So the next week I returned for my third session. Again, I was filled with dread. I would have rather been anywhere else but there. I bumped into the woman who had completed my initial assessment in the reception and she asked how it was going. I lied and told her that I felt I was benefiting from the sessions and that I liked Bernadette. I felt a stab in my chest as I contemplated how at ease she had made me feel in my initial assessment and I longed for her to wrap me up and tell me that we could bin off Bernadette and she would make me okay again. Of course that didn't happen. Rather, she invited me to a party that the organisation was having to raise funds. I agreed to consider it whilst I inwardly scoffed at the idea. Why the fuck would I want to go to a party with a load of raped women and the people who were all probably doing an equally crap job of trying to fix them? I didn't understand what was in the mind of the genius who came up with this idea. The woman said I could bring a friend and the temptation to ask if there was a prize for the person who was able to identify correctly who the victims of abuse were and who were just their friends. I instantly hated myself for even thinking like that.
And then there I was back in the teeny weeny therapy room with Bernadette. I hadn't kept a dream/nightmare diary and I hadn't bought in the letter that I had already written *for* my mother. I wasn't failing at counselling, I was failing to try to succeed at unpicking my past and righting myself. She didn't react to my obvious unwillingness to try.
She asked if there was anything specific that I wanted to discuss in that session and I said that there wasn't as a million topics to work on flew through my brain. She picked up where we had left off last week and I continued to be verbally abusive about my own mother.
When that subject dried up and I didn't have anything fresh to say on the matter she began to ask me about the relationships with other members of my family... And that's when she got the play dough out. It was brand new and perfect and she wanted me to model it into something that depicted my relationship with each immediate member of my family. I am the least artistic person on the entire planet and I felt asking me to mould shapes out of play dough was incredibly demeaning. I'm 21 fucking years old, not 3... I rebelliously took a chunk out of each play dough ball and smushed them together to represent myself. The dirty, damaged, imperfect one. I then rolled the remainder of the individual play dough colours into a single ball to represent each other family member. Clean, untouched, seemingly perfect. At least that's what my mother wants the world to see... Perfect little family where nothing bad ever happens. It was probably a hell of a lot more meaningful then I ever intended it to be. I felt stupid for going along with the game and making something representative out of fucking play dough. When I realised how stupid I had been I smushed all the play dough together and threw it at the table. The thwack of it landing echoed around the room.
We sat there in silence. "I'm sorry," I whispered, "I don't know what came over me." Bernadette said that there was no need for me to excuse my behaviour and it was this constant concern over displays of unacceptable behaviour and the desire to be socially acceptable that was stunting therapy. She explained that there was only so much she could do if I wasn't willing to engage. She asked me if I felt ready for therapy and I replied with honesty that I didn't know. It was nearing the end of the session so she asked me to go away and think about it and decide whether now was the right time. It wasn't a rejection, at least not on her behalf, but it felt like one.
I left the room not feeling entirely sure of what conclusion I would draw.
Monday, 28 April 2014
'It's not nice to think about your own daughter fucking your boyfriend'
I didn't want to go back after the previous week and as I rang the bell there was a huge part of me that just wanted to run away. At least I would be able to say I tried. 'It's fine. I'm okay. Counselling isn't for me. I can get through all of this on my own' but I knew that would be lies. It wasn't going to be easy but it was something that I needed to do.
So I spent another hour skirting around all the issues that I so desperately wanted to talk about in depth but couldn't quite bring myself to. I wanted her to be able to read my mind and know exactly what it was that I wanted to say and ask exactly the right questions to ensure that I opened up. She didn't so once again I didn't say very much at all initially.
The main topic of conversation that day was my rocky relationship with my mother. I told Bernadette that I was angry with my mum but I loved her and that nothing was my mother's fault. She questioned this and I got angry. How dare she be so accusing of my mother's ability to parent me and safeguard me adequately? After an angry rant I crumpled in tears as I realised that I wasn't fooling anyone. I told her a bit more about the anger directed towards my mother and how some of the things she said about the past made me feel like she blamed me entirely. The weekend prior to this session I had been to my Mum's and had awoken the morning after a huge row to hear her saying to my sister "I just don't think she understands - it's not nice to think and talk about the fact that you're own daughter was sleeping with you're boyfriend. I mean, they fucked for God's sake". NO MUM, I DID NOT 'SLEEP WITH' YOUR BOYFRIEND. I DID NOT 'FUCK' HIM. HE TOOK EVERYTHING AWAY THAT MADE ME HAPPY AND REPLACED IT WITH A FEELING OF DISGUST AND GUILT. HOW FUCKING DARE YOU! Bernadette had hit the right buttons to send me off on a tangent, a highly fucking angry tangent. She tried to reign it in but I was off on one and slowly the anger once again became internalised. She suggested that I write a letter to my mother, even if I didn't wish to send it. I shrugged in agreement, not disclosing that the letter was already written and waiting within the pages of this blog. She asked if my mother had ever discussed police involvement and she seemed shocked with my answer that yes, she had and no, she wouldn't support me if I decided that was an avenue I wanted to take. We didn't really talk about anything else that day and I felt as though Bernadette had just stirred up a range of emotions that didn't need to be dragged off and in the process was making everything worse.
We touched briefly on the fact that my nightmares were horrendous and she suggested I keep a dream diary and bring it to the next session. I said that I would but knew that I wouldn't. I've been struggling with nightmares for years and have tried to write them down but it didn't help. There was also a part of me that realised that if she knew the details of my dreams she would be able to pertain the details of my abuse and consequently would realise exactly how fucked up I am.
