Wednesday, December 03, 2014

Disordered Eating

I am fat.  Very fat.  When I bend over my arse eclipses the moon.  I could make all the excuses in the world for being fat - psychiatric medications are not known for their slimming properties - but the reality is I'm fat because I eat too much and take too little exercise.  Simples.  Except it's not.  Nothing about my eating and my fatness is simple.  It's all wrapped up in the mental but it appears to be a part of the mental that nobody really wants to help me with.

Food was always an issue when I was a kid.  We always had our meals around the table as a family.  You can only imagine how stressful that was for me.  I would be physically scared before every meal, shaking, needing to pee.  I would try and eat the food nicely, say the right things, not upset anyone and try to prevent any of the explosions that would result if something I did set my parents off.

If I didn't eat everything on my plate it would be served up meal after meal after meal.  Cold, congealing and eventually mouldy.  It would literally sit in front of me every meal time for days and I would try and force it down me knowing I couldn't.  I remember once making myself sick onto a plate in the hope I wouldn't have to eat it.  Yes, the plate with additional vomit was served to me until I ate it.

I've always had a problem with certain foods.  Some textures make my whole body react with complete revulsion.  It's not that I don't like the food, it's that I cannot bear to have it in my mouth.  I want to retch, vomit, hide.  There are some foods I cannot even look at - mince, onions, avocado, mashed potato.  Slimy food, squishy food make my body cringe.  Clearly as a child that was not an acceptable position to hold and that, combined with being Scottish, meant mince and tatties/shepherd's pie etc formed a large minority of meals in our household.  Meals I couldn't possibly swallow so they were served again and again.

So I stole food to make up for the fact I couldn't eat the rancid plate of congealed mince that was sitting in front of me for day number five.  Bread, biscuits, cereal.  Carbohydrates, fattening food.  Comfort food to feed me and to give me comfort.

I was four when I remember the doctor telling me I should go on a diet because I weighed the same as my older sister.  At the time there must have been almost no difference in our heights and weights but because I was younger I must have been fat.  That was the first time I remember being fat shamed.

When I was about six or seven my mother decided that my chore was to cook the family meals.  I didn't get a choice of what to cook so there was still no way of escaping the evil mince.  Cooking terrified me.  I had to get it perfect otherwise I would displease my parents and displeasing my parents was a dangerous thing to do.  Meals became even more anxiety provoking as I watched people eat waiting for what felt like the inevitable criticism and then the explosion.

When I went into care I continued to steal food.  Institutional food also tended towards the mince although it was sometimes disguised as lasagna or chilli.  It still made me retch.  I couldn't explain my problem with food because there was no one who cared enough for me to explain it to.  Instead I spent my money on crisps and chocolate.  Things I could eat in my bed late at night when no one was looking.  Wrappers I could hide.  Invisible calories that added to the fat.

Being fat was another thing to be bullied about but I didn't really care.  I could and still can hide behind the fat.  I'm not a fat person with a thin person hiding inside, I'm a fat person with a bleak vacuum of loneliness hiding inside.

So now my weight is out of control and I'm really fat.  I would love to be able to cook but anything more complex then a baked tattie or a ready meal gives me a panic attack.  I buy things to cook and throw them out when they go off.  I can't face cooking.  It's too hard.  Sometimes for weeks on end I live on toast, crisps and chocolate because they're safe foods.  They don't make me anxious.  Takeaways are good too.  They come to my door ready to go on a plate, there is no fear involved.  I binge eat when I'm unhappy.  I'm unhappy all the time.  Post therapy on a Tuesday I regularly eat myself sick to take away the feelings.  I tend to eat fairly little in public except with trusted friends but stuff myself when I come home.  I eat at night without knowing about it until I get up in the morning and find the wrappers.

Recently this has come to a head.  I mentioned before that I've started a new diabetes injection.  I really want this to work as my diabetes is out of control.  The injections reduce my appetite.  I don't eat any less.  Eating is not about sustenance, it is all about emotion.   I asked my cpn for advice.  She didn't seem to understand about emotional eating.  She just said I should eat less.  That didn't help.  I spoke to the diabetes nurse at the surgery.  She said I could go and see a dietitian.  That would be good advice if I needed to know what I should be eating but dieticians can't help with the emotional side of eating.  They can't change my relationship with food.

I'm stuck.  I don't know where to go.  I've flirted round the subject with the serial killer but she's openly said that she doesn't have much knowledge about disordered eating and I can't afford another private therapist and there's nothing available on the NHS.  The government and the NHS talk about wanting to reduce obesity but realistically have nothing to offer me beyond every time I see a new GP they tell me I should lose weight.  I've tried all the slimming classes but again following their rules doesn't work for me because it's all about being fucked up.

