Archive for suicidal ideation

A Time of Not Being Suicidal?

Posted in Context with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on Tuesday, 19 January, 2010 by Pandora

In the last post, the lovely Karita who blogs at If Narky, Feed Profusely commented that she had never felt suicidal.  This got me thinking.  Was there a time when I didn’t?

I have had a fixation with death and dying from as far back as I can remember.  My mother was disturbed when as a four year old, I told her I wanted to be a forensic pathologist when I grew up (seriously).  Although I didn’t fulfill that dream, I did academically pursue what I thought would be a related discipline, the most interesting aspects of it being those that discussed death – including, indeed, a quite in-depth exploration of suicide in a sociology class.

I cannot say whether or not I actually wanted to die myself when I was four, but I wouldn’t rule it out.

It was certainly the case in my later childhood.  I first tried to kill myself when I was about nine or 10.  I have a very vivid memory of it; I tried to strangle myself behind the closed door of my bedroom.  Clearly this was a ludicrous attempt, but an attempt it was nevertheless, and I remember the despair and frustration I felt when it became evident that my actions would fail to bring about their intended result.  I was distraught at the prospect of my life continuing.

Since then, I’ve tried walking in front of vehicles, taken two overdoses (which saw me hospitalised), tried to slit my wrists*, ankles and elbows, hanging myself and suffocation.  I think that’s it.  (* Including, of course, the incident from Friday).

I know what you’re thinking.  Anyone who’s serious about committing suicide wouldn’t have such a number of silly attempts under their belt; they plan their death, and that’s that.  Fair enough.  I can only defend myself by saying that in most of the cases, the most serious ones at least, the desire to not exist felt serious.  The most serious attempt was a massive overdose when I was about 16, which did nearly kill me.  A couple of these attempts were gestures or based on circumstantial factors, I admit – but mostly they weren’t.

When I wasn’t actually actively trying to top myself, I was probably thinking about it.  I can honestly say that I’ve almost certainly fantasised and/or ‘planned’ my suicide for every day of my adult and adolescent life, and a lot of my late childhood too.  This even includes periods of mania and contentment.

In short, this is how I perceive normality – to all intents and purposes, I have never known anything else.  I’ve been sitting here for a while trying to imagine what it’s like to not feel suididal, and it’s just beyond the bounds of my imagination.

Well, there’s more proof – as if it were needed – that I’m a headbin 😉

Tomorrow is my first appointment with NewVCB, about which I will blog as soon as I can.  I don’t know whether to be amused or incredulous by the fact that my first appointment with this woman will be in the wake of a suicide attempt.  And then I have to face C on Thursday, and that will not be fun in the least.  Alas.

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Suicide Attempt Epic Fail

Posted in Moods, Triggers with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on Sunday, 17 January, 2010 by Pandora

*** STANDARD TRIGGER WARNING: POSSIBLY TRIGGERING MATERIAL IS UPCOMING; I HEREBY ADVISE YOU AGAINST READING IT IF YOU FEEL THAT IT MAY SET YOU OFF…BUT I KNOW YOU’RE GOING TO READ IT ANYWAY, SO THAT’S A BIT POINTLESS, BUT I PROBABLY LIKE YOU BECAUSE I LIKE EVERYONE THAT I KNOW READS THIS DRIVEL, SO PLEASE DON’T HURT YOURSELF.  NOT BECAUSE OF INADEQUATE LITTLE ME ANYWAY.  IF YOU DO SO I WILL HAVE TO COME ROUND TO YOUR HOUSE AND SHOUT AT YOU AND/OR KILL KITTENS AND/OR CLUB BABY SEALS AND/OR SLEEP WITH RICK MAYALL.  NOW YOU WOULDN’T WANT THAT WOULD YOU, SO EITHER DON’T READ THIS SHIT OR A LEAST MAKE SURE YOU ARE NOT COMPLETELY MENTAL AT THE TIME OF DOING SO.  OK?  OK.  THNXBAI. ***

I’m sure that most of you are familiar with what I did on Friday night(well, technically, Saturday morning) given my bizarre running commentary on same on Twitter.  Of course, not everyone who reads this blog uses Twitter, but nevertheless, you can derive the basics from the title of this post.