As I left, the only thing on my mind was self harm. It took all of my power to not go and buy razorblades and hide in my room and rip myself to shreds. I needed to take the anger that I had internalised and externalise it again. I stomped home and spent some time throwing plates around the garden. It didn't help, if anything it made me even more angry. But I didn't self harm. I had arranged to meet up with a friend to go for a carvery later in the day so I text her to ask if I could go round earlier and as she was in agreement, I went round and smiled and nodded and said that counselling hadn't been great but that I was okay. Compliant, socially acceptable little me.
So I spent another hour skirting around all the issues that I so desperately wanted to talk about in depth but couldn't quite bring myself to. I wanted her to be able to read my mind and know exactly what it was that I wanted to say and ask exactly the right questions to ensure that I opened up. She didn't so once again I didn't say very much at all initially.
The main topic of conversation that day was my rocky relationship with my mother. I told Bernadette that I was angry with my mum but I loved her and that nothing was my mother's fault. She questioned this and I got angry. How dare she be so accusing of my mother's ability to parent me and safeguard me adequately? After an angry rant I crumpled in tears as I realised that I wasn't fooling anyone. I told her a bit more about the anger directed towards my mother and how some of the things she said about the past made me feel like she blamed me entirely. The weekend prior to this session I had been to my Mum's and had awoken the morning after a huge row to hear her saying to my sister "I just don't think she understands - it's not nice to think and talk about the fact that you're own daughter was sleeping with you're boyfriend. I mean, they fucked for God's sake". NO MUM, I DID NOT 'SLEEP WITH' YOUR BOYFRIEND. I DID NOT 'FUCK' HIM. HE TOOK EVERYTHING AWAY THAT MADE ME HAPPY AND REPLACED IT WITH A FEELING OF DISGUST AND GUILT. HOW FUCKING DARE YOU! Bernadette had hit the right buttons to send me off on a tangent, a highly fucking angry tangent. She tried to reign it in but I was off on one and slowly the anger once again became internalised. She suggested that I write a letter to my mother, even if I didn't wish to send it. I shrugged in agreement, not disclosing that the letter was already written and waiting within the pages of this blog. She asked if my mother had ever discussed police involvement and she seemed shocked with my answer that yes, she had and no, she wouldn't support me if I decided that was an avenue I wanted to take. We didn't really talk about anything else that day and I felt as though Bernadette had just stirred up a range of emotions that didn't need to be dragged off and in the process was making everything worse.
We touched briefly on the fact that my nightmares were horrendous and she suggested I keep a dream diary and bring it to the next session. I said that I would but knew that I wouldn't. I've been struggling with nightmares for years and have tried to write them down but it didn't help. There was also a part of me that realised that if she knew the details of my dreams she would be able to pertain the details of my abuse and consequently would realise exactly how fucked up I am.
As I left, the only thing on my mind was self harm. It took all of my power to not go and buy razorblades and hide in my room and rip myself to shreds. I needed to take the anger that I had internalised and externalise it again. I stomped home and spent some time throwing plates around the garden. It didn't help, if anything it made me even more angry. But I didn't self harm. I had arranged to meet up with a friend to go for a carvery later in the day so I text her to ask if I could go round earlier and as she was in agreement, I went round and smiled and nodded and said that counselling hadn't been great but that I was okay. Compliant, socially acceptable little me.
Friday, 25 April 2014
'Please don't believe me when I say that I'm okay. Look a little deeper for the words that I can't say. I'm too small to stand alone - I sure could use a friend. Help me learn to trust someone again' - Alan O'Day
Once again, I am so far behind with my blog :( So much has happened and so much has changed but I want to do this properly in chronological order so that I can look back and see my journey as it happened and as it was.
I have now had 6 therapy sessions and things are starting to click into place but it took a while for me to get here. So, let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start....
I had my first proper therapy session on the 20th March 2014 and it was a day like no other; it was horrendous.
The actual therapy itself wasn't too bad. I met my therapist Bernadette and my initial thought was bleurgh. I didn't feel an instant connection to her and she didn't make me want to blurt out every thought inside my head. I was very suspicious and didn't know if she would understand me or take me seriously. I think I would have been the same with any therapist I had been assigned to work with. My initial feelings had very little to do with her and a lot to do with my barriers and my reluctance to open up. I had been waiting for that appointment for so long but when it finally came I just couldn't find any words to sum up the answers to the brief introductory questions she asked... I felt as though I had failed already.
The main focus of the session was what it actually is that I want to achieve from therapy. The question is so simple but yet so hard. I DON'T KNOW. I told her that I wanted the impossible and that I want to be able to forget everything negative that has ever happened to me. I told her that I don't even know who I am as I was so young when I was abused that I feel as though the person I may have become, or was perhaps destined to become, has been distorted. I briefly explained the impact I feel as though my past currently has on my everyday life. I talked about wanting to hurt myself and constantly feeling as though I am worthless and inferior. I talked about the barriers that I am working on breaking down with my friends; I am a lot more open with my current friends that I have met since being at university then I ever have been with friends previously but yet there is so much I feel that I can't tell them and so much that I feel like I will never be able to say. It's not even necessarily about wanting people to know these things but it's just my inability to even broach certain topics or feel comfortable within myself to admit that I feel terrible so much of the time.
