Pink & Blue Mummyland

Pink and blue parenting through pink and blue moods….

Depression

Sometimes people ask me what depression feels like, and this is what I say.

Depression is like a cat burglar – it creeps up behind ready to steal your most precious things, and although you see the shadow from behind it doesn’t occur to you that it might leap. And yet when it does you realise it’s been behind you for weeks. You started off running away from it, but as time goes on you get tired and can’t run as fast, and it catches up, jumps and covers you completely.

Depression doesn’t make me sad. I cry a lot more and at much smaller things – and at nothing. I cry a lot in self-pity – if only I were good at something, talented in some way. I wanted to do so much with my life – depression makes me think nothing I do is worth anything. But sadness isn’t the main character in my depression drama.

I spend hours asking myself what the point is of anything. The lethargy of inaction, giving up aiming to do anything productive because it won’t do anything anyway. When I’m ok I can see the ripples of my actions spread across the water of my everyday being. When I’m depressed there are no ripples. Every activity drops dead in the water, and I wonder why I bother doing it in the first place.

Depression makes me nearly scared. If I had the mental energy I’d be scared of everything, but as it is I don’t have the energy of thought to get properly frightened about the state of the world, because I know if I do it’ll be overwhelming.

The main fear of my depression is the fear of being found out. I feel the dread of having done something wrong, but I have no idea what it is. I feel like an imposter in my own life. A phoney, pretending to be normal when I’m not, but also knowing that I’m actually making a big fuss about nothing – why do I give my experience such gravity when everyone else has just as hard a time of it?

I feel guilty all the time – I have no good reason for feeling the way I do. So many people have so much more reason to be depressed.

None of this is really a response to real life. I can see that it’s not reactive. I know it’s my brain going screwy again, and that I need to do something about it, but I just don’t want to. I don’t want to admit that it’s managed to engulf me again. If I pretend it’s not there it might go away…

Will it…?

 

 

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Anxiety

Someone asked me what anxiety was like the other day, and it’s something I find hard to explain. But it goes something like this:

You wake up to a cup of tea and cards and cuddles, then have a wonderful morning out as a family. After an afternoon chilling out, you have a takeaway followed by snuggling on the sofa with a film. Then an evening with the hubster and cats, eating mini eggs and watching crappy telly before going to bed. Hubby falls asleep.

Then suddenly your chest feels tight, and you have to go and check on the doors are locked and make sure the children are still breathing. You try to pray and distract yourself but you can’t stop thinking that one day you may be without all the things that are important and you’ve no idea when or how that might happen and it all feels too much. After a perfect day all you can think is that you might never have that again, and the only way to start breathing again is to take tablets and hope you sleep.

That’s what anxiety is like.

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Scared of the Sun

This post is related to my previous post Fear of the Fog. I realise that the titles may now come across as slightly cheesy, but what can I say – I’m an alliteration junkie (please comment below with other words for ‘junkie’ that start with ‘a’…)

This past weekend I have had the joy of going away on our church’s women’s weekend. We had 70 women all in one place, being challenged by some amazing talks and taking part in some inspiring worship.

I also managed to have some relaxed and elongated time with my best friends, Beauty ICE and Lawyer ICE. Our normal prayer times are odd hours, grabbed from between jobs and school runs, so it was lovely to have some proper conversations, intense sharing, and laid back company with colouring books, knitting, and large bars of Galaxy chocolate.

On the Saturday, Beauty ICE and I went for a walk around the grounds of the conference centre, chatting and reminiscing. During our last women’s weekend away I was in the middle of a full blown nervous breakdown as I swung quickly and wildly from hypomania to depression. Beauty ICE (who from now on I’m just going to refer to as Natalya because it’s easy and there’s now no reason not to) was the person who bore the brunt of supporting me at that point, and I can categorically state that I was not fun to be with. My brain had suddenly swung into a major low before getting over the high – the result was all the negative self talk that comes with depression, but at four times the speed. It was hideous.

So this time, I had huge reason to be thankful for my stable state of mind. We walked, thanked God for the change, and had fun whilst we walked. We laughed and we yelled and we let our hair down with gay abandon, and arrived for dinner rosy cheeked and giggly, ready to eat, drink (juice) and be merry. For the first time in a long time I felt more than ok – I felt good.

