A Reflection Of Mania

You may be familiar with the term manic depression where a typical sufferer's moods shifts from manic to depressive in episodes, often triggered by stress, but also brought on by the fact that they are, just manic depressive. 

As with most labels, it has been given a trendier name.. bipolar disorder. I prefer the old one, it does exactly what it says on the tin. This one somewhat suggests the bisexuality of a polar bear.

Following a recent manic episode I am currently going through the usual "reflective" phase with my psychiatrist. "Why didn't you ring me and tell me you were manic?" The thing is, the early stages of mania the high phase creeps up on me and to be honest, it's feels good, very good, it's a bit like winning the lottery, so why would I then tear my ticket up? Or winning Britain's Got Talent then going back to the bleak night shifts and day time TV. 

Then, when I've reached the manic phase - possibly because I feel so fabulous I think I don't need my lithium and stop taking it - I've lost sense of what's normal and what's not. I thought it completely acceptable to call the Police with a rambled monologue about how amazing they are and do they know why I've been banned from uniformdating.com, and pop to the shops for a bottle of cava and come back the following day with four hamsters. But alarm bells starting ringing (and cameras flashing) when I fell in the Canal head first, trying to run along the bank at full speed whilst putting a pair of tights on.

I AM aware that I'm a liability when manic, ironically the hideous lows that follow are accompanied by self loathing which makes the reflection period a bit like watching an Eastenders Christmas special with your eye lids staples back whilst sitting on a block of ice. 

Now, I live in Hackney in East London. You may remember last July's riots kicking off here on TV and during this time I was amidst my last (prior to above) manic episode and had to be locked indoors by a concerned partner as I was making hundreds of lemon curd sandwiches to take down to the crime scene for the Police, who by the way tend to star in my episodes. But people round here are used to it, we have the highest statistics of people with mental health problems, and if you went to the Museum of Hackney you will discover how many asylums there used to be here. Locals don't even cross the road when they see me coming anymore.

But when I lived in North London they weren't so understanding. One hot summers day I was roller-skating around Regents Park near Camden listening to my NOW Christmas Album on my ipod, and attempted a daylight disco move thinking I was on par with Torvill and Dean after a gram of cocaine, and I went flying. A thirty two year old woman face down, limbs spread out like a star fish and crying like a four year old — those harmonic wails — and a nearby woman who watched the whole thing applied the breaks on the wheelchair she was pushing and rushed over and said breathlessly "Just letting you know that you still have your price tag on your top!" Oh the concern..

So, I make a list - there are many lists in my "reflection" folder, there is even a list of lists. I write.. 

"How do I know when I'm high or getting manic?"  

Um... 

Well...

I don't sleep - a combination of being too excited about stuff, usually imagined stuff, I fantasize more than I think at this stage.

I don't eat - a perk, and one that Woman  magazine haven't cottoned onto yet, The Mania Diet, fifties housewives were given amphetamine based slimming pills and hoovered all day, I guess it's a bit like that.

I drink more alcohol than usual - psychiatrists call it "self medicating" I call it " I want to drink a bottle of wine by four o' clock and dance round the living room to the the TV adverts because my hands are shaking too much to put a record on.

Spending - and what with rodents also starring in my episodes, at one point I had sixteen guinea pigs and twelve rabbits in a maisonette. 

I'm likely to hit on anyone that stands still for long enough - for that reason a trip to Madam Tussauds is out of the question. 

So the above list being my cue to make that call to my psychiatrist. Hmm… maybe I'll just make him some lemon curd sandwiches instead.

To read this in The Huffington Post UK click here..
http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/kerry-hudson/bipolar-disorder-a-reflection-of-mania_b_1550097.html

"Mummy, What's Manic Depression?"

Trying to explain manic depression to a four old can't be easy. 
Trying to explain it to a pet guinea pig is near impossible. They couldn't even understand that the reason I let them stay up last night is because it's a bank holiday. 

New York, Brick Lane and ASDA Meat Aisle

Today somebody asked me for an example of a time when I was just a bit  - as in still in control - manic but totally inappropriate. I literally had to pull one out of a bag as there are so many but as we were enjoying a dirty burger this afternoon in Brick Lane my mind jumped straight to the meat aisle in ASDA when a close relative called. I told her that I was in a hospital in New York as a result of a drunken fall during a hen bash, but because we were only away for the weekend I didn't bother with insurance and the doctors couldn't stitch my gaping head wound up without $3,949 and could she transfer it over. I thought she'd appreciate it. She had a panic attack and had to go to hospital herself.