Once I started talking everything just seemed to spew out of me in an incoherent and inarticulate rant. Nice one me, great fucking first impression I made there. I think Bernadette was perplexed. It felt as though she didn't really know what to say or what questions to ask but in hindsight she was giving me the opportunity to open up to her and lead the conversation. By me talking about what I wanted to talk about I guess she could form a better picture of me and where I'm at with my life and where I'm at with my emotions. It didn't feel like that at the time though and I left the session in an inwardly targeted rage. WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT? It felt as though I'm so fucked up that even a therapist won't be able to help me.
I went straight to the pharmacy and bought a packet of razorblades. I couldn't have stopped myself even if I had wanted to. I felt really ungrounded and out of control. I knew before I even went that was what I would do afterwards and had deliberately avoided making plans with friends so that I could be on my own and hurt myself. Several people had tried to arrange to see me that evening as they knew that it would be a difficult day for me but I refused. I stated that I would want to be on my own so that I could process the session but I think everyone knew as well as I did that I was lying.
On the bus home I tried to stem the tears but they just kept flowing. Crying in public is something that I desperately try to avoid but there I was in the middle of a Thursday afternoon on a crowded bus with tears literally pouring down my face. I didn't even care... I needed to cry.
When I got home I sat on the back door step and had a cigarette as a means to try and calm myself down, to try and restore some sense of control, but it just didn't happen. I had an empty house and a packet of razorblades - it doesn't take a genius to work out that things weren't going to be ideal. I felt really unsafe as though something really bad was about to happen. In some ways my gut instinct that something bad was about to happen was correct... I wanted to hide from the world but what I couldn't see at that point was the only person who was out to hurt me that day was myself and I would have been a lot safer had I surrounded myself with people I can trust.
I went upstairs and literally barricaded myself into my room with furniture. I hid under my desk with my duvet and wept as I sliced 100 lines into my thigh. I counted as I went along to give me something to focus upon besides the emotional pain which didn't seem to be subsiding as the physical pain got more intense. I have never felt such raw emotion or such hopelessness. I was sat on the floor covered in my own blood in a trance like state feeling all of the feelings and getting no relief from something that I had always been able to rely on. The one thing that had always helped and always made me feel some sense of stability and normality hadn't done it's job. I felt betrayed. Stupid, I know, but why was this happening? Why was I such a failure? Why was I so far beyond help?
And that's when the pill packet caught my eye. It was so impulsive and it just kind of happened before I could do anything about it. Thankfully I only took twelve tablets before I snapped out of it. "What the fuck are you doing? You stupid evil little bitch. Why are you doing that?" I punched the wall and knew that I had to stop. The combination of pills I had in front of me at that point probably would have killed me should I have taken them all but ultimately that isn't what I want. Why would I let the bastard win? After all that I've been through and everything that's happened? I broke down into a ball of fresh sobs and called my best friend to come and deal with me. I didn't feel safe and I realised that I couldn't be on my own... I hated that I had to rely on somebody else to be there for me and see me in that state but I didn't feel as though I had any choice...
I scared myself that day and it made me question whether going back to therapy would be the right thing to do. Was something that was meant to help ultimately going to end up killing me? I was so confused.
I have now had 6 therapy sessions and things are starting to click into place but it took a while for me to get here. So, let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start....
I had my first proper therapy session on the 20th March 2014 and it was a day like no other; it was horrendous.
The actual therapy itself wasn't too bad. I met my therapist Bernadette and my initial thought was bleurgh. I didn't feel an instant connection to her and she didn't make me want to blurt out every thought inside my head. I was very suspicious and didn't know if she would understand me or take me seriously. I think I would have been the same with any therapist I had been assigned to work with. My initial feelings had very little to do with her and a lot to do with my barriers and my reluctance to open up. I had been waiting for that appointment for so long but when it finally came I just couldn't find any words to sum up the answers to the brief introductory questions she asked... I felt as though I had failed already.
The main focus of the session was what it actually is that I want to achieve from therapy. The question is so simple but yet so hard. I DON'T KNOW. I told her that I wanted the impossible and that I want to be able to forget everything negative that has ever happened to me. I told her that I don't even know who I am as I was so young when I was abused that I feel as though the person I may have become, or was perhaps destined to become, has been distorted. I briefly explained the impact I feel as though my past currently has on my everyday life. I talked about wanting to hurt myself and constantly feeling as though I am worthless and inferior. I talked about the barriers that I am working on breaking down with my friends; I am a lot more open with my current friends that I have met since being at university then I ever have been with friends previously but yet there is so much I feel that I can't tell them and so much that I feel like I will never be able to say. It's not even necessarily about wanting people to know these things but it's just my inability to even broach certain topics or feel comfortable within myself to admit that I feel terrible so much of the time.
Once I started talking everything just seemed to spew out of me in an incoherent and inarticulate rant. Nice one me, great fucking first impression I made there. I think Bernadette was perplexed. It felt as though she didn't really know what to say or what questions to ask but in hindsight she was giving me the opportunity to open up to her and lead the conversation. By me talking about what I wanted to talk about I guess she could form a better picture of me and where I'm at with my life and where I'm at with my emotions. It didn't feel like that at the time though and I left the session in an inwardly targeted rage. WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT? It felt as though I'm so fucked up that even a therapist won't be able to help me.
I went straight to the pharmacy and bought a packet of razorblades. I couldn't have stopped myself even if I had wanted to. I felt really ungrounded and out of control. I knew before I even went that was what I would do afterwards and had deliberately avoided making plans with friends so that I could be on my own and hurt myself. Several people had tried to arrange to see me that evening as they knew that it would be a difficult day for me but I refused. I stated that I would want to be on my own so that I could process the session but I think everyone knew as well as I did that I was lying.