But bipolar is never far away. I can never forget that it’s there, and it’s still not been long enough for me to relax and let my guard down. By the time we got to the evening meeting I was in panic mode. What if this was hypomania? Playing on swings, running through puddles and throwing snowballs isn’t exactly normal behaviour for me, and I didn’t even notice. The more I thought about it, the more frightened I became. I was on the verge of phoning every medic I knew just to check whether I should be doubling my medication, getting to A&E, checking myself in somewhere. Somewhere along the line, bipolar stole the fun.

Fortunately, sitting between my ICE ladies is the safest place to be. I can stress, I can cry, I can talk about the same things over and over again, and they never get stressed out about “what it might mean”. By the end of the session I was fine, and headed off to the team quiz in my normal, fiercely competitive way.

But it never goes. I like to think that one day I’ll be able to stop that level of overreaction and get to the stage where I can enjoy the good days and sit through the bad days without panic of relapse. But there is a fine line between self-awareness and paranoia, and whilst the former is sensible and necessary for continued health, the latter steals the joy, reminding me that I will never be normal again.

This post doesn’t have quite the happy ending I’d hoped, but it’s real. I’m coming to terms with the idea that this is what life is like now.

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Fear of the fog

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It doesn’t take much to worry me when it comes to my mental health.

Today I feel low. I feel unmotivated, unable to concentrate, like I’ll never manage to achieve anything that’s of worth, and altogether too exhausted to go up to bed. Staying awake into the night and writing long diatribes is a key sign that Churchill’s famous black dog might be following close behind me. I find myself too scared to stop writing and go to bed, because then I might think, and that could lead anywhere. Or I might find myself completely unable to think, which is even worse.

The thing is, the fear of it can be just as bad as the actual thing. The memory of having been so ill not all that long ago (eighteen months can feel like forever or yesterday) makes me hyper alert to any possible symptom. The thought of being that unwell again induces a level of anxiety I normally only experience in an episode of depression, so I end up on a roundabout of doubt – am I anxious about becoming depressed, or anxious because I’m depressed?

As is always my key tactic, I try and work my way back to see if there is an actual cause for feeling low. I search the calendar for hormone surges or forgotten traumatic anniversaries. I look back over Facebook and Twitter to see what might have nudged me off kilter – social media can be cruel in its reminders of what I haven’t done or become. If I can find a solid reason why I might feel like mud, then there’s more of a hope that it will pass without effect, that it is just a normal bad day, like normal people have.

There’s nothing like experiencing what normal people experience to remind you that you’re not actually normal. In a bad few days a normal person can curl up, eat chocolate, and watch a movie that provides an excuse for a good cry. For me, any longer than a couple of days and I start getting antsy.

So, I start putting things in place. I stop listening to the news, and exchange sad Joni Mitchell music for something brighter. I make sure I go out, even if it’s just to the supermarket cafe, so that my four walls don’t become overbearing. I get up, I get dressed, I eat – I make myself do all the things that most days I hardly notice myself doing. I talk to friends – if my best friends don’t hear from me for a day, they come knocking.

It’s an effort trying not to get depressed when depression is one of the things you most fear.

But who knows, it might all be better tomorrow.

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Things I’ve learnt from my new friend.

This week, a hello-how are you-goodbye relationship with another school run mum has turned into a proper full blown friendship. And she only lives two doors down, which makes it doubly fab.

We were standing in her front garden a couple of weeks ago, having a conversation about someone, and she made a comment – “depression’s a bitch.” It sounded like something she knew from experience, so I asked her. Then, from almost nothing, I told her I had bipolar. “That must be a bitch too,” she said.

I hadn’t been in the greatest place – I have been fighting depression for the last few weeks, and, despite all my best efforts, it’s been getting worse not better. With depression often comes anxiety, and the school playground is like my kryptonite, which means that twice a day I have to gird my loins and force myself to drop MiniMe off with a kiss and a wave. One day, School Run Mum found me wobbling home, asked how I was, ignored me when I said I was ok, and scooped me up into her house for coffee.