Where do I go from here?

Friday, November 21, 2014

Lying psychiatrist cunts and their lying cuntish ways

For various reasons today I got a copy of Dr Perky's letter to my GP following this appointment.  I was not sent a copy of this letter and this is the first time I've seen it.  I am absolutely horrified.  It contains numerous inaccuracies, irrelevancies and outright lies.  Unfortunately I burst into tears at the GPs surgery when I read it and then got stroppy when I demanded a photocopy of it and they refused before giving in and charging me a tenner for it.  Not impressed.

Anyway the following bullshit was included in this letter:

1. She said I had been 'under' the cmht since February 2012.  Now I can't remember the exact date I was referred to the cmht but looking back on the blog I see I first referred to seeing the psychiatrist on 14/09/06.  I also refer to my mental health social worker on 15/09/08 which suggests I have been 'under' them for considerably longer then the period stated.  On a random note, I hate the term being 'under' them.  It shows the hierarchy they presume to have over me.  There is no working together, I am beneath them.  Never mind.

2. 'Her description of her illness and her likely diagnosis is one of emotional unstable (personality disorder) - she agrees with this diagnosis.'  First of all I have no idea why personality disorder is in parentheses.  Clearly grammar is not Dr Perky's strong point.  Secondly this is utter bullshit.  I understand that emotionally unstable personality disorder is pretty much the ICD equivalent of the DSM's borderline personality disorder.  I was first diagnosed with this in 2009 and disputed it then. It would therefore seem unlikely that I suddenly agreed with it.  Also, as I record here my previous psychiatrist told me I wasn't borderline and even went as far as showing me my computer records to prove this.  I am hardly likely after years of trying to get this erroneous label off my records to suddenly agree with it.  As it was my diagnosis was not discussed at the appointment being written about so this is all just lies.

3. 'I wonder whether her good days were predicted by the fact that she liked who she was on shift with.'  Well frankly Dr Perky can wonder what she wants but if she had actually asked me, instead of talking out her arse and making things up, I could have told her that I work in a team and therefore work with the same people every day.  Therefore she's just talking bollocks.  And the insinuation that I'm more likely to go to work when my mates are on duty with me is, frankly, offensive.  Why is she wondering anything anyway?  Is it her job to go off on flights of fantasy about other people's lives?  Having read the letter it's clear that that is what she does but it seems somewhat inappropriate.

4. 'She finds work to be stressful if she doesn't have people who know how to deal with her and her emotional fragility.  Yes this is clearly the case.  And it also forms the basis of a work related injury benefit claim I'm making which is how I got this letter today.  And it's also fucking obvious.  If you have a disability it's clearly easier if you're working with people, particularly management, who have some understanding of your disability and how it impacts you.  I don't discuss work on my blog to any depth for various reasons but last year I became ill because management did and didn't do things that made me ill.  This is still rumbling on.  For myself, I made a decision many years ago to be very open about my mental health problems so that people would be knowledgeable and able to 'deal' with me.  My openness extends to the fact that my line manager and myself put together an email that was sent to all the line managers I could work with telling them my mental health problems and how to 'deal' with me if I became unwell or distressed.  I think I've done everything I can on this one apart from wearing an 'I'm mental' badge which I can't do as it would breach the uniform code.  Finally I find it very frustrating that I am someone that needs to be dealt with as opposed to supported, cared for, looked after etc.  I 'deal' with the spider I find in the bath, I support my colleagues.

5. 'Bourach is happy with the care and the plans proposed.' Yes, I was so happy that I came home in tears and wrote this post which shows the joy and pleasure that was mine.  I was practically shiteing rainbows as I danced around the room in rapture.  In reality I disagreed with the plans, I thought them insensitive and inhumane and, as they haven't been carried out in the three months they were supposed to be, it appears clear that the proposed plan was clearly bullshit.

6. 'Speech - heavily accented with Scottish accent' Why the fuck is this relevant?  I'm Scottish, I lived in Scotland for the majority of my life, of course I have a Scottish accent.  What did she fucking expect?  Arguably it would be of relevance to my mental health if I turned up at her appointment and for whatever reason carried out the entire consultation in a fake, for example, Nigerian accent.  That could suggest some kind of pathology.  But surely there is nothing relevant about someone from Scotland having a Scottish accent.  She also mentions my hair cut but then says it's well kempt so I'm not going to get upset about it.  As I have my head regularly shaved to a number 4 on top and 2 round the sides it would be difficult to imagine how my hair could be unkempt but never mind.  I have already acknowledged that she is clearly a master of imagination.

