Saturday, November 28, 2015

She is dying

She is lying in hospital dying.  I heard third hand.  I lost contact when her deteriorating MS and my deteriorating madness made communication impossible.

I will mourn her enormously.  If someone even tells me she is gone.

I already miss her company, the company that was stolen from us by her fucked up myelin sheathes and my fucked up hippocampus.

I miss sitting in her house getting progressively more pissed, talking complete rubbish and crying laughing.

I miss setting the world to rights.

I miss making her endless cups of tea and mocking her addiction to the British solution.

I miss Chinese food and endless discussions of what we did and didn't want to order but never forgetting to ask them to nip in next door to buy us a bottle of gin and some mixers to add to our delivery order.

I miss arguing theology, politics, life.

I miss talking about books.

I miss her outlook and view on the world.

I miss her sense of humour.

I miss her wisdom so much it breaks me.

I miss the essence of who she was stolen by that fucking disease.

And she's not even dead yet.

As far as I know.

Saturday, November 14, 2015

Emotional evisceration

As part of my complaint about my previous psychiatrist appointment, on Tuesday I had a second opinion with a psychiatrist who works in Next Town Over.  I had heard he was very nice and very good at what he did.  Because there was so much debate about what was and wasn't said at the last appointment I had arranged an advocate to come with me.  I could have asked a friend but there are things you don't want your friends to know about.

I was terrified for days before.  Those rushes of anxiety that run through your body seemingly starting at your feet and coming through you like waves until your brain can't settle to anything.  I spent the whole weekend before completely unable to concentrate on anything.  Pacing around the house, five minutes reading, five minutes online, pace pace pace.

One of the things the trust had said in their last letter was that I should have told Dr Perky that I had taken diazepam before the appointment so she would have known that my anxiety was reduced by it.  To prevent this being an issue this time I didn't take it.  I did have to take antiemetics and loperamide as my anxiety was clearly causing my stomach to explode!

The psychiatrist was very pleasant and treated me very respectfully.  He said he'd read my notes but he wanted to go through things with me to hear what I had to say. He asked me to call him by his first name and asked if it was ok for him to call me mine.  I like that because it stops me playing my stupid piss the doctor off game where I wait til they address me by my first name then reply using theirs to see how they react.

He asked me what the main problems were and I told him anxiety and PTSD.  He wanted to break them down into more specific issues.  We discussed the panic attacks, the constant fear of everything, the randomness of the anxiety and how it stopped me doing completely normal things.  I could cope with this.

The he moved on to the PTSD.  He asked me about my past.  He said he didn't want to know many details because he was aware that that would be distressing and triggering.  But he did need to know some.  I said my parents were very abusive and he said that abuse was a big word and asked more specifically.  I found myself struggling with this, not because of what he asked which was actually relatively low key, but by the fact there was this aura of sympathy coming from him.  (Yes, I am aware that this sounds like new age bollocks.)

The conversation moved on to other things, my time in care, my relationships, suicidal ideation and intent, self harm, how I relate to my family now, sex; all the things psychiatrists seem to need to know.  I realised how much I struggle with remembering what happened when and I was aware that my chronology wasn't making sense.  When I said this to him he seemed remarkably unbothered.

At the end we discussed diagnosis.  He clearly wasn't a medical model type as medication was the last thing he mentioned.  He agreed that I didn't have borderline personality disorder although when bad I could display traits of this.  Instead he said I had GAD and 'chronic severe PTSD.'  I concur.

All this seems so straightforward but now I'm a complete mess.  There were instances during the appointment that I felt like he was reaching into my psyche and completely fucking with it.  The problem was his sympathy and his reactions.  He was writing notes as we talked, as they all do, and four or five times when I said something his head jumped up and he looked straight at me.  He looked like he was shocked.  I found that unbearable.  One of my coping mechanisms is minimising what happened to me.  I acknowledge that it did happen but I try to normalise it as much as possible.  His shock did not allow me to do that.  Psychiatrists must hear horrible shit all the time and to shock them is distressing.

We were talking about my childhood self harm which was very ritualised and started when I was very young.  He asked me what I thought of it looking back now as an adult.  I couldn't say that it made me feel physically sick with disgust and shame and horror so I just replied that it was very maladjusted.  He looked at me for a moment and said that he thought it was very sad.  I wanted to collapse in on myself and no longer exist.