There followed a three hour long talk about depression, bipolar, kids, and life in general, during which I opened up more than I ever had before to someone I didn’t know very well. SRM is a very good listener, and, it seems, completely unshockable. I learnt some very important lessons in that one conversation:

1 – I don’t always have to pretend everything is fine.
There are times when it’s not. There are times when it’s REALLY not. And actually, half the time I’m claiming to be fine, I look so categorically un-fine that there’s no point saying anything at all.
In truth, I don’t entirely understand why we do it – why we feel the need to be so constantly self sufficient. Why is it not ok to share with someone that you’re struggling with life? The number of people being treated for stress in this country is at an all time high. I don’t believe that a problem shared is a problem halved, but I do believe that a problem, when shared, loses some of its power and becomes – at least temporarily – a bit less all consuming.
And it’s only by admitting that I’m not fine that I can get some help. Today, SRM is going to the big playground to pick up our daughters, and it am going to the much quieter entrance to collect our sons. So simple a solution, and yet so helpful. And it would never have happened if I hadn’t stopped pretending I was fine.

2 – It’s not my job to educate people.
Ok, so I understand that mental illnesses can be a hard thing to get your head around if you don’t have one, and that I have first hand knowledge that I can share to make it easier for people to grasp. But actually, my time is pretty much taken up with trying to live with it, and dealing with how I feel is work enough for me. At the end of the day, if people want to understand bipolar, they are quite capable of doing it without me having to be teacher. And if they aren’t that interested, well, what I say isn’t going to make much difference anyway.
The caveat to that is that there are some things that only I can teach. Just as one diabetic will experience life completely differently from another diabetic, no two bipolar sufferers will have the same responses to situations. So, if I want support, I need to be the one to tell people how they can do that. I need to educate the trustworthy people around me as to what they can do to help me – not ‘people with bipolar’, but me. This education is how SRM knows that if I come out of the playground shaking and crying one morning, coffee and talking are good, but hugs are not.
It’s the difference between being proactive in my recovery and being psychiatry professor to the world and his wife.

3 – I don’t have to persuade people to accept me.
“Look! I have bipolar, but I’m normal! I have friends! I have normal relationships! Being bipolar doesn’t change who we are – go, have friendships with mentally ill people!”
This is something I hear in my head with monotonous regularity. I have this crazy idea that any relationships I forge can be used as evidence that relationships with people with mental health problems can be as valuable as ‘normal’ friendships. Getting people to accept ‘bipolar Abbie’ is part of a huge, single handed crusade to break down the stigma of mental illness. My mantra for a long time has been: “see – we’re just like you.’
The truth is, I’m using this as an excuse to hide the fact that, actually, I just want to be accepted for who I am. Me and bipolar – we come as a package. You can’t have one without the other. I feel like having put a name on it and called it an illness has suddenly made me scary and unpredictable and too much of a risk in the friendship stakes. What’s really funny about this is that actually, the symptoms have always been there, I just take drugs to reduce the severity of them. I’m probably saner now than before I was diagnosed.

4 – Fuck ’em.
Apologies – I realise that you probably weren’t expecting that from an overtly Christian blogger, but actually it was the most eye opening thing SRM said that morning. Two words completely altered my outlook.
I was talking to her about how I’d lost friends since I’d been diagnosed. Being seen as different and undervalued by people who never really knew me to start with doesn’t really matter that much. But there are some people with whom I used to be really close, who have somehow managed to completely erase me from their lives. Nothing has ever been said overtly, but there is a definitive before and after picture of their treatment towards me.
Until now, I have been making excuses – mainly from the three points above. And other well meaning Christians in my life have counselled me likewise. “They just don’t understand,” they say. “You need to give them time to get used to it. You need more opportunity to explain what it’s like to have bipolar. I’m sure they’ll accept you in time.”
It’s all very loving and Christian and understanding of other people’s ignorance – which I’m all for, for the most part. But I’m not willing to hang around waiting, hoping, hurting, until they make the effort to understand and deign to be friends with me again. My life is complicated enough without tying myself in knots over when they will accept that a friendship doesn’t have to change with a diagnosis. If they can’t accept me, then they weren’t really my friends to start with, and I don’t need them.
I said ‘fuck ’em’ again at home later (on my own!) and it was an almost physical release; I felt lighter just for saying it.

Drawing together the four little points that came out of a three hour cup (and cup and cup and cup) of coffee has made me realise one thing in particular. If you aren’t happy when I’m not pretending to be fine, if you’re expecting me to educate you all the time without adding in some hours of your own, and if I’m having to constantly persuade you to accept me, you probably aren’t a friend worth keeping. This means my friendship group is much smaller than it once was, which is kind of sad. But it also means that I really do know which of my ‘friends’ are actually my friends. And I’m chuffed that SRM is on that list.