So now I have to deal with this.  I texted the cpn a complete rant about it as soon as I saw it saying it needed sorted out urgently as I didn't want inaccurate bullshit on my medical records.  She's just got back to me telling me to write to Dr Perky and copy it to the cpn's line manager so I'm going to do it now.  I will pretty much rewrite this blogpost without the swearie bits.  I also think I'm going to ask for my tenner back as it's their fuck up that caused it.  I may also consider putting in a formal complaint.

The frustrating thing is that I'm in the middle of a fortnight's leave which I was using to try and relax, recuperate from all the physical shite I've been going through and preparing myself to return to work on a consistent basis when I go back.  Now I've got to waste my time dealing with someone who is clearly incompetent.

Tuesday, November 04, 2014

The physical blahs

I've not written a blog in ages.  I'm crap, I know it but I do have the excuse of a long run of the physical blahs.  The physical blahs are different from the mental ones because although I know I'm genuinely off sick from work, I feel incredibly guilty for not going in which I don't particularly when I'm mental.

First of all at the end of August I got pneumonia.  And being me the first load of antibiotics didn't work and lots of blahness later more antibiotics and steroids I eventually recovered.  It also took me weeks to get my energy back and cope with twelve hour shifts.

I was just getting over that when about three weeks ago I was getting ready for an early shift.  Bear in mind that this was about quarter to five in the morning.  I had one shoe on when I remembered I needed something upstairs, went and got it and then fell the length of the stairs on the way back down.  I sat with ice on my swelling knee and a packet of frozen sweetcorn on the toddler type egg that had grown on my head before the minor injuries unit opened.  Eventually I got there and nothing was broken but my knee was sprained which meant another few days off work.

Then I started back at work and at the same time the diabetes nurse suggested that I start a new once weekly slow release injection for my diabetes.  I was quite keen as it seemed sensible and being odd I've got a bit of a thing about needles.  I was warned that I might feel a wee bit nauseous at the start of the treatment so i decided to do it before a couple of days off.  A wee bit nauseous is a minor underestimate.  Two injections on and last night the doctor came to my house and wanted to admit me to hospital to be rehydrated.  A fortnight of constant vomming is not a pleasurable thing.  I managed to persuade him to inject me with an antivomming agent (quite like a government agent really) and leave me be.  I saw him again this morning and got decent antivomming tablets so now I feel the best I've felt in a few days.  Except I'm completely exhausted and I've got to do the third injection this evening which I'm not looking forward to.  The problem with slow release things is that you can't just stop them like you do a tablet.  Once they're there they're there. Blahness.

All of this, and a confusion at work, has caused major problems with my pay.  The main problem is that due to my sickness levels I'm now not getting any.  Which is pretty much the most major of pay problems you can have.  Thankfully I have some savings so it's not the foodbank yet but I need to get over the physical blahness and return to work consistently to prevent this.

I have to say I am hugely blessed by the Civil Servant Benevolent Society who have given me a grant of £400 and agreed to pay for two months therapy.  They have been nothing but kindness and supportive and have helped me attempt to sort out my finances as best I can.  I'm also fortunate that I'm a member of Benenden (a mutual not private healthcare of which I'm not a fan) who have also agreed to pay for £300 of therapy.  I'm most scared of running out of money to pay for therapy as my wonderful GP is on maternity leave and the cmht want rid of me so the serial killer is my only real support at the moment.

So I need to stop being physically blah.  This is a desperate need and I have to stop vomming, throwing myself down the stairs and catching diseases.  Living in an oxygen bubble seems the way forward.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Irrational Betrayal

Last week the session with the serial killer was downright horrible.  We talked about something in depth that I have a huge amount of confused and conflicting feelings about - anger, sadness, massive guilt, distress etc etc.  Then she asked me a question that she knew I would find distressing and confusing.  A question that would make me question some of the things I thought I always knew about the past and some of the assumptions I had about the roles people had taken in the fuck up that was my childhood.  I sort of took a deep breath and started to cry when she said it.  I was just beginning to think about answering when she said, 'time's up now.'  I got very angry at her and told her she shouldn't ask things like that then throw me out leaving my head fucked.  She apologised but that didn't change the thoughts that bounced around my head.

It left me feeling very upset.  I felt like she just wanted to screw me over and then get rid of me.  I felt like I didn't trust her.  I was meant to see the cpn the next morning but I cancelled the appointment because I couldn't be arsed listening to her whine on about how busy she is and about her horse while telling me I just needed to develop some coping strategies.