Several times he looked at me and said, 'you've had trauma on top of trauma on top of trauma your whole life.'  That troubled me hugely as I don't want to admit this to myself.  I need to hide from it to stay sane.  Then he said there was no wonder I had GAD as all my life the world must have seemed a hugely threatening place with no safety in it.

The appointment ended and I came home.  (My car's brakes failing on the way but never mind.)  I went to the serial killer that evening and as soon as I arrived I just cried.  I cried not in the sexy tear rolling down one cheek way but in the snotty, retching for breath, whole body shaking way.  I felt like someone had reached inside me and run their claws through my pain.

Since then I have been struggling.  I lie in bed at night and my mind can't stop thinking about his sympathy, his shock and his understanding.  I think of the specifics of things that happened and how he would react to them.  I can't not think of these things.  I try to distract myself as much as possible but they still overtake me.  I keep seeing the sadness he had in his eyes and I want to scream at him that he knows nothing.  He knows a rough overview of what happened.  He has no idea how it really is, how it really feels to have all these things inside of you and having to control them all the time.  How the past invades you and can never let you go.  How the sadness is unbearable and the fear overwhelming.  I want to shock him.  I want to hold my truths out to him and make him face every single one of them.  I want to know how a human being reacts when faced with these things.  I want to understand his emotional reactions because I want to know how I should feel.

This is clearly a ridiculous response to an appointment with a psychiatrist who treated me with respect and dignity.  I should be grateful that he behaved responsibly and appropriately.  Instead I am furious with him for being human.

Sunday, July 26, 2015


At the moment I am engulfed in fear.  My anxiety has gone beyond what is normal anxiety and is completely controlling my life.  The problem is work.  Not the usual internal bullshit but external events that my work has no control over but which impacts me and everyone else every single day.  To be fair, my managers have been quite understanding but that doesn't prevent my constant fear.

I need to feel like I am in control.  I cannot abide living in a way that means my life is controlled by a third party but this is the position I'm currently in.  If I go to work a third party decides when, how and if I get home.  This leads to constant uncertainty and now that uncertainty has led to fear.  I spoke to my boss about it and she agrees that there is a perfect storm surrounding my work.  As a result she has agreed I can work in the office for a week to see what happens.  But the reality is that nothing will change in a week and my fear is so high that I struggle to cope with even the office.  I'm not there today because I spent last night driving around the area that I live because my fear had created a fixation that if I didn't do this then I would be trapped in my town forever with no way out.

I feel incredible guilt because everyone else I work with is facing the same situation but I'm the one who can't cope.  I've spent weeks discussing this with the serial killer and trying to find some escape from the oppressive fear I'm living with but I can't.

The grounds for my fear are rational.  My reaction to it is not.  I spent so many years trapped in a terrifying situation as a child looking for escape and knowing there wasn't one.  When I was about four I ran away.  It all got too much for me.  But I was four and I knew I wasn't allowed to cross the road myself so I just ran round and round the block until I got tired.  That is how I feel now - that the fear is all encompassing and I'm completely trapped and there is no escape.

I am constantly in flashback mode.  The flashbacks aren't physical reminders of what happened.  Instead I am reliving over and over the emotions of terror and being trapped and this resulting in bad things happening.  When I go to work I am constantly waiting for the bad news, for the inevitable information that I am, to all intents and purposes, trapped.  That I cannot leave and get home to a safe place.  That there is no safe place.  Instead of feeling the frustration, tiredness and irritation I should be facing, I feel the fear of waiting to be hurt in one of the hideous ways my parents chose to hurt me.

I don't know what to do.  I have been looking around for other jobs but there isn't really anything locally and I don't want to go and lose the support network I have here (social support because the cmht is still fucking me about.  They've discharged me but not informed the GP so the cmht won't offer any support and the GP can't because I'm officially still under the care of the cmht).

I don't know what to do.  I don't know how to stop the constant adrenaline that controls me.  I don't know how to stop shaking, being jumpy, seeing things, believing things that aren't true.  Yes, I do know that the flies that come in my house when I leave a window open are not spying on me.  Yes, I struggle to believe that when I'm hiding from them.

