cracks and build to this pitch… for the sake of everyone we have to start giving mental illness a proper status, have to start understanding it better at medical levels and as a society, and for god sake lets try to stop the next massacre before it happens

 

 

 

 

 

Caring..at home or away

No-one chooses to become a carer, how many of you would take on a role that keeps you working 24/7 around the clock 365 days a year, has no holidays, no sick pay, no rights, no margin for error and absolutely no salary… in fact it costs you to do the job, costs you in money, costs you in terms of your job, your friends, your health… no, nobody chooses this role.

However, every single one of us could become a carer at a moments notice…. either as a result of a catastrophe such as a motor accident, or by the slow and insidious development of a debilitating condition, which comes on slowly then one day has reached the point where it needs around the clock support.

Your loved one has a cold… you get them a drink… you look after them… that’s caring… One day, for a growing number of people, that caring becomes essentially a full life consuming around the clock job… and you do it without question, because you do look after your loved ones. It is some time later, when you have lost your own self and become a carer, that you realise that you are just that, a carer.

There is an army of carers out there, in fact it is estimated that carers, like you and I, actually save the state some £119 billion per annum… that is a lot of money… a lot of carers.

For so many people, their caring role doesn’t give them a single moment to be their self, to be anything but a carer.. and it doesn’t stop when you sleep, because you are aware every second of the support your loved one needs from you. You do all those jobs that your loved one wouldn’t dream of letting you do under other circumstances….

I am a carer, I care for a loved one who has suffered psychotic depression over 8 years or so, and now she has dementia… she has been in hospital for the last three years, and once the service providers get their act together and agree who does what, she will go to a nursing home. This means that for the  last three years my caring role has been easier than for many people… I don’t have to dress her, feed her, wash her, attend to her toilet issues… none of that… I don’t have to worry about giving medication, making sure it is all up to date. I don’t have to stay in home every hour unless I can get a family member or friend to sit with her… yes, it should be pretty easy. I know I am better off in this respect than dear friends who have cared for loved ones with Motor Neurone Disease, Emphysema, Cancer and the rest,,,, because I can come and go as I please, and don’t have those same pressures of actually looking after her every last need.

However, nothing is that simple is it… my situation is frankly appalling… I am not looking for sympathy, that does not help, but could use some understanding… that is all most carers look for.

When you are caring for someone who is in hospital, has been in for years, who will never come home however long they live… will move on to a nursing home, you don’t have the day to day caring stuff to do.

But it is still your loved one, you still love them, and likely they still love you… but you can’t be together, you are living apart, a few miles apart geographically, but living apart by immeasurable distances in reality. You only meet when you go to the hospital to visit… that’s 3 or 4 times a week for me now, about an hour a visit… so 3 to 4 hours a week with the person that means everything to me, but is no longer that person.

You still care, love, want around the clock, 24 hours a day, that doesn’t change… there is a painful loneliness in that… with friends, wherever you are, you are thinking your loved one should be with you… feeling guilty that you are enjoying something which they can’t, even though they are doing nothing, not far away.

When you are together… the love is still there… friends who have been to the hospital with me say they are touched by the obvious love between us, but it can only show at times through the eyes, through a look…  there is nothing else now, those silly little things you used to do and say together… they go through your mind… you say little things, do some of the little things… but there is sign of remembrance, no gentle melting response, and none of the little gestures and words coming back.

In fact they haven’t spoken an intelligible word for over two years, and rarely even manage an unintelligible one. You think they recognize you, but that would be the last defeat, not being recognized, so you are convinced anyway.. but the reassurance is hollow.

You spend time with your gorgeous grandchildren, and they mean so much to me, as do our children, and you love being with them, but you also find half of your mind is occupied by the fact that she is not enjoying the same thing… you tell her about them, you occasionally see a look of longing… but rarely… sometimes a smile… but rarely, more often the same blank expressionless stare… the one that leaves you feeling lost, frightened and helpless…

The pressures are always there… round the clock.. at least if they are at home you have the comfort of being able to help, I say comfort, I know it is desperately hard work… but sometimes you can crave it to ease the nagging loneliness.

Awful as it sounds, I wish she had died when she became this ill… I can’t bear to think of her just sitting… sitting… not communicating… don’t know even if she has thoughts… I don’t know if it helps that the hospital staff tell me she is often tearful after I leave… yes, me too, but I can deal with it, I can write and talk, does this mean I should go more often? See more of her… I would like to but I find it so hard to see her like this, I don’t think it would help… but then I feel awful because I don’t. go more often.

Whatever the situation, being a carer is a bloody awful lonely role… 

Sorting things out

You know how it is, some jobs you do because you want to, other you do because you want to help someone else and some jobs you do because, simply, they have to be done.

Since I had the pleasure of being made redundant and learning my wife would never be well enough o come home within a few days of each other, you can imagine I have had a number of jobs to do, most of them imposed by my new situation.

On top of that I was faced with selling the house to downsize because I simply couldn’t afford the mortgage any longer without work, I wasn’t too worried because there were so many tragic images of my wife, so many ghosts, that I was uncomfortable living there.

Then it came to a crunch… it became clear that I had to clear out a lot of staff, mine and hers, to fit into a smaller house… also because I wouldn’t be wearing her clothes, using her craft books, they were easy to sort out and clear out… well not easy, but I got through it without too much trauma.

I found that in order to get interest to sell the house I had to clear spaces and redecorate in magnolia throughout… I was doing it to sell a family home that I had lived in since 1980… not because I wanted to, but because it was full of ghosts and I couldn’t afford it.