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Friends

Sometimes it takes a true friend to know what it needed in a situation. I think I got it right today.

I brought my friend these:

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and these:

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She is one of the most fabulous people I know, and she has given me permission to play a part  in so much of her life. She has helped me get out of my pyjamas on my very worst days and I was there when she gave birth to her daughter, so there isn’t much that’s sacred or too much information.

She is suffering from depression, and every day seems like hard work for her. She needs to talk sometimes, but actually there don’t always need to be words. Sometimes talking is too much, especially when the only thing that’s different is that nothing’s changed. Today didn’t feel like a talking day. Today seemed like a flowers and salty snacks day.

Sometimes all it takes is someone to let you know they’re thinking of you, standing ready to remind you that there is hope.

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Roller Coaster

I’ve not been here for a couple of weeks. This is mainly because I have been doing this:

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and this:

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and this:

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and this:

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It has to be said, I’ve never really been a fan of roller coasters. I like keeping my lunch in my stomach too much. But I am married to a thrill seeking husband and we seem to have spawned two children who take after him in that department. And the ‘family holiday where we do things together’ (which I, now to some chagrin, wish I hadn’t constantly insisted upon) apparently extends to fairground rides.

But, to be fair, I spend most of my time on a roller coaster, albeit in a slightly less joint straining, child restraining way.

Lots of people liken having bipolar disorder to being on a constant roller coaster. It’s a very good analogy – getting higher and higher, and more and more excited as you reach the top, only to lose the exhilaration all too quickly as you plummet towards the concrete of a seaside palisade. Fortunately, with a roller coaster, there is at least a little warning of what is to come. My experience of bipolar is that of blind corners, often unrecognised rises, and largely unexpected and unstoppable falls. 

The most analogous thing about this roller coaster for me was that when on on the pleasantly undulating slopes rather than extreme and invigorating climbs and drops, the car spun around. There was never a point at which you could just relax and enjoy the views, because you never knew which way you would be facing when the exaggerated excitement began again.

That’s my life. I have to be constantly aware, never losing concentration, trying to track every little twist and turn for fear of what might come next. I would like to be one of those sufferers who can see what’s going on with my moods, and predict their arrival based on minuscule changes of demeanour or the rolling of seasons of the year. Perhaps that comes with experience, with years of watching and waiting and willingness to record every mood change that comes to call. Perhaps if I was further on with that process they call ‘acceptance’ I would be doing likewise, rather than just being tossed to and fro, riding the tides as they come. That’s what you’re supposed to do, as a sufferer. It’s what all the blog posts and medical journals and self help group aficionados advise – the better you know yourself, the better your health can be.

Is it wrong not to want to have to do this? I feel like a stubborn little girl, stamping my feet at the idea that the rest of my life might have to be consumed by note taking, mood tracking and medication management.

I’m fairly well aware right now that the closer I move towards acceptance, the more I realise I’m not there yet. Each time I deal well with whatever mood change comes to call, I become more aware of coping mechanisms that need instigating and thought processes that need changing. Eighteen months down the road from diagnosis, I’m only just beginning to own the fact that I suffer from an essentially permanent mental illness (which for some sufferers becomes terminal) that will need long term (if not life long) medicating, and constant acknowledgment, awareness and observation. It’s only recently that I’ve actually been able to say with certainly that I have bipolar disorder rather than, “I kind of have bipolar,” or, “I had a sort of breakdown.” Many years of experience have helped me to use terms like, “I suffer from depression,” but I still don’t find myself able to say, “I was hypomanic,” or use the word ‘episode’ with regards to depression or mania – it is just too close to admitting I have this illness that comes in waves, like chapters of a book, with a cliffhanger at the end of each one. It’s hard to know how to end a post like this. Do I try and think of some witty comment, dramatic climax, piece of wisdom for others following the same path? Do I falter, writing on and on with ever more obscure simile? A roller coaster finishes it’s adrenaline fuelled circuit and comes to a stop, and a family stumbles out, all ready for the next party to clamber in.

Stop the ride, I want to get off.