On the bus home I tried to stem the tears but they just kept flowing. Crying in public is something that I desperately try to avoid but there I was in the middle of a Thursday afternoon on a crowded bus with tears literally pouring down my face. I didn't even care... I needed to cry.
When I got home I sat on the back door step and had a cigarette as a means to try and calm myself down, to try and restore some sense of control, but it just didn't happen. I had an empty house and a packet of razorblades - it doesn't take a genius to work out that things weren't going to be ideal. I felt really unsafe as though something really bad was about to happen. In some ways my gut instinct that something bad was about to happen was correct... I wanted to hide from the world but what I couldn't see at that point was the only person who was out to hurt me that day was myself and I would have been a lot safer had I surrounded myself with people I can trust.
I went upstairs and literally barricaded myself into my room with furniture. I hid under my desk with my duvet and wept as I sliced 100 lines into my thigh. I counted as I went along to give me something to focus upon besides the emotional pain which didn't seem to be subsiding as the physical pain got more intense. I have never felt such raw emotion or such hopelessness. I was sat on the floor covered in my own blood in a trance like state feeling all of the feelings and getting no relief from something that I had always been able to rely on. The one thing that had always helped and always made me feel some sense of stability and normality hadn't done it's job. I felt betrayed. Stupid, I know, but why was this happening? Why was I such a failure? Why was I so far beyond help?
And that's when the pill packet caught my eye. It was so impulsive and it just kind of happened before I could do anything about it. Thankfully I only took twelve tablets before I snapped out of it. "What the fuck are you doing? You stupid evil little bitch. Why are you doing that?" I punched the wall and knew that I had to stop. The combination of pills I had in front of me at that point probably would have killed me should I have taken them all but ultimately that isn't what I want. Why would I let the bastard win? After all that I've been through and everything that's happened? I broke down into a ball of fresh sobs and called my best friend to come and deal with me. I didn't feel safe and I realised that I couldn't be on my own... I hated that I had to rely on somebody else to be there for me and see me in that state but I didn't feel as though I had any choice...
I scared myself that day and it made me question whether going back to therapy would be the right thing to do. Was something that was meant to help ultimately going to end up killing me? I was so confused.
Wednesday, 9 April 2014
'I began to feel like I was wearing a sign on my head that said FUCKED UP in big neon letters' Marya Hornbacher
Oh dear Mr Blog, I do seem to have neglected you rather frightfully recently. I didn't mean to abandon you, everything has been rather busy in my brain and I haven't really allowed myself to process everything that continues to happen to me. I think I am putting off the inevitable. This dealing with the past malarkey is actually sending me rather peculiar.
I guess I will start again from where I left off on this one....
So, after everything had gone to shit on the Saturday night, I spent the Sunday recoiling in horror and self pity in regards to the events of the previous evening. I sent a few texts promising that things would change and I would get sorted but they were very non committal. I knew at that point that I needed to do something but I wasn't entirely sure what. After feeling like everything had been taken out of my control when I was taken to the hospital I now felt as though the responsibility for controlling life had been torn up and rolled into little pellets of shit and shot back at me full force in a painful fashion. I felt as though I was drowning in my own metaphorical faeces and rather than helping me gather everything together so that I could move forward, the faecal explosion had left disgusting sediment everywhere. Once again, I felt like I really wanted to die.
Thankfully, I had the support of some amazing friends that day; the friend who picked me up from the hospital in the middle of the night looked after me for most of the next day by dragging me round town so she could buy an outfit for an interview whilst I was mopey and hungover, one of my housemates came home from his boyfriend's house to make sure I was okay when I rang him in tears and blubbed at him everything that had gone on, my other housemate who gave me the best hug ever when she returned from her weekend away. I may have had it slightly shitty in the past and whilst that effects me everyday, I am very fortunate in regards to the beautiful, wonderful friends that I have around me.
On Monday 17th March 2014, with the support of a friend, I began to collect some of the shit together and begin to organise it into a life plan of some description.
First call - the doctor's surgery. I was weary of this appointment. Whilst there has been information regarding my previous need for antidepressant medication on my notes for some time, nothing more sinister had ever been committed to record. It was time to face the music and admit that I wasn't coping and nothing was working to mask the past. I confessed everything and acknowledged that I needed to address the root cause of my declining state of mental health in order to ever be able to lay the past to rest and live a normal, functional life and react to events in a normal, functional way. The doctor was supportive and approachable and I felt as though he asked the right questions and listened carefully to my responses with respect; it was a lot easier to be open than I had initially expected.
I was expecting him to try and put me back on medication but when I explained that wasn't the path that I wanted to take, he agreed. He felt that the dose of Venlafaxine I had been prescribed previously was too high considering that it only made a slight improvement to my mood and insinuated that my depression seemed treatment resistant and unpredictable in its power. He felt as though the best way forward was to seek the opinion of a psychiatrist.
The words 'PTSD' type reaction/illness had been thrown about both in A+E and by other's since, and the doctor seemed to be making that same conclusion. I think I'm okay with that; the image that diagnosis would conjure for the majority is a normal human reaction to abnormal circumstances. PTSD seems as though it is a recoverable illness and it makes me feel hopeful that things can get better. I know that many of my behaviours and symptoms could be likened to those experienced by somebody with a diagnosis of borderline personality disorder but I really don't want a diagnosis that is quite so condemning and quite so stigmatising. I guess it's wrong for me to speculate as to what the psychiatrist may diagnose but I'm hoping the former diagnose would be more applicable.