Imagine how that left me feeling… a total failure… a man who had so lacked ambition and drive, in a career sense, that I couldn’t kee pa roof over the families collective heads, and indeed I couldn’t protect my wife well enough to keep her under the roof anyway.

I am wracked with guilt that I couldn’t do anything to slow down or ease her illness, she is missing out on the greatest experience a couple can have, seeing two gorgeous grandchildren grow up, being a part of their lives, supporting them and your own child. She would have so loved that, but it is not to be…

Now the house, as I moved things listlessly around, redecorated, of course time passed, it took me weeks to do each room, not days, and the ghosts started to fade… I realise I was painting her out of my life… and the ghosts were going as well, and strangely I was beginning to feel more at ease living there.

Don’t misunderstand this, I am keeping some keepsakes, I have countless photos of her, and a head full of the most wonderful memories, which are starting to resurface through the hell that life has been just lately.

So, I now have a home redecorated more or less top to bottom, just the bedroom to go, and the ghosts have subsided to a controllable level, but I still have the problem of selling.

Then it changed, I wont explain the changes, but I have paid off the mortgage and have a few quid in the bank. I also have now retired so am getting a pension, so no longer the soul destroying search through the situations vacant

I haven’t at this stage touched the garden for two years, to say it was a disgrace would be to compliment it indeed, but now I realised that I was doing the jobs for me, because I wanted to, I anted to stay in my home… and am going to. I got stuck into the garden, and 80% of it has been transformed from a 3 feet high tangle of nettles and weeds to something that people tell me looks really nice….

Then comes the last job on the list.. sorting out her own stuff in the cupboards. My wife was keen on craft… cross-stitch, embroidery, gold-work, knitting… anything you can name, except crochet! I don’t know why crochet, but there it is, she cannot tell me now, she cannot communicate at all.

This is where the pain that I cant cope with comes in. Although I have settled again in what I now consider to be my house, my life is improving as I gain strength and slowly start to accept the situation but the guilt I feel that my wife can’t enjoy any of this, she is locked in a cruel and destructive dementia that robs her of communication, of pleasure, of dignity, of friends, family and home, grows by the hour. It is eating me up, and as much as I can put on a brave face when needed, the pain is crippling most of the time… it is lonely being a carer, lonely, stressful and tiring.

This week, tonight, has been bad for me… the last cupboard… almost the last cupboard, this time it is a lot of her craft stuff I have to sort out… three huge boxes.. I remember we went to Bakewell, there is a lovely craft shop there… she got a really lovely fairy picture to cross-stitch, and all the threads, it cost a small fortune.. I remember as though it was yesterday the look of pleasure on her face as she kept looking at it as we walked along, how she kept it on her lap most of the drive home and looked at it… so thrilled with it.. she went out and bought a frame the next day… but there it was, gathering dust, untouched, in the box… not only that, but literally dozens of others, from small Disney pictures which are starter kits right up to huge table cloths and the like, all with one little flower done… otherwise untouched.. many still with a needle stuck in the cloth.

I hoave found loads of sewing frames, and most other sewing things… could almost set up a shop, but it makes me realise that her illness had been coming on for far longer than I realised… what sort of husband can be so blind as to not see this developing.. I have let her down so badly, I feel so down, so sorry for myself… but I shouldn’t, I have some more life to look forward to, it is her who doesn’t, her who cannot enjoy her grandchildren, her who cannot enjoy her sewing, her walking in the woods, by the river bank.. I have all that still, she doesn’t… what right have I to feel so down about it. None perhaps, but by god it doesn’t stop me. I feel totally devastated by it all.

The memories, the lovely memories, that these unused gifts and things trigger in me, I am so torn between the joy and pride of knowing what a wonderful wife and friend she has been to me, and what a lousy undeserved situation we now find ourselves in.

I know I owe it to her to move on, but I can’t, not yet… I know there is no recovery, but as long as she is there, I can go and give her a hug… then I cannot let go, not in the least.

Service? What Service?

I’m confused again, I guess that’s part of the situation I’m in. The last week has been marred by a further involvement with Social Workers…

I received a call form the on-going care team on Thursday and form a Social Worker on Friday. Both calls started by telling she was living at home. When they were corrected they both told me that she was in a particular care home. When I corrected them they were disappointed and said all the costings and reports had been prepared based on her going to that home. I challenged this and they said that they would have to come and reassess my mother.

Now, if you didn’t know, you would think why is he so upset by this. I’ll tell you… the person concerned is my wife, not my mother. My mother, despite her advanced years and frail body is still bright as a button.

It’s not as though that was the only problem. My wife has been in hospital for over three years now, she hasn’t been home in that time. The final issue is the home that they have now done their costing on is the very home that the previouis social worker sent me to look at… which I did and reported back that my wife would go there over my dead body… the place was AWFUL… it needs closing down.

So, the question is, if they have this basic information so utterly wrong, what else have they got wrong… how many other delusions are they working under and how can my wife possibly be getting the support and service she needs when they obviously don’t have the first idea what the hell they are dealing with.

Of course, you may be wondering… is this the sum total of the problems with social services? Is it hell!!!

Three or four months ago, we had a social worker, he was based 120 miles away, but was working this area. He didn’t know any of the homes, or where they were. My wife was assessed by two homes, one accepted her, the other didn’t. Sadly he told me the exact opposite to what he told the hospital, and his written record shows a third option… the home that actually accepted her was the one I reported back as being awful.

When I spoke to his manager to have him removed from the case, I was told that he shouldn’t have referred me to that home because it, well, was not recommended. I asked the obvious question… “then why did he…?” and got the answer “because he is working out of area and doesn’t know the homes”

You have to ask the question.. what the hell is the point?

