I haven’t written anything recently about how things are and how I want them to be. Forgive me if this post seems rather self-indulgent; sometimes blog posts are a good way to exorcise demons or a good way to sound out in one’s own echo chamber (I use this term not in the pejorative).

As many people know, I spend a great deal of time and effort building up walls and creating a functional façade. But this is not always sustainable. I consider myself to be both strong and weak: strong because I can manage to keep the façade up and running for the most part, but weak because it’s really all so superficial and exhausting. It has been said about me that if I can create and sustain a working persona then I can’t be that unwell. This I find offensive. It takes a lot of out of me to be this ‘normal’. And it is never part of my journey to remission. If I am tightening the stitches, it is because I don’t want the wounds to show. I’m wearing poorly fashioned chain mail. The tension in the chinks is threatening to pull apart. I am not resilient.

Evidence of this is a new symptom. It is an extension of my chronic and often debilitating anxiety – anxiety about everything with neither rhyme nor reason. Recently, I started duloxetine for my worsening depression and to get on top of my anxiety. Shortly afterward, I slipped into a mixed affective state (something that was likely, as giving SSRIs to people with bipolar disorder is almost never a good idea); as an exciting new development I started to get dramatic shakes and jerks in my legs, first in my right then progressing to both. I couldn’t sit comfortably in chairs or cross my legs. When sitting at a desk my legs often shook so badly that my arms and hands began to tremor making reading and typing very difficult (this post has taken ages to type as a result). My job relies on typing and sitting still. I simply cannot do this. I can’t sleep because I worry that I won’t be able to do my job properly the next day.

I stopped the duloxetine after only four weeks. I think we all assumed that my shaking would go away and, while my depression would doubtless return, at least I’d be still. I stopped the medication after discussion with my GP and my psychiatrist and reduced it carefully.

I am still shaking and it is obvious and embarrassing. I look like I’m constantly on a plane that’s experiencing severe turbulence or that I’m freezing cold and shivering uncontrollably. There is no way to hide this behind a façade.

So if it isn’t the duloxetine, what is going on? The simple answer: severe anxiety. I can’t stand still because I am scared. I can’t choose clothes to wear because I am scared of making decisions. I hate crowds. I hate sound. I’m frightened of unscheduled events. I am frightened of time and clocks. I am terrified I’ve missed something. I become avoidant. I’m petrified that I won’t be able to perform at work. And none of these fears can be contained inside my head: my legs do all the talking. There is no way to ‘act as if’. There is also no way to discuss this with people, as they want to know why I’m so anxious. I don’t know why I’m in such a state. I fear failure, yes. I fear disappointing people. I fear losing my home or being unable to work. I fear that I won’t be able to take care of my cats. I fear seeing the look in people’s faces when they see my distress. Seeing this distress makes me angry and anger is a severe problem. I hate everyone and everything: I want to shout at inconsiderate passengers on buses; I want to kick all the furniture in my house until it is broken into tiny pieces; I want to swear at people for just “being in the way” or “so fucking slow”; I want to upturn the desks at work. I need to exorcise this monstrous sickness that has taken up residence in my whole body. I dwell on everything now: past, present and future. And I shake and shake and shake.

I refuse to cry about this, even though the tears are at the surface hourly and bubble up for no reason. I love my friends, and because of this, I don’t want to see or talk to them. And I’m angry that I have made this decision. I could telephone people, but I won’t. Twitter is different, but even on that platform I feel burdensome if I expand on my 140 character statements and admissions. Plus, I can’t really tweet that well as I have a Lithium tremor anyway which affects my hands; I often hit the wrong letters and the autocorrect writes all sort of unhelpful things (this is embarrassing and infuriating). My anxiety has also caused a flare up in my eczema on my hands and flakes of skin drift onto the screen, which is just horrid. Sometimes my knuckles bleed down my fingers.

I can’t be what people need me to be: cordial, bright, calm, or rational. Yet I try so hard. I hide. And my legs shake and shake and shake. If you see me shake, don’t ask me what’s wrong, and please don’t stare. Don’t frown when I take my diazepam. Don’t sigh when I seem so distressed that I cannot cope. Don’t looked shocked when I produce my fully-stacked dosette box.  Don’t tell my family that if I can control my behaviour sometimes then I can’t be that unwell; that I have to take responsibility and stop being so burdensome. I know that I am difficult and frustrating and upsetting to be around, but I don’t mean to be so. I don’t mean to be horrid and embarrassing. I shake now and I look and feel like shit. I have not contrived to be this way. I want to be the ‘me’ that people want and I want to be able to give this to everyone: I want to shout “I’M FINE” from the rooftops. Instead there’s a whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on.