I call it foot in mouth disease, where your brain can't catch up with your mouth.

Surely she would've noticed a local ring tone? Unless the meat aisle in ASDA is a porthole to a parallel place, it happens.

Besides, $3,949 in sterling is less, around £2,469.20 .

You get good burgers and other fun food down the strip where is Cafe 1001 and The Big Chill Bar. For the record Rough Trade is down there too. (See what I did there?)

I have ASDA deliver to my door now. Much safer.

Climbing The Mania Ladder.. in Hackney Central

Many GP's are still unaware that prescribing anti-depressants to patients with bipolar disorder is like giving them cocaine, unless they're taking a mood stabilizer at the same time. It can send us high, and into a rapid cycling frenzy. Ideally only psychiatrists should be allowed to prescribe but then we'd need more of them. And now I'm actually starting to bore myself so I'll get to the point.

It's even a risk taking anti-depressants if you're on mood-stabilizers too and yesterday my CPN (community practice nurse - they come to your house and you can watch The Bill together and eat cake) said to me "You must tell me if feel like you're getting high" Of course. "It's really important that you don't get too high" I know. And I do know, but I can't help thinking it's a bit like... 

When you try on the perfect dress, it gives you the sexiest shape, brings out a glistening skin tone, there's one left and it's half price. How easy would it be to put back?

Or after a long week of staying late at work you order a bottle of crisp dry white wine and when the waiter pours a drop for you to try it feels like diamonds on your tongue. And by the way it's complimentary because you complain all the time. Would you send it back??

Or you meet THE one after three years of Perfectmatch.com subscriptions, they tick ALL your boxes, you've met three times and each time they get hotter and funnier and they've just booked you both a weekend on a barge (by the way you love barges). Would you knock it on the head???

But unfortunately, dresses get stuff spilt down them, wine gives you a hangover and  relationships cause heartache, so, soon as I feel the need to get the ladder, and tie bunting to every lamp post in Hackney Central I'll let my CPN know. 

And then take his cake away.

Kim Noble

If you haven't already you should follow this here gentleman's blog. His dark and playful sense of humour makes me smile and he's on my fantasy Family Fortunes team along with Noel Edmunds and the Met Police. It was Kim's brother Yan that set this blog up for me, otherwise I'd be writing my thoughts (posts) on paper and putting them through peoples letter boxes still.

http://kimnoble.wordpress.com/

These are a few of my least favourite things..

People who attach trellis to their outside wall without plants.

A really good song followed by a shit b-side.

Musicians that have their photo taken with their guitar whilst they're not even playing it (even worse - not even plugged in).

People that show off their posh new home (that daddy paid for - of course if mine did the same I'd delete this).

People who's first question isn't " What's your name" but "What do you do?".

People who know someone who knows Eddie Reader.. and think it makes them look  cool.

People who won't get on a bus because other people are on it.

People who think by soaking filthy pots in water overnight will clean them.

Songwriters who put too many syllables in lines.

Poems that don't rhyme.. it's Prose!

People who stand at the bar in pubs chatting so you can't get served.

Women who go out clubbing in winter in vest tops and no coat - it costs a quid to hang in up! A pack of ten beechams lemsips is four quid!

Skinny girls who count calories.

People that have a new born baby and update status before cutting the umbilical cord.

Bar staff and bouncers that go into work on their night off and just stand there in the way.

People that wear hats and scarfs when it's not cold.

People that buy fruit slices from M&S when they can do it themselves because "It's convenient" (My mum buts pre grated cheese, I have even seen pre-packed frozen jacket potatoes and cheese in her freezer "for emergencies")

Adverts that lie.. Arial washing powder used to show  a stained piece of cloth "The old Arial" followed by a bright white piece of cloth "The new Arial" then six months later, a new advert with a strained piece of cloth "the old (new) Arial" (where was the stain on the last advert?) followed by a bright white piece of cloth "The new(er) Arial" repeated every six months until someone - wasn't me - complained that they were full of shit.

Letter to Boris Johnson

Dear Boris Johnson

Having waited on a freezing train platform at 7.30am for 45 minutes whilst train after train got cancelled, when one finally turn up it was so rammed I got pushed off. When the next one eventually turned up I got elbowed out the way and couldn't get on. (I was there ages before them).
As a result I missed my transport to Crufts at the NEC which I have been looking forward to since the beginning of time (I'm wearing my favourite dress with owls on). I really wanted to see dogs today.
I hate you.
Boris Gardiner is much nicer.

Fuming, of London E9