(Yet Another) NHS Battle

(Or: At Home – Day Sixty-Three)

Today has been one hell of a day.

My care co-ordinator called. The psychiatrist won’t review my case regarding Tier 4 care. And won’t see me until September. The complex needs team might get back to me at some point in the next ‘few weeks’. And there will then be a waiting list. So I’m not going to be seeing anybody for any form of therapeutic care for another months. At least.

I hand the phone to my partner, because I am holding back a complete breakdown there and then.

My partner and I are more or less threatened that, if I do not manage my care myself, there would be serious repercussions for my ongoing mental health care.

A lot of things then happen very quickly. I had to call ‘Mind’ for advice. I threatened sitting in the local psych hospital, or indeed my local A&E, until somebody saw me. Things got unpleasant.

HOWEVER: I have now got my partner officially put on my records as my advocate going forward, because it’s causing me extreme emotional distress to try and cope with my own care plan. I sent an absolute HOWLER of an email, which should have scared them shitless. I also have an appointment for next Wednesday, which is just hilarious – if you’re insistent enough, appointments MAGICALLY appear…

I cannot believe how impossible it is. I am constantly, CONSTANTLY battling the NHS, and I don’t have the energy for it. Not when I’m also trying very, very hard to simply survive with extremely serious mental health problems…

Anyway. I also had an incredibly helpful conversation with my partner last night. We’ve discussed all of the current pressing issues, and formed a lot of new ways to try and help get through things as they are. It’s overwhelmingly positive, and I do feel so lucky to have her – even when things are at their worst, I never stop loving her. Sometimes I feel like all of this is too hard to see the other side of, but she never fails to surprise me with her patience, and her faith.

I just wish I wasn’t so fucking tired.


(Or: At Home – Day Sixty-Two)

I am singularly not coping.

Every single emotion is at a terrifying extreme. I am swinging from love to hate to angry to sad to fucking livid to happy to fine and back again. Nearly threw my phone through a bus window (not through an open one, literally THROUGH, glass and all) and instead basically lobbed it at my partner and snapped “please fucking fix it” before bursting into tears.

It’s getting hard to maintain my relationships. Any relationships. The rowing with my partner has got out of hand completely, and I feel like I spend most of my time trying not to snap about yet another fucking thing which I swear to god I’ve discussed before and oh sweet jesus, I ask for transparency and I get 24/7 sulking and I don’t even know why half the time. Fucking hell. Add to that perpetual paranoia about what friends I have left, and the fact that my mother took less than five minutes to trigger hysterical floods of tears earlier today, and I’m considering becoming a hermit until the end of time amen (were it not that I’m excruciatingly lonely).

I don’t know what to do with myself. No psych appointment, my care co-ordinator has disappeared and I can’t handle anything right now. I keep asking for things to be taken out of my hands by anybody, but nobody seems to be doing so. I’ve had conversations practically every other day trying to explain that right now my stress and anxiety levels are stratospheric and my brain is killing me.

Oddly enough, it hurts like hell and it is exhausting trying to get through a day without lobbing myself out of the window or packing a bag and leaving, either through anger or because I can’t bear constantly being angry. I spend most of my time trying not to cry, and occasionally losing the battle. My heartrate is perpetually elevated as I try to get the impetus to leave the house and keep going, and it’s getting worse rather than better. And given that I’ve been saying for weeks that I can’t cope, that’s a pretty damning indictment.

I don’t think I can stay at home much longer. I would rather run the fuck away than have to go back into acute inpatient. I have to live with my mother for six weeks, too, come September. The few things I’m enjoying aren’t going to be possible any more, and I can’t even orientate myself to get to my support groups because it depends on my mother, and I can’t be alone so I can’t do anything.

I have nowhere to go, and no ability to deal with what is happening to me. And I feel like nobody’s listening, or if they are, they lack the ability (or wherewithal) to do anything constructive. This isn’t a sustainable system, and I’m really, really not safe. I don’t have much time left.

Flying Lard

(Or: At Home – Day Sixty-One)

I lost the plot and started crying halfway through an aerial class because I couldn’t do the things I wanted to, and it completely broke me. I can’t do some things (because I’m not strong enough, and don’t have the technique yet) and forgot how to do things I have been perfectly able to do (because of muscle fatigue and idiocy, which is easy when dangling in mid-air).