It wasn’t a “cry for help” or some sort of silly borderline strop.  It was an absolutely pathetic attempt, I will admit that, but it was a nonetheless serious attempt.  I genuinely wanted to die.  I did.  No bullshit, straight up – death, not attention, was what I sought.

Nothing especially bad had happened on Friday – I was just miserable for most of the day.  I met A for dinner and a few drinks, which was pleasant actually, and when we got home, we listened to some music and were generally rather contented.  But I kept thinking how much easier things would be if I wasn’t in existence.  Not just for me – although I admit that was a major motivating factor – but for everyone.  I add nothing to anyone’s life.  A million people could tell me otherwise, but I’d never believe them.  I am a worthless, useless slut of sheer, unadulterated and fetid disgustingness.  Or at least that’s what I thought then.

So when A went to bed, circa 1.15am, I laid into myself with the scalpel.  Few parts of my body are unaffected – self-harm is strongly in evidence on ankles, arms, abdomen (there words there, just slashes elsewhere), elbows – the works really.  As I was doing it, I thought that I might as well go one step further and slit my wrists, the hopeful and intended result being my bleeding to death.

Now, people could say, “but a serious suicide attempt requires planning, and this was an impulsive act.”  I do accept that, and can see why it looks like nothing more than a pathetic gesture.  All I can say to convince people otherwise is that it felt absolutely and completely genuine at the time.  I wanted to die.  I really did.  I always remember (or rather don’t) the nothing that I experienced under general anaesthesia when I had an operation a while back.  I longed so fervently for that nothing again – and for it to be a permanent state.

So, I took a few minutes to write a note to my mother and A, with acknowledgements of a few friends, then went in search of an analgesic spray that I keep for sprains and the like.  An attempted suicide is not like self-harm; it’s not performed in the pursuit of pain.  No, pain was not a commodity that I lacked, so I sought to minimise more of it.

I’ve read this on the suicide newsgroups, but I was nevertheless surprised (or at least I am retrospectively) by how calm and contented I felt having made the decision to kill myself.  It was reassuring and comforting to know that I would not have to continue with this sorry excuse for a life, that there would soon be nothing.  Nothing was all I wanted.

I cut my left wrist first.  I tried to cut deep, but my skin was ungraciously unco-operative, refusing to slit to any meaningful degree.  This irritated me considerably, but I let it pass and decided to return to it.  So off I moved to my right wrist, which curiously proved considerably easier.  I’m generally right handed, so wielding a scalpel with my left hand would not be the most obviously effective way to garner a major life-threatening wound.  But initially, I thought I’d spotted success.

I was captivated by the blood.  It was the most blood I have ever seen from a deliberate act of self-harm.  Dark, and think, and oozing, and beautiful.  It completely mesmerised me, and I could almost feel my life ebbing away with it.  That was an eminent comfort to me, and I felt moved and calmed, yet slightly euphoric.  God, what a beautiful and welcoming thing death seemed to be!

But wait.  The blood was oozing, not spurting.  That meant that I had failed to sever a major artery, and rationality came flooding back: if one is going to off themselves by cutting, they really should cut vertically on their arms, not horizontally as I had done.  Vein cuts generally won’t lead to a successful suicide, and indeed artery ones don’t always either. Plus such wounds can lead to nerve damage in one’s hands if they fail to bring about death.  This was the shittest suicide attempt in the world!

I was filled with self-disgust, but even more than that, irri-fucking-tation.  Not anger or fury, but irritation.  I was irritated that my peaceful comfort in an imminent death had been shattered.  For fuck’s sake, I can’t even kill myself with any fucking gusto!

I sought advice on Twitter (that well-known bastion of medical knowledge), still watching the blood ooze heavily from my wrist.  The consensus was that it wouldn’t off me, but that I should go to Accident and Emergency nevertheless and get the thing stitched.

I considered this.  The thing wasn’t going to kill me, self-evidently, but it may have led to nerve damage.  If I was, however unfortunately, going to remain alive, then I might as well do so with a functioning right hand.  I rang a taxi to take me to the hospital, which is less than five minutes’ drive away.

Whilst waiting for it, I cleaned both wounds up a bit (although superficial, the left one was bleeding satisfactorily) and bandaged the right one as best I could.  The bleeding was still very heavy though, and before the taxi even arrived, it needed changed.

