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.
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