Anyway, 3 months later, the manager who had taken over the case, had not made any more contact, other than to ask what I thought of another home…which actually was rather good.

Add these indiscretions to the nine years of consistent negligence and incompetence from Social Services and you start to get the impression of why I’m so damn angry with them.

I had a meeting scheduled this morning with my wife’s medical team and the social worker, looking at the options for ongoing care. I took the opportunity to take in a letter of complaint which included some demands including seeing her records, getting regular progress reports, finding out who was responsible for the inaccurate records and what they had done to sort it out and prevent repeats.

The meeting went well, I took a close friend and colleague along to the meeting for support, and we were delighted to hear the Social Worker outlining her progress, or attempts to make progress, to date and the action she was going to take to get things sorted as soon as possible.

Everyone in the room was very encouraging and supportive, nd a way forward was agreed, the Social Worker would lead, and when she got options, she would let me know so we could go and review the home.

After this exchange, the consultant psychiatrist took the lead, he is an extremely compassionate and caring man, he tells you the truth and treats carers with respect and dignity. However, I did somewhat jump when he said the lines that I really thought anyway, but had not been spoken aloud… “You do understand that the nature of this illness means that her life expectancy is drastically reduced”.

After further discussion around medical options, and further reviews the meeting broke.

If you think you now know why I am so angry and upset, you would be wrong.

The social worker took my letter to her boss, who I feel is culpable for much of the inaccuracy, she phoned me… and this is what made me so damned angry… her first line was “I don’t understand what you are angry about”. If she really doesn’t understand, perhaps she would be better working in a European discount supermarket.

Now, the point, yes, I got to it in the end, of this blog is this… When a carer is trying to support a loved one, knowing the loved one will ever return to the family home, knowing that the loved one hasn’t spoken or expressed anything other than by occasional moments of body language, when the loved one cannot get out of bed, wash herself, dress herself, is incontinent, needs to have cutlery placed in the correct hands before trying to persuade her to eat, you can imagine that carer is under pressure, is upset, worried, guilty… in simple terms is not having a very good time.. in this circumstance the carer, whose one aim is to get the loved one into a credible nursing home they need proper support and service from Social Services. The carer doesn’t have the detailed knowledge of the homes in the area, doesn’t know the different classifications, or what level of nursing is required, if the home can offer that level….It is then that the carer desperately needs proper support from social services… what I have had is far from proper support, it has pushed me back to the borders of depression, has caused me to feel to wretched to attend a conference today, and has left me desperately upset, miserable and alone.

Thank you social services.

The other aspect of this, my confusion, which I can’t deal with feeling like this is simple… I now officially know that my wife has a reduced life expectation… her time is limited… we are moving towards the end game. How do I feel.. obviously devastated… lost… but also I have this… is this better than seeing her living in this awful twilight world of not communicating, not being aware of anything, of sitting, looking lost and alone for another 30 years. The prospect of that fills me with tears, it is so tragic, so upsetting… so un-bloody-fair… but death will spare her from that… is it a blessing… put your self in my place… what do you think?

As I said, I can’t deal with this yet.

Que Sera Sera

As a fairly long term carer for a wife with mental illness, I had always thought that my isolation and lack of support was unique. However after a while I started to talk about the issues, and started to learn that my concerns were far from unique, that the majority of carers shared them.

This of course made me feel better about it! That is why I started blogging, to share my concerns, partly to let others know that they aren’t alone and partly to seek reassurance for my own insecurities.

My life has moved along, as lives do, some problems are resolved, the main problem, which is my dear wife’s crumbling heralth continues to get worse, so the pressures are still there.

However, nearly two years since learning that she will never come home, will have to spend the rest of her life (she is only 56) in a nursing home, will never enjoy our gorgeous grandchildren, and since she actually spoke, I am at last coming to terms with these issues and starting to develop a new life of my own.

Many would say that is natural, but here is where I feel that my own issues start to become unique again.

18 months ago, the brainless tactless bitch of a consultant told me, in front of a dozen other people in a ward round that “this will split you up as a couple”… referring to her illness. Now, it is not just to prove the cow wrong, but it will not. I love her as much now as I did in the first flush of our romance, some 38 years ago, although obviously the nature of the relationship has changed dramatically. The dynamics of the family are changed,  we are not together except during the hospital visits, some of which are quite pleasant, many of which are so totally distressing. Although the romance, the companionship, the closeness and the physical side of the relationship are gone, the love remains, strong as ever.

Here is the first part of the dilemma… I see her now as she is, the sparkle is gone, the conversation is gone, the understanding is gone, she looks lost and old. I am losing the memory of her as she was, a lively, intelligent woman, my lover, my best friend… the love of my life.

That is why I have put in the photo of her just before the illness took her, it reminds me of the woman she was, the woman I love. 

The dilemma is here. Clearly while she is alive she is my wife. I want nothing to change there, I signed up to “in sickness and in health” and as I said earlier I still love her, and always will do so.

However, I know I need to make a new life for myself, and am starting to do just that, I am finding new friends, many of whom are female. The last thing I want right now is a new full time relationship… My wife will always be first for me, and I have no intention of changing that.

Will that always be the case,? I don’t know, I honestly don’t know. What I do know is that now I am on my own, I spend a lot of time alone simply missing her, missing the way she would ease my fears and worries, boost my flagging ego, make me feel valued… O fcourse I have friends who do that sort of thing for me, but it isn’t the same is it? With my wife it would take just a look, a smile, a touch… words weren’t always needed… with my friends it is different, the touch, the greeting and parting hugs, the encouraging comments are all welcome, treasured, but they are not built out of nearly forty years love and companionship.