I called up the stairs to A to tell him that I had been advised to go to Casualty.  He got up and told me that he was coming with me, a suggestion against which I protested, though admittedly rather mildly.

I don’t remember the taxi trip at all, and have only the vaguest recollection of checking in at the A and E reception.  I remember telling the woman that my suicide attempt was one of the most pathetic in history, and being surprised by how much data she was able to access on me from her computer (1984 is with us, readers).  I also recall that the waiting time was estimated at seven hours, but for some reason I allowed myself to believe that it would never come to that.  How absolutely and completely wrong this assumption proved to be.

To be fair to them, I was very quickly seen by a triage nurse, who opined that the slit on my right wrist probably needed stitches.  She put steri-strips on it to close it as much as possible until such times as I was seen by a doctor.  She was a young girl – I’d guess younger than I am – and was remarkably sympathetic.  I was bawling my eyes out like a bloody baby by this stage, but this girl did not try and rush me, nor patronise nor judge me.  She simply listened and tried her best to be supportive.  Alas, though, eventually I had to go back to the waiting room.

And so it began.  The mind-numbing, seemingly endless, hideously interminable wait.  It is, I imagine, exactly what the final wait on death row is like – though at least if you’re a suicidal, schizo bitch you can expect a satisfactory outcome at the end of that particular interim period.  I had no idea what to expect at the end of this one.

Wait.  Wait.  Wait.

Heat.  Heat.  Heat.

Atrophying mind.  Atrophying mind.  Atrophying mind.

If swear to God that if one wasn’t suicidal to begin with, it was enough to make them so.  I can’t describe why it was so bad, but it was.  It really was.  Thank God for Twitter (on which I will remark later) on my mobile, though of course the bloody thing’s battery packed in on me eventually, leaving me once more to the doom and nothingness that was Casualty.  Well, I know earlier I was extolling the virtues of nothingness, but that particular brand of nothingness has the decency to lack consciousness.  The A and E version does not demonstrate such wonder.

After the seven hour mark had passed, I went back to the desk and asked was I going to get seen.  By this point it was after 9am.  The woman consulted with a doctor and, interestingly, he almost immediately proceeded to take me through the double doors of doom.  I’ve said it before, but I’ve wondered are there gas chambers through there.  I felt like I was walking the plank.

I was led to a room that, aside from the lack of bars, did a wonderfully accurate impersonation of a prison cell.  It, like the waiting room, was painted (if you could call it that) in one of those bland non-colours that are designed to half-sedate people into compliance.  Just like they have in customs halls at airports.  I was utterly exhausted, mentally and physically, yet my agitation just increased more on arrival in this room.  I found myself barely able to even speak to the doctor, though he seemed like an amicable enough man.

Amicable…but competent?  I’m not sure.  He asked a few questions then went to call the liaison team from the bin, without examining my wrist.  I called him back and asked him did it not require stitches.  He looked at it, in a horribly cursory sort of way (without even removing the steri-strips), then declared that that with which it was already dressed was “quite adequate”.

Again, I’m not sure.  The cut was pretty deep and the resulting blood loss, whilst not life-threatening, had been relatively considerable.  It wasn’t as deep as the (accidental) cut to my finger a few months ago, but it wasn’t that far off it.  Lovely GP told me that I should have had that injury stitched, so I was surprised at this doctor’s belief that this one didn’t such treatment.  I was especially surprised that he didn’t remove the steri-strips to check.

Surprised, yes, but at the time I was so indescribably fed up and so unbearably consumed by exhaustion that I didn’t care.  I just wanted to go home (so any attempt to admit me to the bin would not have gone down well, not that I’m sure I’d have had the energy to fight the bastards).  I said so to the doctor, who said that he wanted the psychiatric liaison woman to see me.  I asked how soon that was anticipated.

“Oh, she’ll be over shortly,” he said nonchalantly but apparently genuinely.  Based on that premise, I agreed to stay and meet the woman in question.  I went to get A and brought him back to the cell, where at least he was able to sit in a slightly more comfortable chair.  I used much of the time between the departure of the doctor and the arrival of the mental woman to apologise to A.  I was horrified that I had put him through such trauma.  From my own perspective, I didn’t – and frankly don’t – give a toss about my suicide attempt, but I absolutely abhor myself for putting him through it.  I kept telling him that his life was better before he met me, which as far as I can tell it indubitably was.  He denied it, claiming that he had been lonely prior to the crossing of our paths.  But surely loneliness is preferable to having to tolerate a borderline freak with a scalpel fetish on a daily basis?