Although, as normal where my life is concerned, nothing is ever that simple. Should my doctor have made a standard referral this would have been received and reviewed within the team where I have just finished placement, somewhere I may consider wanting to apply for a nursing job in the future. I discussed the option of an out of area referral being made due to these exceptional circumstances, however the doctor felt that this may jeopardise the supportive resources that I would be able to access. My doctor agreed that he would speak to the psychiatrist directly to discuss the option of avoiding the nursing aspect of the referral and 'getting me in the back door'. This seemed acceptable to me although it still filled me with dread that my name would now appear on the shared drive and I would now be searchable on the database for psychiatric patients.
But all in all, I felt as though I was taking positive steps forward and making the correct decision in allowing the referral to be made. I agreed to go and see the doctor the following week to discuss the outcome of his discussion with the psychiatrist.
Second call - my personal tutor's office. Having to finally be honest with my personal tutor about how things have been for me was perhaps the most difficult conversation to have of all. My tutor was aware that I had issues with depression and self harm in my first year but as far as she was currently aware everything was good for me now and I had turned into a complying student who achieved extremely highly, both academically and in practical elements of the course. Admitting that I had deceived her was horrible but as everyone else has also been, she was wonderful and supportive. It was reassuring to hear that I wasn't going to be kicked off my training course as a result of my mental health - this has always been a massive fear of mine and the main factor that has hindered my honesty about all things being slightly crazy.
Previously, disclosing my state of mental had resulted in referrals to occupational health to ensure that my fitness to practice was not being jeopardised by my issues, however on this occasion, this was not even mentioned which was a humongous internal sigh of relief. Her main priority was ensuring that I had the support I needed to complete the course to the best of my ability. I finally felt as though everyone was singing from the same hymn sheet in terms of what I want and what I need. I NEED to complete this course and register as a mental health nurse. It has been my whole life for so long that I think if it weren't to happen it would actually be the end of me and I would have nothing to fight for. I know that I can be a slightly lackadaisical student at times, my priorities aren't always where they should be, but I have worked fucking hard to get where I am today and I have broken down barriers to get here. I have achieved more than I ever thought was possible which is why it is so important to me that I don't lose all of this right at the last hurdle.
My tutor understood that but reiterated that my health and well-being still has to come first. She explained that should I feel that I needed time out from lectures that was okay and if I needed extended deadlines for my upcoming assignments then that was okay too. I felt as though a massive weight had been lifted from my shoulders and whilst I didn't intend to make use of the help she was making me aware of, it was good to know that these options were there as a last resort, a security blanket. All in all, it was a successful and positive tutorial which ended with me promising to stay in touch via email and see her regularly.
Third call - telephone communication with the sexual abuse counselling service. Earlier in the day I had text to inform the assessor woman that my mental health was deteriorating and provide her with a brief update of the weekends events. Shortly after returning home from the emotionally exhausting day of trying to get my life on track, she called. She had managed to find an available counsellor and I could start that Thursday. Bleurgh, I felt like I was literally going to chunder everywhere. I had been waiting for that moment for so long and now it was there I wanted to reverse time or pause life completely. But still, it was progress. Fucking buses, you wait and wait and wait and wait and then three turn up all at once. Why must it have to get to the stage where things are really bad for me to resort to asking for help and why must it get to this stage for people to take my mental health seriously and actually be proactive in their professional role? I'm a massive believer in prevention being better than cure but in this case I was definitely looking for a cure; something to heal me so that I can continue to survive.
I certainly went to bed marginally happier that night. I had done everything that I possibly could to get the professional support that I will need. My relationship with many of my friends was still completely obliterated but at least I could say I tried, genuinely fucking tried.
I guess I will start again from where I left off on this one....
So, after everything had gone to shit on the Saturday night, I spent the Sunday recoiling in horror and self pity in regards to the events of the previous evening. I sent a few texts promising that things would change and I would get sorted but they were very non committal. I knew at that point that I needed to do something but I wasn't entirely sure what. After feeling like everything had been taken out of my control when I was taken to the hospital I now felt as though the responsibility for controlling life had been torn up and rolled into little pellets of shit and shot back at me full force in a painful fashion. I felt as though I was drowning in my own metaphorical faeces and rather than helping me gather everything together so that I could move forward, the faecal explosion had left disgusting sediment everywhere. Once again, I felt like I really wanted to die.
Thankfully, I had the support of some amazing friends that day; the friend who picked me up from the hospital in the middle of the night looked after me for most of the next day by dragging me round town so she could buy an outfit for an interview whilst I was mopey and hungover, one of my housemates came home from his boyfriend's house to make sure I was okay when I rang him in tears and blubbed at him everything that had gone on, my other housemate who gave me the best hug ever when she returned from her weekend away. I may have had it slightly shitty in the past and whilst that effects me everyday, I am very fortunate in regards to the beautiful, wonderful friends that I have around me.
On Monday 17th March 2014, with the support of a friend, I began to collect some of the shit together and begin to organise it into a life plan of some description.