I need those reassurances; I need them desperately these days… I miss her so much, but I still need that feminine touch and support from someone who needs me in the same way, but sadly it cannot be my wife.

Am I wrong to be thinking that I need those reassurances, I wake up in the night, I can’t sleep, I desperately need someone just to hear them breathing, to just put their arms around me and  soothe me… but can I do that? I would be being disloyal to her… letting her down… but I am sacrificing my own happiness in saying that. Look, nothing will stop me loving my wife… Is it wrong to consider the possibility of some sort of romance in the future… am I being unreasonable thinking about that? Am I being fair?

Of course, I am no oil painting, not exactly a body beautiful… it is not as though I am a “babe magnet”!!!! What chance would I have anyway. A relationship is not something I will go out and look for, if it were to come my way though, would I be right or wrong to go with it.

Right now this is academic, but relationships develop, I know many ladies, it could happen for me at some time… it could… Should I reject the chance for that comforting arm out of loyalty to my wife? Should I take the chance of that sort of comfort? If I do, am I letting my wife down???

I really don’t know, I do know that even in a crowd, with close friends, I am lonely and miss her like crazy. I don’t think that that will ever change.

                        

One Shining Moment

It is February 2011, my wife has been on the acute psychiatric ward for 18 months, the treatment has been so appalling the relations between myself and the medical team have totally broken down, have no trust or respect for them, they show a frightening lack of integrity and ability. My own health has deteriorated until I am suffering with depression, frightened for my wife’s safety on the ward, feeling guilty about existing, finding oncoming traffic an inviting way out… I am at a low ebb.

I go on holiday, to my cousins on the edge of the New Forest to try to escape the pressure and nightmare I am living through… this is what happened on the Thursday of my week there.

I got up and had breakfast, mechanically, with my cousins, emotions still low, not really feeling but going through the motions of enjoying a holiday… a holiday totally alone despite being with them…

After lingering I go out for the day, walking just walking, always just walking in the forest, it should be helping, it isn’t particularly but I’m not seeing the appeal of the on-coming traffic now, so there must be some catharsis here.

I’m driving… my phone rings… I pull into a car park, it’s at Hatchett Pool, a particularly favourite spot where the forest melts into a wide stretch of water, alive with sunlight dancing on the unbroken surface.

I take the call, I am staggered, it is from the hospital, it is just to tell me my wife is to be transferred to a different, more appropriate unit, under the influence of a new doctor. They say it is so they can have a second opinion on her… it could be because my now loudly expressed views of the consultant have made it impossible to carry on with the status quo.

Whatever the reasons, I don’t care, it is a joy to me that the transfer is in place. A worry less, I know she will be safe on this new unit. I sit by the pool, put in earphones, and just sit on a bench and glory to the sound of Mahlers Resurrection Symphony… it’s not a cheerful piece, or an easy piece but it is an inspiring and wonderful piece of music.  I could feel my spirits starting to rise.

After the music I got back in the car, drove towards the coast, and stopped for a coffee and Danish pastry… I was still feeling low, still saw no future, no hope, for me… bleak days and years appeared to stretch out in front of me, just mourning for a lost love, a love who will, it seems continue to live in a twilight world, undiagnosed, never improving, never deteriorating… I felt hopeless, but at least no longer worried for my wife’s safety. This was, had I understood then, a real step forward for me. I didn’t understand then, we never recognise turning points at the time do we?

I think it’s time to get back to my cousins, but I don’t want to, I need to be alone, need to think, need to try to find out what I am thinking, I don’t recognize the sensations I’m feeling still.

I decide not to go home, I drive to a nature reserve on the estuary. I carry my camera, always carry my camera, and a bag…. The bag contains a book, bottle of water and my ipod. Everything I need to be happy and relaxed, everything that is except for the peace of mind to allow me to enjoy it.

I walk slowly across the reserve towards the water, the sun is low, geese and swans are flying in to start to settle for the evening, I should be revelling in this but it leaves me unmoved. I can see it is lovely, but can’t feel it is lovely. I plan to walk to the river, ipod playing, listening to favourite music, and sit on the bench overlooking the water, read until it is too dark, then go home for dinner and to try to talk of shoes and ships and sealing wax…

As I near the bench, the sun is very low across the water, shining however on me on the bench… as I look up the there is a low narrow mudflat exposed by the low tide before me… the water glistening in the pink twilight and the geese  creating magical ripples on the glassy surface.. across the water are the reed beds, turned crimson by the backlight from the low sun.

Further behind is the low hill of the headland, and the clear sky above it. There is no-one else in the area. I haven’t looked at my book, it remains with the water in the bag. I switch off the ipod and sit in total silence watching the sun on the water.

A lone curlew drifts on the breeze and lands soundlessly on the bank before me. Under normal circumstances I would have my camera out and be photographing the reeds, the water and especially the curlew. My camera remains on the bench, I am spellbound by the scene, the curlew, the sun on the water, the reeds glowing pink and orange in the evening light…

I have a new sensation… my eyes are damp, there are tears flowing, but not all tears are bad tears. These were tears partly for what I’d lost and would likely never recover, but mainly for the simple beauty of what I am seeing… it has raised my heart and spirits in a way that I could never have imagined.

I see beauty in nature, I see hope, I see a future before me… it may be alone, it maybe with my wife… only time and medicine will determine that. The main thing is that I see a future, and a reason to walk positively into it.

