Mad as a Bucket of Frogs in Vinegar

                                                                 Predictable, Flaxen

I am about to reveal personal information to my readership that is known only to my doctors and close family. I am unknown to all who linger here, and long shall it remain. Please keep it a secret.

Mental health acronyms are everywhere, and everyone has one. PTSD is very much in vogue. In years passed, this was called 'shell shock' and was the sole preserve of those affected by their combat experience. Now, however, the condition has seeped into civilian life and is awarded to those who didn't achieve a merit badge back in the day when they were in High School. I'm being flippant, but I don't want to denigrate the horror, distress and misery mental illness causes. I should know, or know better, as my family has been marred and blighted through the generations.

My mother, at age 21, shoved her head into the gas oven in a serious attempt to end it all. By luck, she was found in time. Back in the 1950s, piped gas was generated from coal and contained significant amounts of carbon monoxide. My poor mother was sectioned and sent to the local Mental Health Facility. I could never determine how long she spent there, as the family considered the matter taboo. My maternal grandmother strenuously denied that we had that 'sort of thing' in the family. The irony: she also experienced a 'mental episode' when young. As regards the incident, all my mother would reveal was that she was subjected to electric shock treatment, which filled her with horror; she raved about the treatment until the day she died. 

The doctors diagnosed my mother as suffering from paranoid schizophrenia and placed her on medication, and she was eventually released into society.

Schizophrenia can be highly debilitating and destroys lives. However, she responded well to the strong meds and father, whilst alive, skillfully managed her delusions and prevented a recurrent episode warranting readmittance; this all changed when he died. 

From an early age, I knew I was 'different' from others my age. My thinking always seemed off-centre, and I was often careless and inattentive. As I aged, odd behaviour and thinking became more apparent. By young adulthood, I realised that I had cognitive blank spots. Certain actions and behaviours that appeared natural and easy to others were extremely difficult for me. Subsequently, I developed coping mechanisms to help ameliorate the symptoms and to hide the problems from my peers and adults. As for why I was neurodivergent, as they say in the modern medical parlance, I ascribed my issues to aberrant genes from my mother. I learned that schizophrenia has a strong genetic component, and many contributing genes are responsible. Exceeding a 'bad gene' threshold results in the condition.  I reasoned that I had received a goodly amount of the aberrant genes, but not enough to present the condition. I was spared true schizophrenia, but I wasn't untouched by the genetic taint. My mind could be in turmoil, with rolling/roiling and cascading thoughts that blazed throughout my brain with chaotic glee. On the plus side, I seemed endowed with a degree of creativity and spontaneity that was denied to most. It is the muse that drives my blog content and provides it with its singular character. My self-diagnosis seemed fair to me, and as I aged, I accepted my idiosyncrasies and the perception of being different with indifference and got about the business of life. 

Coming to modern times, my two grown-up children, male and female, experienced mental health symptoms that developed with age. Eventually, they were both seen by psychiatrists for help. Both had to rely on private treatment, as the public mental health system is but a name, unless you are a juvenile and virtually impossible to access as an adult, as the bar for acceptance is set impossibly high. Unfortunately, this is not a cheap route, and Kiwis with mental health problems are left to wallow in their mental abyss due to cost.  And so it transpires that both of my beautiful children are affected by ADHD and have been prescribed the stimulant Ritalin. The outcome for both my children has been good, and they have attained a degree of peace, calm, and focus. I've noticed my daughter, who was burdened with inactivity and lacked motivation, has since become 'awakened' as if from a dream of lassitude. She now makes jewellery and trinkets and is opening her own business. As for my son, who experienced severe bouts of doubt and mental tumult is now an esteemed professional. Not only does he work full-time, but he also runs two businesses of his own design. One of his enterprises is starting to become lucrative, and he is working toward making the dizzying leap to full-time businessman. I wish him luck in his endeavours and vow to support him in his hard-fought/thought ventures. 

With two children with ADHD, likely, one or both parents are thus affected. The spotlight deservedly fell upon me, and I became concerned that my self-diagnosis (never a good thing) was in error, and so I sought medical counsel. I will not linger on the process, which in my case proved challenging and a long time a coming. Eventually, I was booked to consult with an eminent psychiatrist with a special interest and expertise in ADHD diagnosis and treatment. Like my children, I trod the private road. A toll road well worth the access fee.  

The initial session with the doctor was helpful, informative and deeply revealing. I filled in tests akimbo, and in the final part of the 2.5-hour consultation, I was diagnosed with ADHD. This came as no great surprise. However, the good doctor was not finished with his professional verdict. It transpires that I have a comorbidity. I will not reveal the additional mental issue in this post as it has started to veer into 'too long, won't read' territory. Suffice it to say, it was a shocking revelation to me and for a while, I was thrown into mental turmoil. Perceptive and long-time visitors may be endowed with the powers of psychic divination and thus can discern my cohabiting malady with grace. It was no surprise to my daughter- she knew all this time. Insight was denied to this blogger, and I had to wait nearly 70 years for disclosure.

A second post is warranted and is coming soon.