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Healthcare

So, I saw my doctor this morning, who has added in more medication to help with the depression and anxiety I’m experiencing. I knew I was feeling bad, but I have a tendency to play down my symptoms, feeling like I should stay strong and stoic and somehow manage my moods by willpower alone. Fortunately my doctor is ace, and knows me well enough to see how unwell I am just now.

Doctors are so important in the management of bipolar. The more I read and follow people with bipolar, the more I realise just how different medical care can be with regards to where you live. I’ve been asked by some of my American friends and followers how healthcare works in the UK, as it seems so different to the States. So here’s a short explanation of how services in the UK work, and some of my opinions – other Brits please feel free to comment and put me right on any mistakes.

We are fortunate enough here to have the National Health Service. The NHS was formed in the nineteen fifties, and means that all medical care is free at the point of use. You don’t have to pay to see a doctor or any other medical professional at an appointment – we all pay taxes dependent on how much money we earn, which pays for everybody to have the same access to healthcare. There are some people who complain that if they don’t use the NHS they shouldn’t have to pay for it (there are options for private health insurance for those who can afford it, where you can see a doctor much more quickly and for much longer appointments), but for the most part the system works, and it’s a relief to know that in an emergency there is everything one could need without anxiety over the bills it will incur.

Whatever treatment you seek, you will start with a GP – a general practitioner – who works in a local surgery. They will see you for short (normally ten minute) appointments, during which they will decide if and how to medicate a problem, and whether to refer to an expert consultant – for example, an oncologist, gynaecologist, or, in my case, psychiatrist. The specialist will then treat you until you are well enough to be referred back to the much more regularly accessible (and much cheaper) GP. I am now under the care of my wonderful GP, who is able to alter my meds if needed, refer me back to the psychiatrist if she thinks it’s necessary, and books me double appointments without me even asking.

If your GP refers you to a consultant (specialist), all you have to do is wait for the appointment time to come in the post. The main problem at this point is the wait, which in mental health is often due to the shortfall of psychiatrists (or the shortfall of money to pay more of them). When in crisis last year, just post hypomania and in a horrifically mixed state, I had to wait six weeks to see a consultant psychiatrist – and that was on the fast track. When I finally saw him, he referred me to a clinical psychologist, which turned out to be a nine month wait (although he did continue to see me every other month while I was waiting). All this meant that my non-specialist GP was the one responsible for the management of what can be a very complicated condition to treat. (I should also mention at this point that when I use the term specialist, I don’t mean a bipolar specialist – general psychiatrists cover all mental health problems).

The downside of having a nationally funded health system is that there is often a lot less money than would be ideal for the healthcare of everyone who uses the NHS – much of this caused by the economic crisis that has forced austerity measures. Every department is being forced to find ways to cut back, and none more than the mental health system. As I write, 23% of the NHS workload falls under the umbrella of mental health, and yet in some areas less than 7% of the health budget is allocated. It is also worth noting that for ‘physical’ illness there are imposed waiting time limits; in mental health there are no limits, so a patient can wait months just to see a consultant psychiatrist, and then again for any referrals they might need.

One of the major problems I see with the NHS is that, because of the budget cuts, it is forced to be short sighted, and mental health is the area where this is most apparent. There is no extra money to fund preventative or early intervention because all the money has to be spent on crisis care. But, as us service users know, having the opportunity for early intervention care or support can prevent a huge amount of later crisis.

In an ideal world (or, at least, the way I see it) there would be a period of extra investment in mental health services, so that people can get support before reaching crisis point, but the patients already in crisis can also get the best possible care. Early intervention can often (although not always) lead to crisis being averted, and is much, much cheaper than inpatient care – as well as being much more bearable for sufferers and their families.

In some ways this seems to paint a somewhat drear picture, where people are left on their own to suffer because the system can’t handle its workload, and where there is always the risk of patients falling through the gaps with devastating consequences. But I want to state it now that the NHS is awesome. For all it’s faults (and believe me, people complain about it all the time) the knowledge that I could be homeless with no money but still get medical care is an amazing comfort. From what I gather, nowhere else in the world boasts a system completely free at point of delivery.

The NHS is a huge blessing, and for all the ways I would change it, I wouldn’t give it up for a private system for anything. But I’m aware that everyone feels differently about it, so I’m opening up the floor for discussion. Please do comment – especially if you are from elsewhere in the world and have a completely different system. It would be good to know what you think.