If I’m being fair to myself, I acknowledge my own weaknesses and forgive myself for the things I can’t do.

However, I’m shit at being fair to myself, and I don’t forgive myself for what seems to be to be crass ineptitude. I’m livid with myself. I am so fucking jealous that my partner is better than me, that there are people around me who just seem to get it straight off and I’m here desperately trying to lift my oversized arse off the ground with fuck-all success.

So I ended today feeling stupid, humiliated, and very conscious of my weight. Because let’s be honest, it is far easier to lift 100lb than 170lb. For anybody. Not to mention that nothing in aerial looks good on anybody with a spare ounce – trust me, taut silk bisecting your thighs makes your fat squeeze out on either side. Try tying a thin string around a raw chicken breast really, really tightly for an idea of how it looks. I’ve tried to look at pictures of myself in the air and all I can think about is how, despite me doing surprisingly complicated things, I still look about as elegant and poised as a rhino on stilts.

I’m going to go have a bath and cry about my insecurities, boys and girls, while restraining the urge to slit my wrists. #selfcare

I keep hoping tomorrow will be better.

Things are Getting Ridiculous

(Or: At Home – Day Sixty)

I can’t get through a day without somehow bickering with my partner, and I don’t know why. It feels like every conversation somehow ends in misunderstandings, or miscommunications, or general temper snapping, or sulking. The temper snapping is mine, the sulking is hers, but good sweet lord I am fed up of arguing about stupid shit.

There’s a sense of inevitability, in some ways. Humans are not supposed to spend this much time in constant, 24/7 company. We do well, under the circumstances, but the circumstances are shit.

I am really unwell. I self-harmed the other day using a folded up milk top, and if that doesn’t speak of desperation, nothing does. I am so fucking done with everything in the mental health services, while what remains of my sanity continues to drip further and further down the drain.

Don’t know what to do.


(Or: At Home – Day Fifty-Nine)

Today was lovely. Saw my niece and played in a fountain (no kidding) which was really fun, although I’m utterly shattered now and I still feel like my life is happening to somebody else.

Tomorrow is another week. Another set of battles. Trying to see a psychiatrist, getting my benefits sorted (as they’ve been stopped and I can’t understand why, I sent the stuff they needed over a week ago) and getting my written assessment report from the inpatient unit I’ve been rejected from and getting funding and doing my normal life and aerial and oh dear god I’m out of patience and I don’t want to do any of it any more, I’ve lost all possible impetus and drive.

Apathy is remarkably all-encompassing.

Handling Dissociation

(Or: At Home – Day Fifty-Eight)

Not to sound too overbearingly pretentious, but my life has become a Dali painting. Everything’s blurring, dripping, and I have no sense of time.

This is probably not helped by my recent concerted efforts to revisit some of my old writing from, in some cases, a decade or so ago. I have stories and ideas that have been dormant on my computer for years and years, and in a strange, morbid and sometimes slightly masochistic manner I have been going back to those stories and finding words from somebody I don’t recognise.

It’s cathartic, in a sense. My memory is a sketchy thing at the best of times, and I don’t really enjoy looking back at myself as a human being in that time. If I do, I get caught up in the bad things – my rampant eating disorder, my school life, my loneliness, my hatred – and forget the fun bits. I like looking at stuff I created because it doesn’t have the bad bits attached in the same way. A lot of it is just my own, things I’ve shown nobody or have been anonymous, and so it stays somehow separate.

In any case, I’m appreciating the necessity of grounding. Music and scent are two very strong physical ways to tether me back to normal life, especially when dissociating, so using that in abundance. I won’t go back to inpatient. I just won’t.


(Or: At Home – Day Fifty-Seven)

I’m losing time. Just little things, little bits, but I can feel it. It’s usually the harbinger of worse things to come, but I’m going to remain optimistic because why the fuck not. Maybe I’ll be okay. Just a few days of weirdness and I’ll return back to normal. My mental health re-stabilises and I become a fully-functional human.

Or, you know, a few weeks pass and I wind up back in acute inpatient.