I've had a day of feeling useless. I'm still grappling with the implications of having a serious mental health problem and of accepting the limitations that this brings.
I think my discomfort lies somewhere in the gap between what I'd like to do and what I'm actually capable of. The thing is you see, I don't always feel unwell. There are times when I feel fairly, dare I say it, "normal." These periods might last a few minutes, a few hours, a day, several days or if I'm really lucky, a few weeks. When I'm having a 'better' spell, I'm tempted to plan extravagant or challenging things for the future - such as having another go at the PhD I've already tried twice to complete but had to abandon due to my fluctuating mental health. When I'm feeling better, my rose-tinted spectacles encourage me to think I'll always feel this well. Unfortunately, that hasn't been the case and after a few weeks or months of attempting something, I've had to grudgingly admit defeat once my symptoms have returned. This has been a difficult pattern for me to come to terms with. Although I say 'pattern,' I haven't yet worked out the ebbs and flows of my condition.
I have to say though, it makes planning and organising things bloody difficult. Committing to social activities like getting together with friends or going to a gig can be tricky. I might feel well when I'm invited and enthusiastically agree to attend, only to be feeling dreadful come the time of the event. Committing to a job would be nigh on impossible for now, because my mental health just isn't reliable enough.
I think I now understand something of how my friends with physical illnesses might feel. Just because they can do something today doesn't mean they can automatically do the same tomorrow. Likewise for me. Cancelling commitments at short notice (even when I'd really love to do the thing in question) has become the norm. It's incredibly frustrating and I'm often caught between what would probably be good for my spirits and what my mind needs.
In a burst of enthusiasm a few months ago, I joined a choir, a writing group and I started going swimming. I had to drop the writing group when I became too unwell to continue with it. I've managed to keep up with choir and I'm not doing too badly with the swimming. I manage to walk Barney at least three days a week and I've had the boys at home for the past six weeks without incident. So it isn't all bad. The challenge for me is to work out at what point I might add to these activities without overloading myself and becoming ill again.
Despite these positive steps, the prospect of having to forego paid work indefinitely due to ill health feels pretty bleak. Similarly, the idea of never being able to complete my studies feels punitive. Voluntary work will probably help, once I'm well enough to make a regular commitment. Although I'm able to write a bit, I'm still unable to sit through a TV programme or read a book. Music is my salvation; my Spotify takes an absolute daily hammering.
I started this post by saying I'd been feeling useless today. I think writing this has helped me to see it's not uselessness, but frustration that I'm feeling. I feel I have no option but to get used to this reduced kind of life I'm living. At least I'm living, though. It's no exaggeration to say that I've been lucky enough to come out the other side of what could have been the end. I'm trying to be thankful and see the positives but on days like today, it isn't always easy.