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Storm Inside – Heartbroken

“Just because something is true doesn’t mean you should voice that truth in all circumstances” (The Storm Inside, p8)

I don’t know about you, but I think the Christian Church should be purveyors of Biblical truth. God’s Word should be the basis of everything we do and say, because it’s only through His word that any of us can learn how truly loved and valued and treasured we are. I say this at the beginning of this post because I don’t want what comes next to be taken wrongly.

Sometimes, although the Bible is full of truth and love, the way we use it is not. We take verses and throw them at struggling people because we think that it will somehow help them out of their situation, and turn them into the Christians and church goers that we think they should be.

“God didn’t give us His Word to use like a weapon or some kind of Hallmark card we can pass across the fence and keep some distance. It is meant for encouragement, not pat answers in the midst of pain.” (p8)

I don’t know about you, but I’ve had all sorts of verses thrown at me out of context, that have been supposed to encourage me but instead just made me feel worse. As a bipolar sufferer, this is my favourite: “For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.” (2 Timothy 1:6, italics mine). I’ve had this one trotted out to me in all guises, from the well meaning church elder to widely distributed books and courses.

I’m not quite sure what my response to this should be. Perhaps people are expecting me to jump up and shout: “Hurrah! The Bible says God gives me a sound mind! Now I know that, I’ll no longer have bipolar! I shall stop all my meds and give up therapy and frolic in daisies for the rest of my life!” Is it any wonder that our churches have a far lower ratio of mentally ill to mentally well people than the rest of the population?

Shelia Walsh’s example of what she calls ‘arrow verses’ is: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me” (Philippians 4:13). It gets trotted out whenever anyone puts their hand up to say that life is hard and it gets them down and they just wish it would stop, and it hits like a poison arrow into their pain, implying that if you’re not being or feeling strong, then you obviously aren’t relying on Christ’s strength. That can hurt almost as much as the original pain, and make us feel isolated and misunderstood by those closest to us – exactly how the enemy wants us to feel.

So how about we stop throwing out-of-context verses at our struggling brothers and sisters, and just agree with them that life is hard sometimes? How about we stop trying to make each other feel better and just allow one another to feel?

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The Storm Inside – trading the chaos…?

20140120-131612.jpg“Here is the Hope that you’re looking for. Here is the Truth you need” promises author Liz Curtis Higgs.

Quite a promise for a book I haven’t started yet. The praise for Sheila Walsh’s newest book goes on for three pages at the front, with names as big as Amy Grant and Joni Eareckson Tada applauding it. Even Kay Warren, who lost her son to suicide last year, says “Sheila understands.”

I’ve been given the privilege to be a part of the launch team for Shelia’s latest book: The Storm Inside: Trade the chaos of how you feel for the truth of who you are. Part of this privilege is the opportunity to read the book earlier than everyone else and let other people know what I think of it.

I’m a huge fan of Sheila Walsh, but even I wasn’t sure that she could achieve what the cover claimed. So much of my life is dictated by chaos – the chaos of bipolar, of managing and preventing mood episodes, and the frustration of being told that God has a plan for my life that must include this illness I struggle with.

And yet, as early as the introduction I am somehow convinced. In her intro, Sheila writes about a speaking event that saw her talking to a group of women in full time Christian ministry. Many of us would be intimidated by such a group of women – I speak to groups fairly frequently, and this certainly isn’t a gig I envy. And yet Sheila’s perception was not of a group of totally sorted women:

“I thought of the women I would speak to in just a short while and wondered if Christ’s promised gift of peace was tangible to them today or if they were facing such devastating storms that peace felt like a distant dream.” (p.xii)

A ‘devastating storm’ is exactly how I have described having bipolar disorder to people with little or no understanding of what it’s like to live a life dictated by moods that blow in unexpectedly, wreaking havoc and leaving confusion and desolation in their wake. From the first few pages this seems like a book I can get on with, written by a woman who understands what it’s like to have your world turned upside down by mental illness (Walsh spent a period in a psychiatric ward when ill with severe depression, and is open about still taking medication). I am left feeling understood by someone I’ve never met.

On the first page, before Sheila’s writing even makes an appearance, Christine Caine, founder of A21, tells me to “read it as soon as you can.”

That’s me told then. In I delve….

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