I have to cope with this.  If I don't I don't have a job.  If I don't have a job I can't pay my mortgage and then I'm fucked.  The only thing is that I can't escape from the oppression of almost 40 years of fear being focused in my mind because of how things are at work.

Saturday, May 30, 2015

The NHS has given up on me

Last week I was meant to have an appointment with the cpn but she cancelled it.  Instead she rang yesterday.  She told me that I have been discharged back to my GP.  I asked her what happened now and she told me that if I needed help with the madness I should speak to my GP.

It was last May that Dr Perky told me that I was being discharged so I could be under someone else's budget.  The (mainly erroneous) letter she wrote to my GP stated that I no longer needed such 'intensive treatment.'  The intensive treatment the cmht has provided for me is one psychiatrist appointment in the last three years and half a dozen appointments with the cpn a year.  I'd hate to think what non intensive treatment consists of - do they wave in the direction of your house as they drive past?

In the year since then I've discussed what my discharge would consist of.  Last time I saw the cpn I was told that I would be under the care of a cpn who is funded by my GP.  Apparently that is no longer happening.  I asked the cpn why and she said she didn't know.  She also told me that from yesterday I would no longer be able to make use of the crisis team.

There are reasons why I've not engaged with the cpn over recent years.  The main one being that she spent the whole time talking about herself and was useless when it came to me.  I know all about her parents, her nieces, her cousin who did time for fraud, her horse, her boyfriend, the fact her boyfriend's daughter self harms, what she likes to eat and which restaurants she goes to, what type of contraceptive she uses, what type of clothes she does and doesn't like to wear, the tattoos she's getting removed by laser, her relationship with her bosses, how seeing a waitress with self harm scars put her off her food, which psychiatrists she does and doesn't like etc etc.  I don't know if this is normal stuff for a cpn to tell a patient but it hasn't worked as a method of making me better.

Whenever I talked to her about things that were happening with me, her stock answers were 'that's just anxiety' or 'you need to discuss that with the serial killer.'  Her most impressive response was when I told her that my sisters had refused to give evidence to the police was 'well you just need to live with it.'

At no point has she provided any actual useful insights, skills or anything else that might make things easier for me.  When I asked for help to cope with the massive anxiety that underpins every aspect of everything I do she has told me 'when I'm anxious I go and ride my horse' and 'I don't know how to cope with anxiety, I don't have it.'  Personally I would have hoped that her professional training would have given her some ideas but ho hum.  When I spoke to her about my food problems she told me that there used to be a poster up that said something about eating but it had been taken down.

Thinking about it, there's no wonder I just couldn't face dealing with her on a more regular basis.  Repeating a pointless act over and over is pointless.  I think of my previous case worker who actually was useful at times although not all the time and the difference is enormous.

But even so I'm gutted about being discharged and I'm gutted that she couldn't even bother meeting up with me to tell me.  The reason I'm gutted about being discharged is that of the two GPs in my practice who were any good with mental health problems, one has left and the other is retiring next month.  The other GPs are of the type who just hand me my prescriptions once a month and probably wouldn't notice if I hanged myself in the corner of their consulting room.  There is now no one on the NHS side that I can go to for help.  I've been told that I can be referred back to the cmht but it's unlikely they'll take me on as they're going to be concentrating on crisis work because the crisis team is underfunded.  To be referred back I have to be at crisis point and then apparently the GP will send a fax and someone who I've never met will decide whether they take me on or not.

This seems completely ludicrous to me.  Why are they discharging people who clearly are not in a position to be discharged because they know it's only a matter of time before they are referred back again?  Why have they provided me with almost zero support for years and because I respond to that lack of support by not asking for support because I know I'm not going to get it, do they tell me I no longer need support?  It's stupid and short term thinking and fucked up and it hurts.  It hurts that they don't give a fuck about me, my needs, how I feel, how I am or am not coping and what my future holds.  It scares me because I know I need support but I know I'm not going to get it. At least when I was in the system there was the possibility that someone might be useful.  Now that's gone.  And I also know that the times when I'm in crisis are the times when I don't have the energy to go through the rigmarole of asking to be referred by a GP who sees you as a waste of time and has no interest in you.