First call - the doctor's surgery. I was weary of this appointment. Whilst there has been information regarding my previous need for antidepressant medication on my notes for some time, nothing more sinister had ever been committed to record. It was time to face the music and admit that I wasn't coping and nothing was working to mask the past. I confessed everything and acknowledged that I needed to address the root cause of my declining state of mental health in order to ever be able to lay the past to rest and live a normal, functional life and react to events in a normal, functional way. The doctor was supportive and approachable and I felt as though he asked the right questions and listened carefully to my responses with respect; it was a lot easier to be open than I had initially expected.
I was expecting him to try and put me back on medication but when I explained that wasn't the path that I wanted to take, he agreed. He felt that the dose of Venlafaxine I had been prescribed previously was too high considering that it only made a slight improvement to my mood and insinuated that my depression seemed treatment resistant and unpredictable in its power. He felt as though the best way forward was to seek the opinion of a psychiatrist.
The words 'PTSD' type reaction/illness had been thrown about both in A+E and by other's since, and the doctor seemed to be making that same conclusion. I think I'm okay with that; the image that diagnosis would conjure for the majority is a normal human reaction to abnormal circumstances. PTSD seems as though it is a recoverable illness and it makes me feel hopeful that things can get better. I know that many of my behaviours and symptoms could be likened to those experienced by somebody with a diagnosis of borderline personality disorder but I really don't want a diagnosis that is quite so condemning and quite so stigmatising. I guess it's wrong for me to speculate as to what the psychiatrist may diagnose but I'm hoping the former diagnose would be more applicable.
Although, as normal where my life is concerned, nothing is ever that simple. Should my doctor have made a standard referral this would have been received and reviewed within the team where I have just finished placement, somewhere I may consider wanting to apply for a nursing job in the future. I discussed the option of an out of area referral being made due to these exceptional circumstances, however the doctor felt that this may jeopardise the supportive resources that I would be able to access. My doctor agreed that he would speak to the psychiatrist directly to discuss the option of avoiding the nursing aspect of the referral and 'getting me in the back door'. This seemed acceptable to me although it still filled me with dread that my name would now appear on the shared drive and I would now be searchable on the database for psychiatric patients.
But all in all, I felt as though I was taking positive steps forward and making the correct decision in allowing the referral to be made. I agreed to go and see the doctor the following week to discuss the outcome of his discussion with the psychiatrist.
Second call - my personal tutor's office. Having to finally be honest with my personal tutor about how things have been for me was perhaps the most difficult conversation to have of all. My tutor was aware that I had issues with depression and self harm in my first year but as far as she was currently aware everything was good for me now and I had turned into a complying student who achieved extremely highly, both academically and in practical elements of the course. Admitting that I had deceived her was horrible but as everyone else has also been, she was wonderful and supportive. It was reassuring to hear that I wasn't going to be kicked off my training course as a result of my mental health - this has always been a massive fear of mine and the main factor that has hindered my honesty about all things being slightly crazy.
Previously, disclosing my state of mental had resulted in referrals to occupational health to ensure that my fitness to practice was not being jeopardised by my issues, however on this occasion, this was not even mentioned which was a humongous internal sigh of relief. Her main priority was ensuring that I had the support I needed to complete the course to the best of my ability. I finally felt as though everyone was singing from the same hymn sheet in terms of what I want and what I need. I NEED to complete this course and register as a mental health nurse. It has been my whole life for so long that I think if it weren't to happen it would actually be the end of me and I would have nothing to fight for. I know that I can be a slightly lackadaisical student at times, my priorities aren't always where they should be, but I have worked fucking hard to get where I am today and I have broken down barriers to get here. I have achieved more than I ever thought was possible which is why it is so important to me that I don't lose all of this right at the last hurdle.
My tutor understood that but reiterated that my health and well-being still has to come first. She explained that should I feel that I needed time out from lectures that was okay and if I needed extended deadlines for my upcoming assignments then that was okay too. I felt as though a massive weight had been lifted from my shoulders and whilst I didn't intend to make use of the help she was making me aware of, it was good to know that these options were there as a last resort, a security blanket. All in all, it was a successful and positive tutorial which ended with me promising to stay in touch via email and see her regularly.
Third call - telephone communication with the sexual abuse counselling service. Earlier in the day I had text to inform the assessor woman that my mental health was deteriorating and provide her with a brief update of the weekends events. Shortly after returning home from the emotionally exhausting day of trying to get my life on track, she called. She had managed to find an available counsellor and I could start that Thursday. Bleurgh, I felt like I was literally going to chunder everywhere. I had been waiting for that moment for so long and now it was there I wanted to reverse time or pause life completely. But still, it was progress. Fucking buses, you wait and wait and wait and wait and then three turn up all at once. Why must it have to get to the stage where things are really bad for me to resort to asking for help and why must it get to this stage for people to take my mental health seriously and actually be proactive in their professional role? I'm a massive believer in prevention being better than cure but in this case I was definitely looking for a cure; something to heal me so that I can continue to survive.
I certainly went to bed marginally happier that night. I had done everything that I possibly could to get the professional support that I will need. My relationship with many of my friends was still completely obliterated but at least I could say I tried, genuinely fucking tried.
Tuesday, 1 April 2014
'How can I walk with a smile and get on with my day, when I deceived myself pretending it's all okay? I tried to hold it all together. I know the strings have worn away and now I'm all exposed' Katy B
The next incident I want to talk about happened on Saturday 15th March, the day after I returned to my university city from my week at home. Writing about this is particularly difficult because it was so significant to where I am at with life right now; it was certainly the catalyst, the final push, a wake up call. I don't know everything that happened or exactly what was said or the order of events because I was particularly intoxicated.