I also know that the hospitals must never treat anyone else the way my wife has been treated, so what started as a fairly abstract commitment to carer support, blossomed into a mission… I had in that twenty minutes seen beauty, found hope and also found a purpose.

The most cathartic 30 minutes of my entire life. I have no photographs to record any of it, but I have the images imprinted in my heart… they sustain me in the darkest hours.

Although my life has had ups and downs since that evening, I continue to suffer the thralls of depression, I also now have some very bright and optimistic periods… and I always remember that evening, the curlew…. It always brings me peace and comfort, however dark the hour.

In the midst of pain… beauty can blossom and bring hope, bring encouragement and be a light for all of your darkest moments. Those moments of beauty are rare, transient, we can’t look for them… they find us. Our responsibility is to recognize what we have been given and to use it for the good of ourselves and others.

I think that, for once, I passed the test.

Guilty as Charged

“GUILTY”

As I hear the foreman of the jury deliver this one chilling word I start to slump forward in the dock.

The Judge speaks, I don’t hear every word he says, my head is reeling, I feel sick and my legs wont support me, I hear his final words “… for life… take him down” and I’m roughly seized by the arm and led down the stairs behind the dock, unheeding, into a twilight word of wakefulness, I come round, I’m sweating, the pillow no longer gives me comfort as I realise that although this was a dream, the familiar dream, it is all true, I am guilty and  and will serve a life sentence for it regardless of what I think, what others think or say. Nothing will change that…. Sure I’ll come round, yes, I’ll carry on but I will always carry that feeling. For me that dream will never stop being true, will never leave me.

What have I done that deserves such a punishment? I just don’t know, but I know it’s just. What am I guilty of? I have lost my wife to a living hell of dementia and am now about to commit her to the anonymous twilight of a residential nursing home. God please let me get this decision right if I’ve got nothing else right in my life, because if I get this wrong I don’t think I can live myself any longer.

Yes, I am culpable in my wife’s condition.. I could have made better provision to stop us running up the debts we had, I could have protected her more when she should have been grieving, I could have been more understanding and supportive at the times I got angry or frustrated, I could have seen the signs sooner and dealt with the illness quicker, I could have fought the authorities harder for help when she needed it, whatever I did I could and should have done more… I don’t know what I could have done more, but the fact it didn’t work shows I could have done more.

I knew how much she hated been in a psychiatric unit in 2004, but in 2009 I fought to have her re-admitted… I had to, I couldn’t cope any longer with her at home, she needed round the clock nursing care, but I just couldn’t deal with it. I asked, indeed fought, for her to be readmitted… if I hadn’t done that I wouldn’t have seen that look… the medics asked if they should admit her, I said “yes” and after a couple of phone calls the nurse said “come on then, lets get you to hospital”.

She looked up at me, first time she looked my in the eye since she’d started to deteriorate and with the unshed tears gleaming in her blank eyes said “Now?” very quiet… she couldn’t have reacted more dramatically if I’d ordered her to be executed. That look cut me to the heart, like poisoned darts penetrating my being. It’s a look I see in every waking hour, a look I will never forget as long as I live, and something I will never forgive my self for. I had always promised and vowed to protect her, I was now rejecting her and condemning her to her own hell. I know I had to do it… there was really no choice… I know that… but Christ that look hurts me so much to this day.

That look, that fear and my guilt are key factors in my passion to reform the mental health service.. the treatment she and I got under the Adult Mental Health Service was frankly disgraceful from day 1, and I will continue to fight for improvement as long as I have the strength to do so.

I feel at least partly responsible for her illness and dementia… people will tell me I shouldn’t but it’s not that easy to switch it off…

Since she has been ill we have been blessed with a second grandchild, I love both grandchildren to bits, and talk to her often about them… but I feel awful doing so because I know how much she would love them if she were well, how proud she’d be, how thrilled everytime he said “grandma”… but she has none of that… she doesn’t see much of them… stuck in a psychiatric unit it is difficult… she is missing them growing up. I am loving seeing them… one hug, one kiss, one “love you grandpa” transports me to heaven despite everything, but then I feel guilty because having condemned her to hospital and being unable to have that pleasure.

Simply by being close to mental illness the stigma that the ignorant feel has cost me most of my friends… my real friends have been so supportive and understanding throughout despite their own difficulties… these are real friends I am proud to have. I have now as a result of my campaigning work met many more people, have many more friends, new friends, and I feel so guilty about having a new life that she doesn’t even know about, cannot be a part of, and I feel guilty about that.

I have myself suffered with depression during this period, the guilt I feel has brought me down, the exhaustion of the worry that she wasn’t actually safe on the psychiatric ward has drained me, the fighting with the AMHS tog et them to acknowledge their shortcomings and improve things has exhausted me.

Put that together with continually travelling to hospital to visit, eating ready meals late at irregular times, has affected my physical health. I feel now so permanently tired, exhausted that my social life has all but died. I have been made redundant and diagnosed with diabetes2… how much either of those situations can be laid at my own mental state is impossible to say… but I have my beliefs on it.

My moods and spirits have been a roller coaster, mainly down, I go through periods when I can’t look after myself, let alone my wife… it’s not like me to wear the same underwear and clothes for several days, to go days without a shower, without even combing my hair let alone washing it… but it is where I am now.

I have recently started to read again, I had barely read a book for three years, but I’m now able to concentrate enough to read, and am reading avidly again, I am enjoying the books, but the thought is always there… she would enjoy them as well, some she had chosen, but will never read them now. Cannot read anything.

