What is Life

(Or: At Home – Day Fifty)

Started a personality disorder support group today which was – wait for it – actually really helpful!!

I know, I know, the shock of me positive might finish you and myself off, but no genuinely. It’s a weird environment, but I think it’s one of those ones where you get out what you put in. I intend to start going as a point of regularity and importance. You never know, it might do some good.

Spoke to my lying care co-ordinator. I’m less inclined to actively murder her now, which is good, but I’m still pretty pissed off. The lack of response from my assessment she flat-out admitted was her fault – the email got sent to the wrong person, but she still could have dealt with it – and refused culpability on the lying front. She didn’t deny lying, though. Is evidently not keen on referring me to other treatment places, but fuck that, she’s my care co-ordinator and I want to be referred SO hopefully there will be some progress. If I haven’t had written confirmation from her by next Tuesday that I’ve been referred, I’ll kick off. Again.

It is so fucking boring to be in constant mortal combat with the people who are supposed to be helping me.

Oh, and I need to see a psychiatrist (because, you know, suicidal thoughts and transparent mood instability is a bad thing and reasonably urgent, FOR GOD’S SAKE IS THAT NOT OBVIOUS) which will hopefully happen next week, but amazingly, there is only one psychiatrist in my entire area actually working for the next fortnight. I appreciate that holidays happen in August but Christ almighty, did nobody think this through when GRANTING holiday?! I worked in an opticians, as a fairly low-placed salesperson, and wasn’t granted holiday leave over CHRISTMAS when the place was DESERTED because other people got priority because PRIORIES ARE IMPORTANT IN PEOPLE-SERVICE INDUSTRIES.

Is this just me? Or is this just an amazing, extraordinary institutionalised ineptitude that seems to hit me at every single one of the worst possible moments?

And my grandmother is starting chemo, and I’m not allowed to tell my parents (because they’re estranged and both sides would probably murder me).

*headdesk* sometimes my life feels like a comedy sketch in motion.

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Out of Hope

(At Home – Day Forty-Nine)

I feel utterly hopeless, deflated and intermittently suicidal. I don’t see that this will ever improve. I don’t feel like I’m ever likely to get anywhere sensible. I have no trust left in anybody in the mental health system, and I have mental health problems that will never go away. This is it, for me, and if it wasn’t for my partner I would have thrown the towel in quite a long time ago.

Sorry. Not much joy over here.

Fucking Liars (or: The NHS)

(At Home – Day Forty-Eight)

My care co-ordinator has been lying to me for the past several weeks.

I have not been referred to anywhere else. Three weeks ago, I was told she would be referring me to four other treatment programmes around the country, for inpatient care. For the last three weeks, I have been asking her how the referrals have progressed, and she has flat-out lied to me. I know this because I called all four, and they have no record of me or a referral whatsoever.

Additionally, I know I was rejected from the treatment programme I was assessed for six weeks ago. This is because I picked up the fucking phone, and asked. It took about sixty seconds. They claim my care co-ordinator was contacted over a month ago.

The last six weeks have been a fucking nightmare for me, and I have been lied to. I have lost any and all trust in the NHS and CMHT. Again. I have no interest in listening to a damn word they say, or trust them with my care. I evidently have to do all of this myself, so I’m going to. I’m beyond livid, but mostly, I’m upset. I don’t deserve this.

To add to today’s shit fortune:

  1. Said care co-ordinator is off sick, and had to rearrange today’s sessions. Conveniently. I also need to see a psychiatrist, which also has to wait now, so that’s another week. Probably for the best, as I am inches from committing homicide, so I have a week to calm down and consider options.
  2. My engagement ring fell out of my bag while I was at aerial. It has now been found, but that was pretty traumatising.
  3. Fucking rain. Fucking soaking fucking rain. Fucking England in the fucking rain.

and

  1. I HAVE BEEN SYSTEMATICALLY LIED TO FOR WEEKS WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS.

This is the NHS, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome. I should have known better than to trust the NHS ever, ever again after the inpatient debacle.