That night I went to bed early because I was starting work at 5.30am.  At about 4am I found myself sitting in a dark industrial estate in my car with no idea either where I was or what I was doing there.  This isn't the first time I've done what I term nocturnal wanderings but it is always terrified.  I drove around for a while, trying to work out where I was, randomly turning corners until I found a signpost.  I was in Milton fucking Keynes for some reason.  I've no idea why.  I've never been there before, I don't know anyone there and I don't know anyone with any links there as far as I know.  I phoned work to tell them I wouldn't be in and drove home.  Thankfully I had my phone and purse with me so I could get home.

I thought about phoning the cpn but when this has happened before she's just shrugged it off.  Instead I texted D and she told me I had to buy a key safe to hide my car keys in every night or she would insist I left my car at hers.  Key safe has been purchased and so far so good although it did take me 45 minutes to remember that that was where my keys were and to find them before work on Monday.  It's a good thing I'm chronically early for everything so I wasn't late for work.

And on to the irrational and the betrayal.  On Monday for some stupid unknown reason I decided to google the serial killer.  I've done this before and all that usually comes up is her membership of various professional organisations and boring things like that.  However this time I found a planning permission submission to the council in her name and that of some man.  Being an idiot I googled him and it became clear that he was her partner.

This made me irrationally upset and angry.  So upset and angry that I didn't go to my session yesterday.  I didn't want to talk to her and I didn't want to tell her the reason that I didn't want to talk to her.  I feel that she has betrayed me.  How fucking stupid is that.  In many ways she takes up a massive amount of my head.  I spend hours thinking about what I'm going to discuss with her then going over and over what I actually do discuss with her.  Her presence in my life is much more than 50 minutes a week.  Its an ongoing, continual and in some ways defining presence.  This is clearly not the case with her.  I go home from a session with her with horribleness bouncing around my mind.  I spend hours trying to deal with it.  Last week it was particularly bad because of the stupid question she asked last thing in the session.  Now I know she goes home to her partner and lives a nice life.  I am nothing more than a professional engagement to her.  She is much more than me.  She has other people in her life that are more important than me.  How dare she.

I know this is a) very stupid and fuckwitted, b) completely irrational and c) horribly jealous and nasty but I feel like she's betrayed me with this man that I know nothing about.  Its confirmed to me that she knows all the evil in my heart and soul and I know nothing about her.  It makes me angry because it makes me feel jealous and lonely and rejected and unimportant.  All things I know well.

I need to talk to her about it but I'm mortified and I don't even know if I can have the conversation.  How stupid will I sound.  'Sorry I didn't turn up last week but I was angry because you have a life.'  I just don't want her to exist without me.  That feels pitiful.

I'm sure other people must have experienced something like this.  Surely I can't be the only complete idiot in the world.  But I can't explain how much this bothers me.  I feel like I an no longer trust her.

Friday, June 20, 2014

Crushed

I feel like I've been crushed at the moment.  All the me has disappeared leaving a shadow whose only outward sign is darkness.  There is no specific trigger.  There is just many sadnesses creeping around each other.

Two friends have died in the last few weeks.  Both guys I worked with.  One was unwell, the other died suddenly in his sleep.  I have been to the funeral of one, I am waiting to hear when the other one is.  Clearly this is stressful.  Clearly this is very sad.  Clearly it isn't my fault.  My mind tells me it is.  For so many years now I have wished to be dead.  Sometimes that is a miasma of wish in the back of my head, sometimes it is a compulsion.  And yet I am alive.  That should not be.  They should be alive.  The second friend who died left two young children, the youngest only six months.  He will never remember his dad.  That is a tragedy.  If I was dead, some people would mourn for a while but it would be over.

I finally saw the cpn.  The discharge has been delayed.  I still feel abandoned, cast off, uncared for.  I am just a number to be deleted from some spreadsheet.  I feel that I acutely need her help but I can no longer ask for it.

The serial killer is wanting me to talk about things.  I tried on Tuesday and I haven't slept for more than a couple of hours since.  The creeping awfulness of my experiences overwhelm me.  I cannot function.

I have stopped going to work.  I try not to leave the house.  I don't wash.  I don't clean my teeth.  I eat chocolate and toast occasionally.  I live in filthy jammies.  I disgust myself.  But I feel too crushed to change anything.  I am too flattened to even attempt to move forward.  Even the idea of texting a friend is too much.

This needs to change.  I can't continue like this.  I don't want to.  But I can't find my way out.