The illness has robbed her of everything that makes life worthwhile except life itself. Her life now consists of sitting, eating, sleeping. How much she hears she understands, we don’t know. We don’t know if she hears.. she can’t communicate anything, cant speak, even in hospital they have to guess if she is in any pain, and give painkillers if they think she is… they have to get her up, to wash her, to dress her, to get her food and encourage her to eat, they have to take her to the toilet, what chance would I have at home, alone, to give her the care she needs and deserves if the hospital staff can’t do it? None.. but that doesn’t stop me feeling guilty  because my whole being cries out to me to do just that… I can’t look after myself, let alone her… but still I feel guilty about it.

This is the reality of depression for many people, many families, don’t EVER tell me you are depressed because you have broken a finger nail before going out for a diner, don’t EVER tell me you have a lot of work to do so you are depressed. In the past I have gritted my teeth and ignored it… next person to do it won’t be so lucky because feeling so guilty, so shamed of what you’ve done, that you can’t look after your wife (whether those feeling are justified or not) makes you angry, bloody angry, and to have people belittling the illness like that is insulting to every one of the wonderful people out there who suffer depression and depressive illnesses.

So, with those thoughts in my mind, I go back to bed, settle down with the duvet in the half empty bed, and before long I am back in a small room, surrounded by police officers and court officials before being told “it is time” and being led up a short flight of stairs into a wooden pen and looking across at a stern faced judged and a jury, and hearing the woirds “You are charged that….”

Depression is... real

Depression. The word is so easy to say, so easy to undervalue and misunderstand, because we have all used the word instead of a bit down in the dumps for a moment… and it bloody annoys me.

Why, because too many people think depression, clinical depression, doesn’t really exist, they think it is a showbiz affectation used by actresses who are currently between jobs, or need sympathy or attention.

I know from experience it exists, and I know what a destructive, frightening condition it is. No-one chooses, or welcomes, depression. Depression doesn’t ‘run its course’ like a cold or the flu does, once you have suffered depression, it is with you for life, in one way or another, it never leaves you.

The other thing is that to an outsider, you can’t see depression. You tend to see some of the symptoms, you may see someone who can’t be bothered to get out of bed, someone who has no motivation to do anything. You may see some you decide is a scruff because they do not look after their clothes, their make up, their personal hygiene.

You make judgements, because you are conditioned to do that, down the years, generation after generation has shut the door on mental illness. Historically mental illness in England has been grounds for divorce, grounds to be thrown in debtors prisons, cause for locking away in a padded cell in an asylum with no care.

We are now in the 21^st Century, and thank god we have moved on, but we haven’t really moved that far have we? We can’t talk about mental illness, it is taboo, it is as unwelcome at the dinner table as discussing incest or cannibalism in the family, yet we can talk about loved ones suffering from cancer, cardiac problems, injuries and so on… those things are acceptable conditions.

Although my wife has had acute depression since 2004, and now has vascular dementia, so many people, close family members, cannot bring themselves to say that she has a mental illness… she is just “unwell”. They may describe the symptoms, but to use the words, god no, what would the neighbours think.

The truth is more people will suffer from mental illness than will suffer from cancer, or cardiac illnesses… one in four of us will suffer mental illness at some stage, so wouldn’t it be better to bring it out into the open, talk about it, try to understand it… Don’t think that because you are old, or young, because you are black or because you are white, because you are fat or because you are thin you will not be at risk. Don’t begin to think that being honourable; being religious, being vegetarian or anything will spare you. Mental illness is totally non-discriminatory, every last one of us, regardless of background is susceptible to mental illness. We all know much about cancer, heart attack and so on, unless you have been personally involved in mental illness you have no concept of how destructive it is.

Next time you see someone, or hear of someone, who doesn’t get up in the mornings, who doesn’t wash or use deodorant, who wears ill-fitting dirty clothes, I bet you will judge them. You will condemn them. You will have nothing to do with them. Maybe they wouldn’t want your sympathy, maybe they are simply slobs, but there is a damn good chance that they a lovely people, like you, who are suffering with depression… because that’s something depression does to you.

You lose zest for life, have no motivation… you simply can’t get up and look after your personal hygiene, it is not simply that you are too lazy, you simply cannot do it. Your mind is in a shutdown and doesn’t understand concepts like that; you are simply unaware that the concepts exist.

Despite this person suffering from one of the most damaging conditions known to man, most people will simply judge them; condemn them; they will certainly not understand or accept them, and it simply must end. We must get people to understand about the destructive force of mental illness, to give sufferers, and their families, a chance to have some respite, a break, some relief.

Don’t think either, that mental illness affects only the patient… it affects the whole family, mental illness is never ending. You can have periods of remission, with medication and care you can even control it to an extent. You can’t cure it or escape it though.

I have seen at very close hand how depression destroys people, when it is someone you love, it is very hard to cope with, of course bereavement is difficult to cope with, but most of us understand it and are equipped to deal with it and in the fullness of time get over it. With mental illness the patient is lost to you in many ways, but still alive, still functioning albeit not particularly well. It lasts for ever, you never know when you wake what you are going to face on the new day, or the next hour, maybe your partner will not be able to get out of bed, maybe they will get up and but not know what to do, where to go, where to sit or stand… You cant leave them alone for any time, not if you don’t want to spend the whole time worrying yourself into an early grave, or risk them harming themselves, not necessarily deliberately, but through lack of understanding

As a long term carer for a mentally ill wife, I have been pushed into being a service user myself, I’m lucky because after what I’ve been through I recognize the signs of onset, and I no longer fear the stigma. I am prepared to shout from the rooftops if necessary that I am suffering with depression and take the help and support I need to keep myself going.