I have the serial killer left.  That's fab.  I'm officially now only able to be mental between 1700 and 1750 on a Tuesday afternoon and then only if I pay for it myself.  But unfortunately life doesn't work like that.  I can't time my mental illness to coincide with the serial killer's appointment schedule.  And any time I ask the serial killer for practical advice on how to cope with something she tells me that that's not her function.  Which is fine but now there is nobody who's function it is to help me keep my head above water.

Life is not easy at the moment.  I'm in the middle of a three month attendance warning at work and can only have a specified minimal time off sick until it's over.  I'm wasting one of these sick days today because I couldn't make it to a 12 hour shift after spending most of the previous 18 hours crying my eyes out.  I'm struggling with my family.  I can't forgive my sisters.  I'm struggling with my new niece in that I love her to bits but part of my head wants me to kill her.  I keep seeing and hearing things that aren't there which scares the shit out of me.  I still have a yellow snake inside me that wants to kill me.  I'm isolating myself from even my best mates because I can't cope with trying to be half way normal.  I'm even isolating myself from fucking twitter. I'm increasingly obsessive about suicide and self harm.  I spend at least an hour a day writing and rewriting the notes I want to leave for people so they are perfect.  I'm selling off the things I don't need to make clearing my house easier for my executor.  I spend hours at night lying fantasising about how I'm going to kill myself, which method would be best for me, most effective, least bad for those left behind.  I lie there imagining the relief I will feel after I jump over that cliff or swim out to sea or jump in front of that lorry or whatever.

I'm aware that none of these things are good things but there is no one to talk to about them.  The only resource left is a helpline you can phone.  I've phoned them twice and both times they've told me to phone the crisis team.  Oh ooops I can no longer phone the crisis team because they don't want to pay for my care.

For some reason I no longer fit the NHS's algorithms so I am no longer someone they can be bothered with.

Friday, April 03, 2015

It's all a lie

My entire life is a lie. All my relationships with everyone are predicated on lies. I cannot be who I am because who I am is unacceptable to anyone.

My relationship with my family is a lie.  I have been betrayed over and over again by them.  My parents have betrayed me my whole life.  My sisters have betrayed me by refusing to speak to the police.  I have so much anger with them that it consumes me.  I cannot be betrayed more by them.  But still I call them, visit them, talk to them.  Still I pretend that everything is alright.  I pretend that I don't hate them, that I don't want their world to disintegrate so it resembles mine.  But the reality is I want to scream and shout at them.  I want to tell them that their selfishness has destroyed the tiny remnant of hope I ever had.  Their children have betrayed me by their very existence.  Mocking my childlessness and my lack of love.

My relationship with everyone else is a lie.  Tomorrow I will go to work.  I will put on a face and talk shite to my colleagues.  I will do my job, be friendly, chatty and smiley.  Inside I will want to die.  I will talk nonsense whilst internally trying to think of ways to kill, hurt and destroy myself.

My relationship with the serial killer is a lie.  I hate her at the moment.  She knows how bad things are but she's fucked off on holiday leaving me with no support.  I've texted the cpn asking for an appointment but she can't be arsed with me and hasn't replied.  Last appointment with the serial killer I screamed and shouted at her.  Told her how I felt.  Told her I didn't trust her.  She got really pissed off with me for the first time and started bullshitting that I was impugning her professional ethics.  I wasn't.  I was just trying to tell her how it is to be me.  I don't trust the cmht any more.  I'm still waiting to the response to my complaint about the psychiatrist.  They will more than likely lie and cover up her lies.

I even lie to myself.  I pretend I'm ok.  I fill my life with things to do so I can attempt to escape the reality of who I am.  The rational side of myself forces me to behave in ways I don't want to because it's socially acceptable.  But really I don't feel like being socially acceptable.  I want to be me.  And if being me means destroying everything then that's what I'm going to have to do.

Easter weekend is always extremely triggering.  I have no idea why.  There is probably some memory hidden in the recesses that I don't want to access.  Some awfulness that makes everything unbearable.  I think I've attempted suicide twice on an Easter weekend.  Last night I wanted to take an overdose.  I didn't.  I thought and thought about it. I realised I didn't want to die, I just wanted to explain that the real me is coming out.

What happens when the real me takes over?  What happens when the straining rational side of me eventually splits?  How will people deal with me then?  Will I be outcast from my family, my social circle, my work?  Will I just give up and not be anymore?  The effort involved in hiding the reality is too much.  The snake, Notgod and the creatures that torment me are exhausting me.  I have run out of bullshit methods of distraction.  A bath, a brew and a benzo no longer work.

