Apathy

(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.

Arghhhh

(Or: At Home – Day Fifty-Five)

Slammed a heel today during a very inelegant fall in aerial and I’m reasonably sure I’ve bone bruised it, as it hurts like a son of a bitch, so that’s fun. I am having a lot of fun with aerial, but I’m bruised to hell and back.

Managed to meet up with a good friend of mine and had a good chat.

Otherwise not much by way of developments. My mood is pretty low. Overall, I definitely feel like I’m plummeting. The sensation of hopelessness that’s been spreading since the discovery that I really can’t fucking trust anybody in the NHS has now sunk marrow-deep and will not leave. I just can’t be fucked any more. I don’t care. I am so tired and I am so, so done with all of this – and I don’t have that option, I have to be doing everything myself.

People don’t seem to get just how fucking tiring it is, to be mentally ill. I can hold conversations, socialise, go out. I can. It’s physically possible. I have just got so used to being so tired that I don’t even notice it any more.

NHS Incompetence Strikes Again

(Or: At Home – Day Fifty-Four)

After a day of my partner calling up various parts of the psychiatric services, and MIND charity, and a few other places, we discovered that the situation I’m in should definitely not exist and I’ve been fucked about. It’s nice to hear, as I was beginning to doubt myself. My partner called the team leader of the care co-ordinators, and long story short we know what’s going on:

The psychiatrist makes the call regarding funding, and that is the current issue. Apparently while I was in acute care, the psych in charge of my care deemed me a good candidate for inpatient care and funding. The next one I saw, after discharge, decided otherwise. So, I have to convince her that I’m a good candidate and it would help me. That ought to be fun.

I’m also going to ask to return to aripiprazole, and come off carbamazepine. Aripiprazole helped with the depression in addition to the mood stabilisation, and carbamazepine appears to be doing fuck all. I also intend to remain on quetiapine. I don’t think I’m in a stable enough place to risk fucking about with my primary mood stabiliser.

I am feeling truly, hilariously shit at the moment. The whole situation has left me feeling completely disillusioned and fucking miserable. I am, in person, very verbose and with a fabulous cut-glass British accent that makes most people (seem) to think I’m a whinging upper-middle-class white girl with very little wrong with me. On paper I look a fairly obvious candidate for help, but the moment I talk people listen to how I talk rather than what I’m actually fucking saying.

So fucking fed up it’s unreal.

My partner needs to go back to work, we can’t afford her being a 24/7 carer. I managed to self-harm with her in the same room as me. So when she eventually has to go, I’m going to be on my own, and I don’t know what I’m going to do.

As it is, my partner has a training course starting in September at the opposite side of London. This has many problems. One aspect is that, for travel purposes (and affordability, and safety) we are going to be staying with my parents. I have a very difficult relationship with my family, especially my mother, and this is so not a good thing. I also have group support sessions three times a week at my side of London, and I can’t really travel or be alone at the moment, and my mother has already said she’s not prepared to commute. I have no clue how to work around any of this. Other than fall on the perpetual mercy of friends, which makes me feel like a constant burden and general imposition on other people’s lives.

I’ve already noticed people pulling away from me. They don’t do it on purpose, but nobody wants to talk about their problems or their lives with me, because they don’t want to put any stress on me when I’m vulnerable/struggling. But to be honest, I just wish people would talk to me. About their problems, about their jobs, about how shit their lives are. Anything. Absolutely anything. I am so lonely, and feel constantly betrayed by the people I’m supposed to be able to trust professionally.

I fucking hate the mental health services in this country.

Going Backwards (lucky me)

(Or: At Home – Day Fifty-Two)

At my worst, I experience dissociative seizures. These are the bastard child of a panic attack, and an epileptic seizure. I dissociate heavily, spasm, scream, cry. It’s a nightmare. Haven’t had one in a couple of months…

… until last night.

They’re back.

So overall, understandably, I feel like my health is going backwards rather than forwards. I sent a strongly-worded email to my care co-ordinator today (Sunday, so will be actioned tomorrow) expressing everything that is currently wrong and detailing the places I wish to be referred to. I am out of patience, and I’m running out of time. I fear that without stability, I’ll be back in an acute ward before too long, which I’d really rather avoid (for reasons why, see my earliest posts; acute inpatient was horrendous).

Help.

Losing It

(Or: At Home – Day Fifty-One)

I feel like I’m threading my life together with the finest of threads, and nobody except my partner is even vaguely listening.

My care co-ordinator is a liar, as discussed. I’m also musing on how, in two weeks, I’ve gone from ‘definitely fitting criteria’ to ‘unlikely you’ll even be assessed’. I don’t understand that gap.

My parents are linear-thinking people who cannot understand the MASSIVE area between ‘well’ and ‘unwell’ and ‘desperately coping however I can’.

I’m fed up.

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.

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.