I have been in contact, through many mental health activities both in person and via social networking, with so many people who are suffering mental illness who have the strength and courage to talk about it, write about it and even fight for understanding and support. These people are so brave, unless you have been there you will never understand how courageous these people are… how much it takes to publicly state their condition, to try to educate people about it, to provide support to others.

This year I have attended a number of events talking about mental illness, and have had a number of people say that they are sufferers, or carers, but hadn’t realised before, or who had assumed that they were on their own. There are potentially millions of others out there in the same position, suffering quietly, stressed beyond belief, incapable of a proper life but simply cannot accept it, can’t tell anyone about it, so things spiral and get worse.

The reason that most of these people can’t speak about it is shame… shame caused by the stigma which is perpetuated by you, dear reader, who has no understanding, no interest in the sufferings involved. You will continue to judge us, continue to make life difficult for us, continue to think us a third class citizens until you learn.

If it takes you to suffer mental illness to understand, so be it and I’ll be there to support you if need be regardless, but I’d rather you learned about it by opening your minds, by trying to understand, by finally realising the key words in mental illness. The key word is illness. It is a fault in the workings of the human being, just like cancer or the flu… it sdoes not make ius freaks

Please try to listen… please try to understand us and make our lives that little bit more tolerable

Not the Best of Weeks

Well, last week was a pretty damn bad week, it ended with me being severely stressed in a way that hasn’t happened for a while, so I feel I need to write about it. This is not looking for sympathy, what is, simply is, I cant change it, but I have moved on from it.

To make sense of my week I have to recap briefly on my history… My wife has a track record of depression, and became ill again 3 years ago, and has remained in hospital throughout the time. I have known since last October that her illness meant she would never be able to rejoin the community, never be able to come home. I have had time to come to terms with that.

In March we finally got a diagnosis, not a good one, it is vascular dementia, and that we will need to find her a care home. The hospital unit she is in, who have been truly superb throughout the 15 months she has been in that particular unit, is no longer the ideal place for her, and they are working with me to find a suitable home.

We also have a Social Worker (I will henceforth call him Jim, because it is a simple short name, easier than keep saying social worker).

Any, a few weeks ago Jim started looking for a home, we had discussed options, and were looking initially, for homes relatively convenient to where we live, to make it accessible for the family. Nothing was happening, so I contacted a local home, a very prestigious home.

This is now three weeks ago, I got a call from this home, to arrange to visit my wife in hospital to assess her. I don’t know if this was in response to my application or Jims to be fair. Anyway this was arranged for the Tuesday. On Friday Jim told me he was seeking appointments for two other homes, one of which phoned me and the hospital and we arranged an appointment. The other one simply turned up, without morning on the Monday.

On Tuesday we had the first assessment, but the lady had to come back after a funeral, to complete it. Sadly she came back just in time to see my wife laying into, and pummelling, a member of staff, and having to be restrained by thre people, sedated and secluded. When the other assessor arrived a bit later, she was comatose, having just come out of seclusion and being sedated.

Lets call the houses A, B & C. Jim phoned to tell me that B & C had turned her down, and that A had accepted her, he confirmed by email, but unfortunately the email said A had turned her down and B had accepted her.

As A & B are a good 40 to 50 minutes away, I asked if he had considered any more accessible homes. No, he hadn’t.. so I recommended one to him, who assessed her the next day and virtually offered a place.. they accepted that the aggression was connected to some medication that she was no longer taking.

So, eventually, we come to this week… lets start on the Monday.

In the morning we visited this care home, and took my wife’s principal nurse with us, the house was excellent, the greeting from the staff friendly yet professional. However, looking round a care home for your wife, who doesn’t know about it, who knows something is wrong but probably not what, is a fairly miserable exercise… talking about your wife in terms of how much help and support she needs… what the problems are and so on.

Anyway, dropping the nurse off afterwards, I visited my wife, who was in a bad state, very down and subdued and very hard work. Not an pleasant experience

He Tuesday, we had a CPA, everyone involved was there, I had my daughter and my Support worker there with me, and god knows I needed it. I didn’t learn much new, the discussion was amicable, constructive and friendly. What I did learn from the Nurses report was that my wife had been secluded again the previous night, had been in bad state and had to be sedated again.

The meeting progressed, and we all had to discuss, in front of my wife, who looked lost, tearful, frightened throughout, the options around nursing homes, power of attorney and other legal requites as though she was not there.

It also became clear during the CPA that Jim had misled everybody about the homes, none of them knew what he had been talking about and had different ideas of what he had said. At least I was not on my own on that one.

After the CPA, which lasted a good hour, I had the task of going through the Power of Attorney paperwork with her, it is a legal requirement that I do my very best to be sure she understands it. I hope you haven’t had to go through that experience, but if you haven’t, I wonder if you can imagine just how bloody painful this morning was.

Wednesday was a different day. I went out for breakfast with the family, which was delightful, and came back so we could finish relaying the floor in the living room. Now this was a pressure situation as well, because in order to sell the house it became necessary to redecorate, which involved relaying a section of wooden floor. Now this was pretty hard work, as was the decorating, especially as your heart isn’t in the decorating, because you don’t really want to move… I have to for reasons we needn’t go into. But I do not want to. That makes it very tough, very tough indeed.

So, Thursday, I spent al morning, in fact until 3:00pm finishing off the living room just in time for the estate agent to appear and take the new photo of the new look living room.

I then had an hour or so before going off to my mums for dinner. I picked up an email from Jim. He told me that the Care home had now decided not to accept my wife. That was a major blow.

