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.


(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.

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).


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.

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.



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.