Well, now I know.

Aerial and End of Patience

(Or: At Home – Day Forty-Seven)

Aerial was absolutely amazing, although my fitness is shite and my arms hurt and most of me hurts quite a bit but totally worthwhile in the end. I lost my sanity halfway through my second class, managed to get angry with myself and tripped over a crash mat so my knee hurts, oops – my own anger at my inability is the biggest thing. I feel inadequate so my anger goes off the charts.

My own anger, my own inadequacy.

Anyway – so this happens. I am out of patience with my care team and the lack of any, any response. I’ve lost my shit with all of this. It’s been six weeks and counting since my assessment. If I don’t hear via my care co-ordinator, I’ll be calling them myself, because I’ve lost any and all possible patience with this. I’m so angry, and I’m so upset it’s off the charts.

All Good (for now)

(Or: At Home – Day Forty-Six)

Today was full of meaningful conversations, which is good. I love my partner, and we keep getting closer, which is wonderful. Living together has upsides!

Tomorrow I am starting a month’s work of aerial classes, as they’re on cheap and I love it. It’ll keep me busy, active and away from my partner – we’re doing different things for a lot of it, and we’ll both benefit from some time to ourselves. And I’ll be knackered, so hopefully less time to worry about, well, basically everything.

Should be fun!

(she, in the background: Do we need a glue gun??

No. No, we do not a glue gun. I should mention this. I have no clue why she thinks we need one. God help us all.)

 

 

Doing Okay

(Or: At Home – Day Forty-Five)

I spent another day mostly with a friend, and without my partner, who was out. This was a good thing. I need private time spent with friends without my partner always being present.

Other than that, I’m struggling with general life but I’m otherwise fine. I intend to see the GP soon to discuss the fact that my periods basically mean I’m stabbed repeatedly in the stomach once a month (thank you, PCOS) but honestly, that’s the least of my current worries. I’ll live.

For now, I’m going to catch up on sleep, and try again tomorrow. I have an assessment phone call with local counselling services, we live in hope, would be really helpful if I can get at least that form of help. Hooray for a new week. Maybe I’ll hear from my treatment programme too…

Mental Illness Being Petty

(Or: At Home (almost, I’m on a train…) – Day Forty-Four)

I cannot always explain why certain things upset me in the way that they do. It does not always appear logical, or fair. In fact, sometimes they’re downright bizarre, but they’re also seriously valid because I’m currently in tears on a train because my partner has recently decided that going backwards on trains for longer than ten minutes at a time when there’s an R in the month and the moon is bright means she gets nauseous, which is total bollocks, because I’ve known her for nearly eight years and this appeared about three months ago. She prefers travelling forwards, great, that’s absolutely fine – but right now, this has managed to cause something of a breakdown on my part. I hate not having lines of sight from all possible angles. When I’m in the corner of anything – room, train, bus, fucking anything – I have lines of sight from anything that could be coming at me. I also don’t like to be boxed in, and I really hate people reading over my shoulder, so sitting with her next to me inadvertently invading my personal space is also not an option.

For various reasons, this configuration – which would have been fine, had I been allowed to do so – was scuppered by partner’s abrupt decision to play silly buggers. I’m really upset now and feel very uncomfortable, and no, I don’t entirely know why. I don’t know why it matter, but it does, and the level of upset I feel is making me livid at myself and even more upset so I’m winding myself into a frenzy.

Mental illness is not glamorous. This is mental illness. Petty and ridiculous. In tears on the train, in public, because I’m throwing a six-year-old’s tantrum about sitting in the wrong seat. I just can’t begin to describe the clawing paranoia, extreme anger, resentment, humiliation, anxiety and thrumming discomfort. I want to vomit.

And I certainly cannot have that conversation because active nausea trumps a feeling I can’t articulate properly so here I am, with no lines of sight and boxed in and genuinely feeling like everybody in the world is staring at me and judging me.

This is ridiculous.