What was worse were his explanations..  he said she had been rejected because she is too young and will soon be back in hospital. Can you imagine what impact that has on someone in this situation. If you can’t, let me tell you… it is bloody devastating, totally devastating and frightening, especially when you can’t get hold of him to ask more details. Why will she be back in hospital? The doctors have never suggested that.. what’s going on?

He also said that the hospital were pushing to get her discharge to a home in days… so having only the home, whether it be A or B, which is totally inaccessible, and I hadn’t seen because I didn’t know until now which one it was, I was in a very stressed state… anxious, worried, frightened, couldn’t think straight, couldn’t sleep at night.

On the Friday morning I contacted the home. The things that Jim had said were not true. They had turned her down but for perfectly valid and acceptable reasons. The home were also disappointed that I had got the message in an email, he said he would have phoned me, but Jim had promised to do so… he didn’t

I mailed Jim next day to put my views forward, maybe none too gently… but having put me through this after the events leading up to it was too much for me.

I had a call from the hospital who confirmed that there was not the urgent pressure for a discharge, they, like me, simply want the best conclusion for my wife.

I went to see the manager of the unit Jim works at, it was someone I have met previously and worked with on a project, so we had a fairly constructive relationship and conversation.

It seems that Jim did not know that the homes he had selected were so far out, and didn’t actually know any closer. I suggested he may have access to a map, or have noticed when he went out to the house. The explanation was simply that he normally works in London. Doesn’t change things in my view… he should know this stuff, or at least check it out.

Anyway, not a very good week, but don’t think that this was all that was going on…

I learned that a dear friend has a potentially serious illness, I had regular calls from the hospital… My wife had been secluded 4 times in the week, twice for attacking members of staff, once for attacking another patient, and once for attacking a visitor.

On top of that the incontinence was getting worse again…

And finally, what I think broke my heart… was that whilst I was with her one afternoon, a nurse came in and said she had found this in her sink… it was most of her engagement ring… but there was a large section of the ‘ring’ bit missing, so it was just a semi circle… the first time since she had it it had been off her finger.. and she was not aware of it.

Yes, I know others have had worse weeks than this, I know that to some a week like this would have been a bit of a relief… but for me, already exhausted, emotionally, physically and mentally, the pressures and stresses of this week just were too much for me… I couldn’t take another like this.

A Blessing or a Curse?

I recently read a really fascinating and thought provoking blog, posing the question is mental illness always a curse. My first reaction was to say that of course it is always a curse, what good can come out of mental illness?

It was with some scepticism that I read on, but by the end the writer had made some really great points, and left me thinking about the subject, and I now realise that it is true… mental illness is not always a curse.

It can be of course, for my wife, mental illness has metamorphosed into dementia, which has effectively ended her life, and there is nothing about her condition to dispel the thought that mental illness is a curse. However, for many many people, the mental illness does not take such a drastic course, there are lucid spells between attacks and indeed recovery.

For the majority then, where there are lucid moments, or recovery, there are often life changing revelations, of course it doesn’t feel like that, but there really are.

For an individual who has been driven into depression by the pressures of modern life, the illness robs you of all self esteem and motivation, but when the condition lifts you see clearly that there are limits to what you can do, and you get new priorities which accommodate the risks of your condition, When this happens your lifestyle may change, but I promise you it will be better, because you will value things so much more because you wont be racing from one thing to the next, you will understand what is important in life.

I’ve had depression, I’m one of the lucky ones because having watched my wife for so long, I recognised the symptoms in me, I don’t feel the stigma (again, I’m a lucky one) and was able to go to the right people to ask for, and get, help before it took control. I did however go far enough down the road to have a clear understanding of what she was going through, what so many others are going through, and that allows me to understand, and hopefully to support.

I have also learned much about myself through this period, in my youthful hippy days, we all spent an eternity trying to learn about ourselves, but all we really learned was how to roll a good joint and make the most of it… didn’t really learn much except how pretty the colours were all around.

Going through mental illness, and trying to help my wife has taught me so much, I have been down so low, but have had some wonderful support to prop me up when I’ve needed it… which has been frequent, and I have learned much about mental illness, about people and about myself.

This has led me into a new life, working with Mental Health Support Groups and the Adult Mental Health Service, without it I probably wouldn’t be on twitter (some of you may see that as being an improvement mind you…).

I have made many new friends and find that when I go to events and meetings, I am welcomed, respected, and dare I say looked up to… it has done so much for my self esteem and confidence. I have been spokesman at events, I have talked for 90 minutes to a group of carers, attended the Care Crisis Lobby in London and harangued my MP’s PA for nearly an hour… I couldn’t have done any of that before.

I am not saying I am glad about the mental ilness… there is not an hour goes by when I wonder if I could have done something to help Jane, to prevent this bloody awful situation… I pushed for hospital admission for her, and will never lose the feeling of guilt over that when I think of the look of betrayal on her face… But I am probably now in control enough to think I could have lost her through cancer, accident or a million other causes, none of which would have put me through what we’ve been through, and I would right now be sitting here, lost, lonely (lonelier I suppose) and without friend or support.

The fact that she had a mental illness has taught me so much and opened a door to a new life, a life that 5 years ago I couldn’t have foreseen, but which is bringing me great satisfaction in the brighter moments between the fits of apathy, turmoil and misery I am still experiencing

For a sufferer, I am primarily a carer, so many people I know have been able to adapt in recovery or remission, accepted the limitations, driven themselves less blindly, and appreciate more what they have, appreciate the really valuable things in life.

If more people could have that enlightenment, see the same things that mental illnesses have shown many of us, then maybe, just maybe, the world may improve for everybody.

Thank you for the constant inspiration… you know who you are