Sunday, June 08, 2014

The Loss of Hope

It seems to be incredibly easy to lose hope.  To feel unwanted and rejected.  To want to give up.  To hear Notgod bothering you at high volume all the time.  All it takes is one appointment with a psychiatrist.

What happened when I saw Dr Perky has completely undermined me.  The madness has grown in me exponentially in the last ten days.  I can feel the me part of me slipping away.  All that is left is the madness.

What can I do?  I texted the cpn last Monday.  She hasn't replied.  She clearly wants rid of me.  I phoned the local madness helpline.  They told me they couldn't help and I should phone the crisis team.  I am waiting for them to call me back and tell me to try and distract myself with a cup of tea and a nice bath.  I have been trying to distract myself for days.  I have reached the end of my ability to do so.  I am scared of them calling me back because 90% of the time talking to them makes me feel worse.  But there is nowhere else to turn.

The desire to self destruct is enormous.  It is the only thought in my mind.  If I destruct then Notgod will stop screaming at me.  Then I will no longer be rejected.  Safety is impossible, dead isn't.

I can no longer pretend enough to go to work.  That is way beyond my ability.  Instead I'm sitting in my jammies desperate to no longer exist.  Why should I bother keeping trying to exist?  There is no hope.

Tuesday, May 27, 2014

Dr Perky

Today I had to see a new psychiatrist.  I've not seen one in a couple of years since nice psych left and they replaced him with stupid, ignorant locum.  I've named this one Dr Perky as she has one of these horribly perky, jolly hockey sticks names.  Why do certain names stick with certain characteristics in one's mind?  I don't want to name any specific names as I don't wish to offend but I've never met a Nigel who wasn't extremely straight laced etc.  Anyway this is a tangent and pointless.

Dr Perky was actually relatively perky which goes back to my previous hypothesis about names.  She could have presented Blue Peter or at least the psychiatric version of that.  I'm not sure what that would be called.  Suggestions on a postcard.

She asked the usual questions that they always ask to find out if you have the all important (to them) understanding of your madness.  I equivocated and told her I had good days and bad days.  I suppose that is true in that a good day is a day when I only think about suicide every 5 seconds as opposed to every 2 on a bad day.  A good day for me is not a good day for those in the world that are deemed normal.  She asked what I did on a bad day and I told her I stayed in the house and tried to ignore Notgod.  She asked me about him and I answered the socially acceptable answer of 'he is a manifestation of my self destructiveness that I separate from myself because I can't cope with it' which she accepted.  I didn't say what I wanted to say which was 'he's God and he ruins my life and I have to die.'  She asked me what Notgod wanted and I mentioned self immolation.  She didn't even know what that was which was disappointing.  I would have thought a psychiatrist would have known about the more interesting methods of suicide.  I wish I could feel less hide bound by social convention that means I act as the good patient instead of being honest.

We talked about sleep and I told her it was getting progressively worse and was my major concern.  She asked about my meds and she said she didn't want to change them.  Apparently my sleep problem is 'cognitive' rather than 'biological' so I just have to get on with it.  Frankly I don't give a fuck what the reason is, I just want to stop waking up dozens of times a night and feeling exhausted all day every day.  But apparently actually making people feel better is not part of Dr Perky's job.

We discussed how massively stressed I am about work at the moment and the impact my recent decision was going to have on me and how I was probably going to need additional support over the next few months.  Then she said that she wanted to discharge me.  I asked her why now as nothing was really better and things were going to get worse and she said, 'because then you'll be under someone else's budget.'  I argued that I wasn't ready for discharge, burst into tears and freaked out a bit.  She said they'd review it in a couple of months.  Because I'll be cured by then.  Hallefuckinglujah.

So there you go.  The current NHS mental health provision.  You're too expensive, too complicated, maybe just too articulate and they dump you.  It's not about how ill you are, how little you cope, how you spend every day in a desperate struggle to keep going.  It's about their fucking budget.  I don't matter, the accountants do.  They should just take me out and shoot me, that would be the cheapest way forward.  If I jumped in front of a lorry that would be their ideal scenario.

So now I feel horrific.  I know I'm going to meltdown which I can't afford to do workwise.  I feel like a fucking burden instead of a human being.  I should say that at least she'd been honest but then the reality is that she couldn't be anything else as their is no objective medical justification for her decision whatsoever.  It is entirely budgetary.

I'm going to have to fight this.  That requires energy.  I need to text the cpn and ask her for an appointment to discuss this but she didn't fight for me at the appointment and I don't trust her at the moment.  She just wants shot of me.  I think it's just that they don't like or value me and I don't deserve any help.