Acute Inpatient Again

And I have been officially admitted to acute inpatient.

The night before last, my partner and I discussed our options. My options. I desperately wanted to get to next week; however, I confessed to some stashed meds I’ve had around as a safety blanket for a long time, and eventually came to the conclusion that I needed intervention. I cannot lay the full responsibility of my life in her hands, it’s not fair.

We went to A&E and waited. Got assessed and sent to a type of halfway house, where they supposedly carry out further assessments, but de facto took one look at me and fast tracked me onto a ward the moment a bed became available. Then at 1.30am, I was woken to be taken to the ward. Then at 2.30 had a basic medical.

I am exhausted, but substantially safer than I was, theoretically. I’m in a different hospital to my last acute stay, and it is considerably nicer. There has been classic ineptitude throughout, especially with regards to my meds, but hey ho. Here now.

I’m staying until something changes. Further assessments, complex needs team, whatever. I will not go back to a half life where I am fighting constantly. I’m going to take this time and try to heal in whatever fractured way I can, or at least, not keep hurting my partner while I am hurting myself.

I’m going to nap, I think. I’ll keep you posted.

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Trying To Cope

I am stupidly pessimistic today. Saw the GP but don’t have much faith that it’ll achieve enormous amounts, she’s going to call my care team and ask why they won’t refer me, but I’d imagine they’ll talk their way around it.

I’m trying to hold off on inpatient as long as possible. I am going to my partner’s dad’s house for a couple of days (Fri-Sun) then straight to my friend’s house (Sun-Wed) then my parent’s house (Wed-Fri) and I’m supposed to be doing an aerial class on the Saturday and then, then I imagine I’ll collapse like a bad souffle and off I pop to acute inpatient.

If I last that long.

At the moment, I don’t feel like I’ll make it to the end of tomorrow.

Determination Hits (get me, guys)

Tried to go to the Recovery Cafe today, and it was an unmitigated disaster, so I’m not doing that again.

Tomorrow, I’m talking to the GP, and I’m changing care co-ordinators. Should be eventful. I need to get support somewhere, somehow. The main thing I’m gunning for now is somewhere that addresses my comorbid eating disorder as well as borderline and bipolar. There are places.

If nothing happens, I’m contacting my local MP. And anybody else. I’m going to raise absolute hell over this.

Watch me.

Considering Options

Today has been a better day.

It’s not amazing, but it’s definitely a start. I went to a flexibility-based class and that was fine, and saw my mother-in-law (almost), her partner, her brother and his girlfriend, and her parents. So some new people, but very relaxed and really nice to meet them. It was excruciatingly hot, but I coped. #copingwin

I self-harmed yesterday quite badly for the first time in a little while. In slightly less positive news.

I’m struggling with what to do, and how to get what I need. Let’s unravel this a little:

  1. I want to go onto an inpatient programme. This is because I’ve spent around 11 years in various form of outpatient, both intensive and otherwise, with very little impact. I spent six weeks in an inpatient ward two years ago, and that was the only thing that really has made any headway. Plus it was compounded by 1:1 DBT, which was undoubtedly helpful.
  2. The NHS are extremely unwilling to fund this.
  3. They want me to go through the rigmarole of the Complex Needs Team. They primarily offer MBT (which I’ve done before), psychodynamic psychotherapy (again, done) and cognitive analytical therapy. This is not to say they won’t work; rather, I’ve DONE OUTPATIENT FOR ELEVEN YEARS WITH NO EFFICACY so FORGIVE ME, but I think inpatient is a far stronger option.
  4. I cannot be left alone, at the moment. Eventually my partner is going to go back to work. And I am self-harming with her in the same room as me. I’ll last about twenty minutes on my own. I’m terrified of being looked after by my parents because I know full bloody well I’m going to get worse, and there’s nothing anybody can do about that.
  5. So, shortcuts to getting the NHS to agree funding. There aren’t many. I am going to talk to my GP to discuss my concerns, but I tremendously doubt there’s anything they can do.
  6. I personally reckon it’s about a week or two before my brain plummets me straight into acute inpatient. Which is a separate issue, but might play into the inpatient argument.
  7. Or I’ll end up in A&E.
  8. I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO.

Still Fighting (but fuck it’s unfair)

(Or: At Home – Day Sixty-Eight)

I am back home in London, after my few days of holiday up in Liverpool. I had an unashamedly wonderful time – just for a while, it wasn’t about my illness. And just for a while, I wasn’t a ‘problem’.

However, there is the kick-back. I am exhausted, mentally and physically, and I really have no words to explain exactly how exhausted I am; it’s like nothing I’ve ever known. Today I found some words for it, in trying to explain to my partner: currently, I am holding onto my sanity with all of my strength, like one would a lifeline. It would be substantially easier to just let go, because holding onto it saps everything in my body and soul, but I’m also dimly aware that I could die if I did.

The whole Tier 4 bollocks is just so much to handle. Today I (well, my partner) phoned Mind (mental health charity) who passed us onto their legal team and they have given us the names of local care solicitors. It’s all getting rather serious. But I am legally able to challenge an assessment (woop) so all is not yet lost.

I am seeing a psychiatrist tomorrow to handle medication. I will be staying on quetiapine (I started to reduce dosage, with hilariously bad results, so I’m back to normal now) but need a new stabiliser and/or antidepressant because I’m suicidal and self-harming again. I need to emphasise that I do not want an anti-epileptic, because it would contradict orlistat, which would be my next step: weight-loss medication is a serious step, but I can’t risk coming off quetiapine which is making my weight soar.

Then, we discuss Tier 4. Depending on that, I see my GP for support in challenging the assessment.

Progress. But fucking hell, I am so fucking tired of fighting a system that is supposed to help people like me, people who are holding onto their lives by the skin of their teeth, rather than making them into desperate messes who have no autonomy and depend on the people around them utterly to keep them from oblivion.

It’s too much, and I am so lucky to have my partner.

Without her, I would be dead by now, and it is so fucking frightening to know that.

(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.

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.