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.

Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Randomness of 2014

This appears to be a regular thing now.  I quite like my summaries of the year although I didn't like the year itself particularly.

Days of sick: 77 - dreadful.  But then that includes the dreaded IBS, pneumonia that wouldn't go away, falling down the stairs like a (sober) twat and the most stressful year of my life.

Amount of trips through Eurotunnel: 72 - much fewer than last year but then I worked in the UK for a while this year.

Number of trips to hospital: 4 - One with a friend as moral support, two to get chest xrays during the whole pneumonia thing and one when I fell down the stairs like the aforementioned (sober) twat.

Number of appointments with the psychiatrist: 1 - and didn't that go well

Number of sessions with the Serial Killer: 43.  I still find it so difficult to talk about things with her.  My whole body wants to shut down.  I can hear in my head what I want to say but my mouth clamps shut and refuses to let me say it.  One thing I can say is that there have been lots and lots of tears this year and a massive amount of pain, anger and sadness.

Number of sessions with the CPN: 8.  In the psychiatrist's letter they refer to this as 'intensive treatment'.  I'm not sure what non intensive treatment is.  Maybe if my cpn actually answered when I texted her it would be more helpful.

Number of appointments with GP: 13 but sadly lovely GP is now on maternity leave (again- she must be the most fertile woman on earth) so it's back to locums which isn't a helpful situation to be in.

Number of appointments with dentist: 6.  This included two to the emergency dentist when I had a tooth removed and developed a dry socket.  Ladies and gentlemen I do not recommend such a thing.  The pain is fucking enormous.

Number of trips to Scotland: 3 and the family came down once. Same as last year except one of these trips was for my wee sister's wedding.  I dreaded it but actually quite enjoyed it as one of the other bridesmaids was not family and therefore broke up the tension somewhat.

Number of books read: 325 which seems a lot but is fewer than last year.  But then this doesn't count rereads which I've been doing a lot of recently as I've read all my old books and financial constraints mean I can't always afford to buy new ones.

Favourite books of 2013: Scapegoat: Why we are failing disabled people by Katherine Quarmby, The Shock of the Fall by Nathan Filer, Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Moment in Peking by Lin Yutang, Far from the Tree: Parents, children and the search for identity by Andrew Solomon, Inconvenient People: Lunacy, Liberty and the Mad-Doctors in Victorian England by Sarah Wise, Burial Rites by Hannah Kent and The Blunders of Our Governments by Anthony King and Ivor Crewe.

Number of Orders from Amazon: 100,  That ashames me acutely.  But it is used partially as a handy method of ordering presents for family in Scotland.  Also I live in a town without a bookshop which does cause problems for people like me with a reading obsession.  Especially when I like books that are not always what everyone else wishes to read.

Best thing of 2013: I'm struggling with this one mainly because this year has mostly been a struggle.  The negative bits certainly jump out far more significantly then the positive ones.  I suppose out of grudging loyalty I have to say my wee sister has done fairly well by managing to organise an engagement, wedding and pregnancy within a single year.  But at the moment my sister isn't one of my favourite people.

Worst thing of 2013: The whole drama with the police which has made the second half of 2014 pretty much unbearable.  And all for nothing.  I'm still at the stage where I can't think or talk about it without dissolving into pathetic tears of frustration, anger and downright blahness.  I don't know how I'm going to recover from this.  Please God let my recent increase in venlafaxine lead me out of the current dark pit.  

Last year I said I was scared that this year would be worse.  It has been.  Utterly, horribly and dreadfully worse.  The only good thing is that in six hours it's over.  But then the change of the year is purely symbolic, it doesn't change anything else.  I just need a break.

Friday, December 26, 2014

Things not mentioned

This year has been a big year.  A massive year and I've been unable and unwilling to talk about it on here.  Now I can.

In the summer I had contact with the police.  They came down to deepest darkest Englandshire and I spent two days in a room at a police station giving a statement.  It was the most awful two days of my life.

The run up was bad.  I spent weeks vacillating backwards and forwards as to what to do.  Do I tell the truth or do I stick with the family secrets?  Both decisions had massive levels of guilt attached to them.  Do I betray myself or do I betray members of my family who I still love?  I made my decision and changed it many many times.  I only finally decided what to do the day before they came down.  Work were very good and gave me the two days off so I could do it.

I remember the room, every corner of it as I stared into space trying to remember and not remember.  Trying to put things into context.  Trying to discuss specific instances in forensic detail.  Dates, times, places.  Trying to think but not feel.  Trying to avoid the police officers' eyes as I feel the shame I know I shouldn't feel but I do.  Trying to reduce a life time to letters and words.

Then the waiting for what happens next.  Week after week after week.  I couldn't contact the police because I'd thrown their information out.  I didn't want it contaminating my house.  I know that sounds irrational considering the way the past has contaminated me and my mind but I needed to know that my house was safe.

Then the phone call.  My sister's have refused to give statements.  As a result they don't have enough evidence to do anything.  In Scotland two pieces of corroboration are required for every part of any charge.  There is no forensic evidence.  There is just me evidence.  And that isn't enough.  They decided not to arrest him as they didn't want to put me at risk and the only chance of a prosecution was if he admitted everything which was unlikely.  I understand intellectually why they made this decision.  I am broken by it.

I am trying to put it all behind me but I'm finding it impossible.  I know that it isn't that they don't believe me, I feel that it is.  I feel the massive waste of emotional energy that I have expended over months.  I feel the closing of the door of a future that could be honest.  I am left with living with the family lies if I want to have contact with the family.  It feels so unfair.  I feel like stamping my feet.  I feel like screaming at my sisters and tearing my hair out.  I want to wear sackcloth and ashes and repent for the sins of my family.  I can do none of this.  Instead I just have to pretend that everything is alright.  It isn't.

I couldn't write about this until a decision had been made because I didn't want to cause potential prejudice to any investigation.  Now I can because there is no longer any investigation.  Back to the same old madness with no escape.

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.