I feel tainted.
I feel tainted by this illness, tarnished somehow. There is no somehow, I know how.
This week my telly watching has centred on soap-operas Eastenders and Hollyoaks and by goodness there is a hefty dose of the mentals in all of them. Spoilers ahead
I have been watching Eastenders increasingly often as a result of what seemed to be a fairly accurate and sensitive portrayal of one of the characters (Stacey) coming to terms that they have bipolar. It all got a bit too soapy when said character jumped into a grave. This past week sees an even heftier dose of soapiness with Stacey getting increasinly paranoid, delusional and psychotic culminating in a overdose, vomit-them-up, tell your ex-husband you need them, go home, be told your are getting sectioned, bite a police officer, fall to the ground and bloody your hand, get dragged into a police car screaming your ex-husbands name as he drives off with his new partner to start a life in a new country.
Hollyoaks seems to doing all the mental ill health storylines in one week. Young and unmedicated schizophrenic Newt runs away after mistakingly thinking he attacked someone; he goes on to mug an old-lady being jeered on by the voice of Eli, finds refuge in a warehouse with a fellow emo Rae, battles Eli throughout the week, turns out Rae is another voice in his head. This culminates in Eli trying to convince Newt not to jump from a crane, Rae persuading him to do so, Newt “killing” Eli by pushing him from the crane and then jumping after Rae – Newt survives and it seems likely that Eli and Rae will too until Newt is recovered. Oh and there was a suicide attempt last week, maybe a pseudo-suicide, made by a girl who accidentally killed her ex or something (I missed the episode). And Jake, the son of Newt’s foster mother, has been released from a secure unit after having a mental breakdown last year and trying to kill himself and his son (I think his sone, not sure) and trying to rape his wife. Jake doesn’t adjust all that well and is generally a bit wobbly and violent.
Right now you are probably, think this is all good and well but that is hyper-fiction, melodrama. And you’d be right. But all good fiction has some truth at its core.
As is there custom during these types of storyline there is an announcement over the credits for people who may have been affected by the content. My mum who caught part of Wednesday’s episode of Hollyoaks asked if I ever got that bad. That bad was in reference to Newt arguing with a friend about medication whilst Eli was goading him. I told my mum that I don’t have schizophrenia. Last night I came donwstairs to watch Eastenders and made a joke about watching the gloom unfurl, my mum told me I was being callous when I should be sympathetic to someone going through what I have gone through. I told my mum that I haven’t jumped into graves.
Thing is though, in those twisted little misery pits that have been the storylines for two major soaps this past week I can see myself. I understand those intrusive voices that Newt experiences, the voices are my own but they are there. I understand the agitation, visions, impulsivity, fear and hallucinations that Stacey experiences.
I have never jumped from a crane or been wrestled by two police-officers but I have been close. Closer than I’d admit to family.
I have contemplated jumping from bridges for far too long. Taking a bus to the West End still freaks me out because it means crossing a bridge that for too long played a part in suicidal ideation and on a couple of occasions almost acts, white-knuckled railings close. I have taken overdoses, spent nights in hospital, been entirely convinced that I’d actually managed it, twice, and tied an embarassment of nooses.
I have found it impossible to sit still, had voices clamouring in my head for attention but all saying the same thing, seen things that are not there, done things I shouldn’t have, pushed people away who were trying to help me.
The programmes were horrible watching because although the events were melodramatic, the symptoms were not.
I am ashamed of the things I have done but only when I am caught idly. What is an ever-present worry is the fear of the descent. Whilst agitated and depressed or manic, maybe both, I am not sure, I pushed my girlfriend down some stairs. She was unharmed. But what if there is a next time.
It feels like there is a next time. A storm-brewing. Voices in my head clearing their throats ready to shout.
I hope not. I pray not.
Posted in health
I feel tainted.
I feel tainted by this illness, tarnished somehow. There is no somehow, I know how.
This week my telly watching has centred on soap-operas Eastenders and Hollyoaks and by goodness there is a hefty dose of the mentals in all of them. Spoilers ahead
I have been watching Eastenders increasingly often as a result of what seemed to be a fairly accurate and sensitive portrayal of one of the characters (Stacey) coming to terms that they have bipolar. It all got a bit too soapy when said character jumped into a grave. This past week sees an even heftier dose of soapiness with Stacey getting increasinly paranoid, delusional and psychotic culminating in a overdose, vomit-them-up, tell your ex-husband you need them, go home, be told your are getting sectioned, bite a police officer, fall to the ground and bloody your hand, get dragged into a police car screaming your ex-husbands name as he drives off with his new partner to start a life in a new country.
Hollyoaks seems to doing all the mental ill health storylines in one week. Young and unmedicated schizophrenic Newt runs away after mistakingly thinking he attacked someone; he goes on to mug an old-lady being jeered on by the voice of Eli, finds refuge in a warehouse with a fellow emo Rae, battles Eli throughout the week, turns out Rae is another voice in his head. This culminates in Eli trying to convince Newt not to jump from a crane, Rae persuading him to do so, Newt “killing” Eli by pushing him from the crane and then jumping after Rae – Newt survives and it seems likely that Eli and Rae will too until Newt is recovered. Oh and there was a suicide attempt last week, maybe a pseudo-suicide, made by a girl who accidentally killed her ex or something (I missed the episode). And Jake, the son of Newt’s foster mother, has been released from a secure unit after having a mental breakdown last year and trying to kill himself and his son (I think his sone, not sure) and trying to rape his wife. Jake doesn’t adjust all that well and is generally a bit wobbly and violent.
Right now you are probably, think this is all good and well but that is hyper-fiction, melodrama. And you’d be right. But all good fiction has some truth at its core.
As is there custom during these types of storyline there is an announcement over the credits for people who may have been affected by the content. My mum who caught part of Wednesday’s episode of Hollyoaks asked if I ever got that bad. That bad was in reference to Newt arguing with a friend about medication whilst Eli was goading him. I told my mum that I don’t have schizophrenia. Last night I came donwstairs to watch Eastenders and made a joke about watching the gloom unfurl, my mum told me I was being callous when I should be sympathetic to someone going through what I have gone through. I told my mum that I haven’t jumped into graves.
Thing is though, in those twisted little misery pits that have been the storylines for two major soaps this past week I can see myself. I understand those intrusive voices that Newt experiences, the voices are my own but they are there. I understand the agitation, visions, impulsivity, fear and hallucinations that Stacey experiences.
I have never jumped from a crane or been wrestled by two police-officers but I have been close. Closer than I’d admit to family.
I have contemplated jumping from bridges for far too long. Taking a bus to the West End still freaks me out because it means crossing a bridge that for too long played a part in suicidal ideation and on a couple of occasions almost acts, white-knuckled railings close. I have taken overdoses, spent nights in hospital, been entirely convinced that I’d actually managed it, twice, and tied an embarassment of nooses.
I have found it impossible to sit still, had voices clamouring in my head for attention but all saying the same thing, seen things that are not there, done things I shouldn’t have, pushed people away who were trying to help me.
The programmes were horrible watching because although the events were melodramatic, the symptoms were not.
I am ashamed of the things I have done but only when I am caught idly. What is an ever-present worry is the fear of the descent. Whilst agitated and depressed or manic, maybe both, I am not sure, I pushed my girlfriend down some stairs. She was unharmed. But what if there is a next time.
It feels like there is a next time. A storm-brewing. Voices in my head clearing their throats ready to shout.
I hope not. I pray not.
Posted in health