I went to the pub around the corner from my house with friends. It was early afternoon but sharing one bottle of wine quickly turned to several and as the alcohol poured I became less and less and less in control of my emotions. I was already emotionally edging having had a shitty and distressing week at home and adding alcohol to the whole mix was a particularly horrendous idea, especially when there was copious amounts of it.
I remember sitting on a swing in the play area of the pub with my friend and I remember that prior to that, some of the group conversations had been touching on dodgy territory but I can't remember quite at which point I completely lost it, or even the point at which I lost it slightly. I have no recollection of this but apparently I was deliberately and repeatedly banging my head on something solid and when my friend tried to stop me I punched her in the face. I vaguely remember words being exchanged. I was told that at this point I threatened to throw myself in the canal but I found out this week that wasn't the case and I was actually told by a very upset friend, who was at the end of her tether with me, to go and jump in the canal. Either way, I ran off, in the direction of the canal. I have no memory of this so I am not entirely sure if my plan was to jump in or whether I was simply taking the short cut home. I had abandoned (or perhaps had taken from me) my keys and my purse so there was no way I could get in.
I ended up at my neighbours house pouring my soul out to her. This particular neighbour is not without her own issues and also has pretty serious problems with alcohol. But she was amazing and she was there for me with absolutely zero judgement. Eventually I communicated with one of the friend's I had been with previously and they came to retrieve me. They had all been panicking and had been running up and down the canal trying to find me, terrified that I had jumped in. As I was leaving my neighbours house I called her an alcoholic in the street and she got mad with me.
I don't know what happened from there but I remember that nobody would give me my bag and when I did get my hands on it somebody had removed the razorblades that were within it. I remember desperately wanting to hurt myself, or at least be in the position whereby I had the tools to do it with. Batshit crazy, I know. I can't control myself when I'm like that and I turn into some kind of savage animal... I scare myself and I scare everyone around me.
My friends didn't know what to do and made a group decision to call for back up and the next thing I know I'm in my friend's room with paramedics and police officers. I have never experienced the combination of emotions all at one point that I experienced as I was talking to them. I was terrified about what was going to happen to me, I was disgusted with myself for wasting people's time and much needed resources, I saw my whole future crumble before my eyes, I felt betrayed by my friend's (how could they do that to me?), I felt angry too, but somewhere, amongst all the negative emotion, I felt a small sense of relief. I was being taken seriously. I felt as though everything was being taken out of my hands but in some ways that was reassuring; I am always irrational when dealing with my own mental health so for somebody else to deal with it may mean that my best interests are actually being addressed, even if it doesn't feel like it at the time.
I eventually agreed that they could take me to hospital for a psychiatric assessment as long as they didn't take me to the local hospital where I work and took me to the one in the nearest city; they were happy for this to happen and could understand why I was so adamant that this should be the case. I didn't want to go in for an assessment but I knew that had I not agreed it was likely that I would be taken there forcefully and I didn't want that to happen. That would not only have been even more terrifying but also potentially career destroying and as I was intoxicated it would have been likely that I would have ended up in a police cell as opposed to a psychiatric facility.
I walked out of my friends bedroom to find everybody waiting to find out what the outcome was. My friends have told me since that the look that I gave them was a mixture of wanting to murder them all and feeling utterly betrayed by them. Although I think those thoughts were probably in my head amongst all of the other shit, my main feeling at that point was fear. A friend that hadn't been drinking with us, but whom lived at the house where I was and had been involved in the decision to make the call, came in the ambulance with me to the hospital.
I barely spoke in the ambulance. I didn't know what to say to anybody and the whole situation seemed horrendously nonsensical and ridiculous. I tried to digest some of the events that had occurred and began to make a plan of action as to what I should say when I was assessed.
When we arrived at the hospital we sat in the waiting room. My fury had began to grow and I behaved like a bit of a twat. When I saw the triage nurse it was evident that there wasn't much she could do for me so I mocked her and told her that she could take my blood pressure. My friend was far from impressed but at that point I felt as though everyone else was to blame for me being there. I suppose I was trying to come across badly so that the triage nurse would persuade the psych team to come down quicker and I could go home. It worked and it wasn't long before I was seen.
The psychiatric nurse asked me to do an alcohol breathalyser test to ensure I was sober enough for the assessment. Those things are really fucking hard and I couldn't blow for long enough but I managed to persuade the guy to continue with his assessment without a result; otherwise I would have just been left to sober up and I wanted to get out of that place as quickly as possible. I probably wasn't all that sober but that's not really relevant. Initially, I didn't feel able to directly answer some of the questions and I wasn't overly willing to engage but he was a good nurse and slowly but surely I began to open up to him. The assessment seemed to go on for hours but in reality it was probably only about half an hour and then he concluded that the most sensible option would be for me to go home and follow up with my GP. I knew that the hospital visit would be a waste of time but perhaps it was the kick up the arse I needed.
It was still the middle of the night and we were stranded far from home. Our other friend's who we had left at home were still over the limit and therefore unable to drive to collect us. Thankfully another friend agreed to retrieve us and she then offered that I could stay at hers. I didn't want to stay with the friends whom I had been with when everything had kicked off but everybody was in agreement that they weren't going to let me go home on my own. I couldn't face the others at that point and I seriously doubt that they would have wanted me about. I had to go back in the house to collect my keys but apparently all I provided in terms of reassurance as to my wellbeing was another venomous stare.
The following Monday I went about making some steps to get myself sorted...