I could phone the crisis team but what's the fucking point.  They've been told that they've got to concentrate on s136s at the exclusion of all else and I imagine with the long bank holiday there will be a lot of them and nothing for me.  The crisis team don't give a fuck anyway.  They just talk shite on the phone and then tell me they'll fax my cpn who six months later will make an appointment and talk about her horse.

I am so angry, so alone and so betrayed and decompensating and nobody seems to recognise that because I have lied to everybody and pretended that I'm ok because all I know how to do is lie.  I have been brought up to think that lies are truth and truth are lies.  The 1984 of my life.

The only thing that is giving me comfort is a line from a poem by Wordsworth.  I'm not really into poetry and I can't even be arsed googling the whole poem and reading it but this is the reality of who I am:

Voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone

Except I'm no longer voyaging, I'm drowning.

Friday, March 20, 2015

The Yellow Snake of Words of Hatred

***Trigger warning***

And so I went to Scotland.  So many posts begin like this and so many of them have similar fucked up content.  I went to see my new niece about whom I have so many conflicted and complicated feelings.  I managed to contain these feelings inside me.  I saw all the other members of my family about whom I have so many conflicted and complicated feelings.  I managed to contain these feelings inside me.  I contain everything up there.  One leak would bring down the whole edifice.

While I was up there my sister and brother in law took the opportunity to go away overnight while I looked after the kids.  That is much easier now they're that wee bit older and can respond to common sense.  I played with them, fed them their dinner, mucked about with them, got them into their jammies, read them their bedtime stories and put them to bed where they went to sleep.  I felt like a child rearing genius.

I was curled up on the sofa downstairs when the bell rang.  I opened the door and it was my bloody parents.  They told me my sister had asked them to pop up to stay over so if anything happened with the kids I'd be ok.  I didn't want to phone my sister to check as this was the first time they'd been away together without the kids for six years.  I told them I was fine but they came in anyway.

After a couple of hours of excruciating non conversation I went to bed.  I was sleeping in my sister and brother in law's room next door to the kids so if either of them got up in the night and came through they wouldn't be freaked out.  My parents went to bed in the room downstairs where I usually sleep.  I thought about blocking the door but realised I couldn't as the kids would find it that way if they woke up in the night.

I fell asleep and was woken up by someone coming into the room.  I vaguely thought it was one of the kids and half rolled over to see if they were ok when a hand clamped over my mouth and nose rendering me unable to breathe.  My father.  My mind rapidly cycled through my options.  Fight was impossible as I couldn't risk waking the kids up.  Submission again meant letting him do what he wanted and the kids could come through and see.  I could feel the dizziness running though my head and feel myself almost pass out when I just rolled out of bed as I was lying on the edge, fell onto the floor, picked myself up and ran to the bathroom on the landing.

The bathroom there has no lock.  I lay on the floor, my feet against the door, my head and shoulders against the bath, trying to keep the door closed.  I just remember telling myself to lock all my joints so he couldn't get in.  Irrationally the song 'the knee bones connected to the hip bone' kept going through my head.

He tried to get in but he couldn't.  Instead he sat outside and hissed words of evil and hatred at me.  The usual words of my evil, my inadequacy, my destruction, my awfulness.  I saw them form into a yellow snake of letters and words of hatred which crawled towards me and got inside me, moving around inside my body and brain.

He went away eventually but the yellow snake has remained.  It has remained ever since.  I can feel it all the time.  I lie in bed and it squeezes my lungs until I can't breathe.  It coils round my stomach and makes me throw up.  It enters my brain and I hear it's parseltongue of hatred hissing inside my head.  There is no escape from it.  All the time it is there hissing its evil imprecations.

Yes, I am aware that it doesn't really exist.  Yes, I am aware that it is another manifestation of the massive stress I am under after something like that has happened.  Yes, I am aware of the massive Freudian phallicness of the whole thing.  None of these things make any difference as I experience what I experience.  I long to attack it with a knife, dig it out my body and my mind and kill it but to do that would kill me also.  Which may not in itself be altogether a bad thing.

