A guest appearance from @lostinnotation

If you are a regular reader of my blog you will know I had a bit of newspaper coverage a few weeks ago. The article in the Harborough Mail was written by Elinor O'neil who I now know has bipolar. We agreed to do a guest blog for each other about caring and being cared for. You should really read her blog here lostinnotation.wordpress.com and  help in any way you can in the shoe project.

Elinor's Blog

Having a carer is something I never thought I would have need of until old age or disability struck. It seems that while old age is still some time away, although my aging face may tell a different tale, disability has come early to me.

When Jon Pollard and I decided to do guest blogs for one another, him on his role as a carer for his mum, and my on my own experiences of being cared for, I had to think twice. In a way although I have accepted my illness there is an incredibly strong part of me, a fighting independent, that likes to think that I have no need for a carer.

This however upon reflection is not true. When I was first admitted to hospital in Manchester many years ago the psychiatrist on call asked me who my carer was and whether my illness was being managed at all. My partner answered crossly, ‘she doesn’t need a carer, I look after her.’ It was such a sweet thing to say because although he did care for me deeply he did do even then in such a way that he didn’t even think it amounted to his being a carer.

Now, living back home with my parents, the focus of my care has shifted to my mother. When I was given leave from the depths of despair in the hospital it was to my mother that I would go. Even when she could not care for me and watch over me in my most suicidal state she ensured that there were others who would pick up the slack. My sister, my father, my brother and friends of the family would all take it in turns to keep watch. They would talk to me and they would listen to my tales of woe and do their best to distract me and keep me from the darkness.

My mother, friends and family have all played a huge part in keeping me well and out of hospital but when I was in hospital it was often they who would keep me going as well. They would bring me tales of the outside world, freshly laundered clothes and sweets and treats to keep my spirits up.

I think the hardest part of being cared for is that sometimes you just want everyone to back off and leave you to curl up in a hole and die. It is not fair to ask this of anyone and yet you cannot but hope that they will allow you to.

When I am high I can be a pain to care for. I do not listen well to suggestion and am bad-tempered and often out of sorts. My mother has tried on occasion as has the boy to look after my debit card until I come down. But I become crafty and take to withdrawing cash so as to maintain my independence and have a little fun with my mood.

There is a care plan that I have that reminds me of all the people I need to offer thanks to once I have recovered and so often the list is endless. To be cared for and indeed to admit to being cared for feels like a loss of something deep inside, a proud sense of independence, but at the same time it is this care that has stopped me from succumbing to suicidal urges, taking flight to Paris or coming in harm’s way.

When I am really ill I do not take care of myself and things like cooking or drinking go out the window and all I have time for is to become lost in my thoughts. Having a carer who is unobtrusive when times are good but there as soon as times are bad is invaluable for me and there is not time or the words to thank them all for what they do. But I do thank them from the bottom of my bipolar heart I really and truly do.

Today’s shoes are a pair of Kurt Geiger wonders which I bought from Ebay for a pretty price. They are not the most practical shoes to walk in but they are so pretty and I love the perspex heel on them and the leather front are lovely and comfy on my tootsies.