Daily Archives: December 28, 2014

Remember we had no choice as to whether we had this illness or not. However, we do have a choice as to how we react to it. So the illness does not define us. Our strength and fortitude in living with this illness and fighting this illness is what defines us. Never forget this, never. Strength!

A man gets put into a private lunatic asylum, he publishes a book about it in 1879 …

The especial experience which I have to tell has nothing especially painful, and is, perhaps, none the worse for that. I have nothing to write of dark rooms or strait-waistcoats or whippings, or to reveal such secrets of the prison-house as will make each particular hair to stand on end by the telling. My lines were cast in pleasant places.

The man was Herman Charles Merivale and fair enough though, he really didn’t want to be there. A gander at his wiki tells us that his doctor sent him to Australia to be treated for depression and that by the time he got back, his lawyer had nicked all his money. That can’t have helped his level of peevishness much. But I digress.

During those months I had the advantage of living in a castellated mansion, in one of the prettiest parts of England, which I shall hate to my dying day, with a constant variety of attendants, who honoured me by sleeping in my room, sometimes as many as three at a time. I was dying in delirium and prostration, simply, and wasted to a shadow; consequently voted ‘violent,’ as the best way out of it.

Hmmm.

With carriages to take me out for drives, closed upon wet days, open on fine ; cricket and bowls and archery for the summer, and a pack of harriers to follow across country in the winter ; with the head of the establishment, who lived in a sweet little cottage with his family, to give me five o’clock tea on the Sundays; with five refections a day whereof to partake, with my fellow-lunatics, if so disposed, in my private sitting-room when I could not stand it; with a private chapel for morning prayers or Sunday service, the same companions and attendants for a congregation, and some visitors who would come to look at us; with little evening parties for whist or music amongst ‘ourselves,’ and a casual conjuror or entertainer from town to distract us sometimes for an evening; with an occasional relative to come and see me, beg me not to get excited, and depart as soon as possible,—what more could man desire ? As I look at this last sentence of mine it reads like an advertisement.

It does rather, but no …

Death-in-life did I say ? It is worse ; for it is a life-in-life, worse than any conceivable form of death.

He started off by asking, in essence, what is mad and what is sane anyway?’, but very rapidly decided there was a big difference and that he could spot a true madman immediately. And he was bitterly and thoroughly unimpressed with being in their company.

To his credit, he did call for reform, quoting Hamlet in the process, “O, reform it altogether.”

Good grief this dude whined and whined throughout the book. He made everything about himself, even a guy who’d been locked away for 40 fricken years got zero sympathy and straight down to the usual rusty woe is me I ain’t nevah gettin’ out type speech. It’s not fair, I’m not mad, I’m just an extreme hypochondriac wah wah wahhh yadda yadda … all of it in a dry and verbose meander of a manner. The only reason I didn’t hurl the book violently from me, is that I read it in digital format. (You can too, it’s available all over the place, at a sensible price of no money at all.)

In 1887, journalist Nellie Bly went undercover into an asylum, specifically to discover and report on conditions and then to work for reforms. You can download that free too and you will find it a far better use of your time. Not only did she go to a seriously unpleasant place, she hung on to empathy and humanity. Ten Days in a Madhouse – enjoy the corset ad in the beginning too.

I read some other reviews of Merivale’s book that praised it for its account of conditions and treatments back then, but it’s dense and self-indulgent prose to wade through and besides, there are plenty other books on the subject to download free at the Gutenberg Project, Open Library and so forth.

Well, I’m pleased to announce that we emerged from Christmas relatively unscathed.

Of course, Hubster received a Nerf gun from his Secret Santa, then promptly shot my sister in the eye which resulted in a Christmas Eve trip to the doctor. Although this was vaguely traditional as Christmas isn’t Christmas in our household if someone doesn’t end up in the Emergency Room. Master D announced to the table in a rather stern manner that “we don’t eat poo’s, only dinners” (not particularly complimentary of my food, I felt). Mum decided to back her computer up which somehow resulted the kind of chaos only my family can achieve; deep and meaningful discussions on the best method of backing up, accusations of “nephelious” content, and despair when the back up was predicted to take 67 days. And no one seemed to appreciate my helpful renditions of “Back that Thang Up” by Juvenile.

But all in all, it was a good Christmas. I didn’t poison myself. For that matter, I didn’t poison anyone else. No one poisoned me. To get to the point, no vomiting or morphine based drugs were required. And I only had one panic attack. Unscathed.

Now I have to face the fact that in under two weeks I am going back to university. My emotional response to this is variable, but almost always resides on a five point scale ranging from “Slightly Dubious” to “Holy Crap”

Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE what I do. I love writing. I love researching. I’m passionate about reducing mental illness stigma. I sure as hell want to earn my title of “doctor”. I’ve worked damn hard to get to the point I am at.

But I’m scared.

You see, I started my PhD last year. I was given a scholarship that only nine others were offered. I was told my by supervisors and other academic staff that I was talented and could go far in the industry. I was invited to present at the national conference in my first six months which is HUGE.

And then I got sick, spent five months in hospital, and had to take the rest of the year off. I had to bow out of the conference (although my talk was still presented by my supervisor). While I was having ECT I couldn’t even remember what my thesis was on. Now I have to go back into the office. Say “hi” to all the people I haven’t seen for a year. And somehow pick up where I left of. It is incredibly daunting.

And on top of undertaking a full-time PhD, which is, I’m assuming, challenging at the best of times. I have to do it in half the time due to difficulties in childcare arrangements. I currently have three days a week to achieve what my colleagues do in five or six. I also have to factor in, not one, but two chronic illnesses. I also have a three year old. Just to save time here: “yes”I have thought about going part time, “no” it is not possible without forfeiting my scholarship and putting my family into a inferior financial position.

The thing is, I keep worrying. I had terrible side effects from ECT. What if my mind won’t work the way it used to? What if I get sick again? What if I let everyone down? And here is the big one: What if I am unable to achieve what I have wanted to do since I was about 12 years old?

I did, in a particularly rebellious moment, decide to pack in the PhD and become a Fudge Master instead. I like making fudge. People like eating it. And It may or may not be an uncracked industry. I decided my business would be called “MotherFudger” and I would sell my stash at the local markets. Unfortunately my dream was cut short when I realised there was already a “MotherFudger” out there (well, many actually. But we won’t go into that). I also worked out that even if I heavily overpriced my fudge my profit margin would probably put me under the poverty line. So that idea, in short, was “fudged” from the get go.

So with Plan B knocked off the list, it is back to Plan A. I’ve thought about and how I will handle it, and all that does is make me incredibly stressed. So I’ve come up with three basic PhD rules:

1) Take each day at a time and don’t put too much pressure on yourself
2) No degree is more important than your physical and mental health
3) No degree is more important than your son and family

I also came up with a reminder:

Do your best, but if it doesn’t work out you are not a failure. You can always go back to the degree in the future.

So I’m getting my laptop in order. Rereading my notes. Boxing up data to take into the office. And after all this time I’m going to go back to what I started.