Sunday, February 01, 2015

I am not normal

I was in Scotland last week for a long weekend for my niece's birthday.  It's the first time I've seen my sisters since they decided not to speak to the police and I was really concerned about it.  I wanted to discuss it with them but also knew that talking about it would be almost impossible as it's something we've never done.

I didn't even try to speak to my wee sister as she was 37 weeks pregnant and I didn't see her on her own and it isn't the kind of conversation you can have at a toddler's party.  So many times I tried to bring it up with my big sister but I just couldn't get the words past my throat and then the circumstances changed and it was no longer appropriate.

The truth is I'm tired.  I'm tired of being the only person in my family who will recognise the truth.  I'm tired of having to fit in with them but without them having to make any effort to fit in with me.  I'm tired of doing what they think is right for them without them even considering what could be right for me.  It just underlines the feeling that in my family I don't matter.

The division that was created twenty eight years ago when we were taken into care is still there.  I don't know why they were together and I wasn't with them.  I don't know why they had a more settled time in care than I did.  It was probably just circumstances.  The problems are the massive psychological effect it had on me then and continues to have now and the impact it has had on our relationship as siblings.  I struggle not to feel abandoned by them.  I have to physically tell myself that it wasn't their decision, it wasn't their fault, that as children they were no more in a position to inform council practice than I was but that isn't how I feel.  I feel unwanted, unloved, abandoned, lonely, alone and hurting.  

It's clear they have a better relationship than either of them have with me.  They have years more shared experiences.  While I was up they were chatting about things they got up to as teenagers,  I wasn't a part of any of that.  They aren't trying to exclude me but I feel excluded and that raises all the emotions I felt as a child.  They also live relatively close together and see a lot more of each other.  They are both much more mentally stable than I am and in some ways much closer in personality.  I am the awkward one, the one who doesn't know how to cope socially, the one who hides in a corner.  They are outgoing, sociable, confident etc.  

Maybe our respective personalities would have meant that they would have been closer as a general rule even without the years of separation as children but I would like to have experienced that and know it as opposed to every single innocent comment from them cutting my soul into shreds.

My wee sister had her daughter on Friday.  I now have a niece.  I am ripped into bits by this.  First of all I'm delighted that she is born and is healthy and very very cute.  That is the normal response to a baby being born.  Then come all the other responses.

I want to scream and cry at the unfairness of it all.  My babies are dead.  My sisters don't even know my babies existed.  I'm 38 now so the chances of having a child now are infinitesimal.  I will never experience what they have experienced.  I will never enjoy the joy of pregnancy, only the awfulness and horror.  I will never expectantly wait to discover and help to mould the personality of a wee person who is utterly dependent on me.  I need to mourn this.  I can't do it publicly, instead I have to hide my mourning.  Slap the happy face on.  Tears of a fuckwit.

They have chosen to use my sister's maiden name as a middle name which is quite common and shouldn't bother me.  It really really bothers me.  I see my surname as my father's name, as a part of him that I am forced to exist with.  I know I could change it but I don't want to have to deal with the explanations to all and sundry about why I have chosen to do so.  Knowing that tiny wee girl has the name of a man that raped small girls is disturbing to me to say the least.  Knowing my sister chose to do this says all that needs to be said about her view of the past.  Or maybe she's normal, maybe she just sees it as a name.  Maybe to her it doesn't have the insidious creep of him into me that I experience when I think about it.

I feel I need to protect the baby.  The problem is that my abnormal mind always goes too far.  The world isn't safe, the only real protection is death.  Yes, I know this is bollocks, fucked up, mental thinking but it's escaping into my head.  It scares me although I know it isn't something I would really do.  Thinking something and doing something are two very different things.  But I desperately don't want to have a mind that thinks about these things.  I don't want to be a freak.

I'm going back to work tomorrow after two weeks leave.  It's hugely important that I don't fuck this up and that I attend regularly and don't go off sick.  The problem is that the stress of the last few months has somehow become focused on this tiny baby.  This baby has irrationally become a symbol, a symptom and a metaphor.  I cannot become obsessed with this.  I can feel Notgod creeping into the sides of my head wanting to attack me.  This cannot happen.  Of course the birth of a child, especially a girl, is going to be massively triggering for me but I need to remain functionally sane.  I have to keep going forward, I can't afford to step into the world of madness.  But I know I'm not normal.