I went to the pub around the corner from my house with friends. It was early afternoon but sharing one bottle of wine quickly turned to several and as the alcohol poured I became less and less and less in control of my emotions. I was already emotionally edging having had a shitty and distressing week at home and adding alcohol to the whole mix was a particularly horrendous idea, especially when there was copious amounts of it.
I remember sitting on a swing in the play area of the pub with my friend and I remember that prior to that, some of the group conversations had been touching on dodgy territory but I can't remember quite at which point I completely lost it, or even the point at which I lost it slightly. I have no recollection of this but apparently I was deliberately and repeatedly banging my head on something solid and when my friend tried to stop me I punched her in the face. I vaguely remember words being exchanged. I was told that at this point I threatened to throw myself in the canal but I found out this week that wasn't the case and I was actually told by a very upset friend, who was at the end of her tether with me, to go and jump in the canal. Either way, I ran off, in the direction of the canal. I have no memory of this so I am not entirely sure if my plan was to jump in or whether I was simply taking the short cut home. I had abandoned (or perhaps had taken from me) my keys and my purse so there was no way I could get in.
I ended up at my neighbours house pouring my soul out to her. This particular neighbour is not without her own issues and also has pretty serious problems with alcohol. But she was amazing and she was there for me with absolutely zero judgement. Eventually I communicated with one of the friend's I had been with previously and they came to retrieve me. They had all been panicking and had been running up and down the canal trying to find me, terrified that I had jumped in. As I was leaving my neighbours house I called her an alcoholic in the street and she got mad with me.
I don't know what happened from there but I remember that nobody would give me my bag and when I did get my hands on it somebody had removed the razorblades that were within it. I remember desperately wanting to hurt myself, or at least be in the position whereby I had the tools to do it with. Batshit crazy, I know. I can't control myself when I'm like that and I turn into some kind of savage animal... I scare myself and I scare everyone around me.
My friends didn't know what to do and made a group decision to call for back up and the next thing I know I'm in my friend's room with paramedics and police officers. I have never experienced the combination of emotions all at one point that I experienced as I was talking to them. I was terrified about what was going to happen to me, I was disgusted with myself for wasting people's time and much needed resources, I saw my whole future crumble before my eyes, I felt betrayed by my friend's (how could they do that to me?), I felt angry too, but somewhere, amongst all the negative emotion, I felt a small sense of relief. I was being taken seriously. I felt as though everything was being taken out of my hands but in some ways that was reassuring; I am always irrational when dealing with my own mental health so for somebody else to deal with it may mean that my best interests are actually being addressed, even if it doesn't feel like it at the time.
I eventually agreed that they could take me to hospital for a psychiatric assessment as long as they didn't take me to the local hospital where I work and took me to the one in the nearest city; they were happy for this to happen and could understand why I was so adamant that this should be the case. I didn't want to go in for an assessment but I knew that had I not agreed it was likely that I would be taken there forcefully and I didn't want that to happen. That would not only have been even more terrifying but also potentially career destroying and as I was intoxicated it would have been likely that I would have ended up in a police cell as opposed to a psychiatric facility.
I walked out of my friends bedroom to find everybody waiting to find out what the outcome was. My friends have told me since that the look that I gave them was a mixture of wanting to murder them all and feeling utterly betrayed by them. Although I think those thoughts were probably in my head amongst all of the other shit, my main feeling at that point was fear. A friend that hadn't been drinking with us, but whom lived at the house where I was and had been involved in the decision to make the call, came in the ambulance with me to the hospital.
I barely spoke in the ambulance. I didn't know what to say to anybody and the whole situation seemed horrendously nonsensical and ridiculous. I tried to digest some of the events that had occurred and began to make a plan of action as to what I should say when I was assessed.
When we arrived at the hospital we sat in the waiting room. My fury had began to grow and I behaved like a bit of a twat. When I saw the triage nurse it was evident that there wasn't much she could do for me so I mocked her and told her that she could take my blood pressure. My friend was far from impressed but at that point I felt as though everyone else was to blame for me being there. I suppose I was trying to come across badly so that the triage nurse would persuade the psych team to come down quicker and I could go home. It worked and it wasn't long before I was seen.
The psychiatric nurse asked me to do an alcohol breathalyser test to ensure I was sober enough for the assessment. Those things are really fucking hard and I couldn't blow for long enough but I managed to persuade the guy to continue with his assessment without a result; otherwise I would have just been left to sober up and I wanted to get out of that place as quickly as possible. I probably wasn't all that sober but that's not really relevant. Initially, I didn't feel able to directly answer some of the questions and I wasn't overly willing to engage but he was a good nurse and slowly but surely I began to open up to him. The assessment seemed to go on for hours but in reality it was probably only about half an hour and then he concluded that the most sensible option would be for me to go home and follow up with my GP. I knew that the hospital visit would be a waste of time but perhaps it was the kick up the arse I needed.
It was still the middle of the night and we were stranded far from home. Our other friend's who we had left at home were still over the limit and therefore unable to drive to collect us. Thankfully another friend agreed to retrieve us and she then offered that I could stay at hers. I didn't want to stay with the friends whom I had been with when everything had kicked off but everybody was in agreement that they weren't going to let me go home on my own. I couldn't face the others at that point and I seriously doubt that they would have wanted me about. I had to go back in the house to collect my keys but apparently all I provided in terms of reassurance as to my wellbeing was another venomous stare.
The following Monday I went about making some steps to get myself sorted...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)