There was plenty of time for such apologies.  Plenty indeed.  The doctor left my cell about 9.15am, and the woman from psychiatry finally arrived just before 1pm, after three enquiries from A to staff about her whereabouts.  If anything this waiting was even worse than the seven hour one of earlier; perhaps it was because we were so completely brain-dead exhausted by then, or perhaps it was simply because the ‘examining’ physician had strongly suggested that the wait for this woman would be pretty short.  It must be that, in A and E, anything under three years is short.  Absolute fucking shit.

Anyway, eventually she did arrive, just as I had finally persuaded A to leave.  I figured there was no point in both of us losing even more of our wills to live (not that I had any in the first place, but you know what I mean), and in any case the poor cats needed fed.  So as I went to a “more private” room with the woman, off A went.

She was a nice woman, but perhaps unsurprisingly was about as useful as a rolled-up election manifesto being shoved up my arse.  We discussed what has stressed me of late (Christmas, C’s dickery, just general mentalism), self-harm in general, the history of my mentalism, my physical health, my weight (“it’s not uncommon in people who’ve been sexually abused to deliberately but unconsciously become overweight, so as they make themselves – in their eyes – less attractive to potential abusers”, apparently) and current eating habits (don’t eat – binge – throw up), and other related wank that I don’t really remember.  She did keep asking if I still wanted to die, and I kept being very careful with my response.  On the one hand, I didn’t want to lie to this woman who was being understanding and down-to-Earth with me, but on the other I didn’t want to say ‘yes’, and find myself sectioned.  I doubt that I would have been, given the low level of resources that this Trust seems to have devoted to mental health difficulties (this isn’t my usual Trust, for the record, as this all took place at A’s house and my normal Trust is based on my address at my mother’s house), but it was always a horrible possibility.  So I just said that I didn’t know.

I told her about C’s intention to cut my psychotherapy short and about VCB constantly fucking me about.  I also told her that I now have a new VCB, a woman who I am to meet for the first time on Wednesday.  The liaison woman reckoned she knows NewVCB, and says if it is indeed the same woman that she is “lovely – really bubbly and friendly.”  That’s better than her predecessor I agree, but ‘bubbly’?  How does a mental who’s just tried to catch the bus deal with someone chirping about and loving life?  Fuck.

The long and the short of it is that she is going to ring LGP, NewVCB and, crucially for me, C, tomorrow morning to report on Friday’s occurrences.  I say ‘crucially’ regarding C as I profoundly do not want him to know about this.  A and A’s best mate W (who A was keeping in touch with during this whole episode via text message) both place the blame for my suicide attempt solely at C’s door.  Naturally I have been trying to defend C.  I have my own psychological agency; he is not responsible for my actions.  A agrees, but still strongly believes that what he feels is C’s ineptitude has at least “precipitated” this.  I don’t know what I think.  I just don’t know how I am going to face the man after this.  I don’t see why I should be so mortified – after all, A, W, all my Twitter friends and now all my blog readers have been party to the most minor of details in relation to this, and C will know a mere few (unless I confide further in him, which as of this writing does not seem likely).  I suppose that I am worried that he too will think that I did what I did solely because of him, and I don’t want him thinking (knowing?) that he has that level of power over me.

Anyway, the woman told me that when I got home I was to give the scalpel and its associated blades to A.  I protested most vehemently against this.

“If I want to kill myself, I’ll find a way,” I said.  “Removing the scalpel will not prevent that, but it will prevent the only real outlet I have for calming my mentalism when it’s at its worst; non-suicidal self-harm.”

She said, “have you ever been referred to a self-harm team?”

I responded in the negative, and she said that she would, therefore, try and refer me to one.  It is difficult because I officially live with my mother, and therefore in a different Trust area – my Trust, surprise surprise, doesn’t have a self-harm team (one thing I ranted about in the advocacy letter, at C’s suggestion).  Nevertheless, she said, she will try.  So I suppose that was one positive to come out of the whole awful experience.  As I said to her, I actually don’t want to stop self-harming as things presently stand; it is the only way to cope sometimes.  What I do want, though, is to want to want to stop it.  I don’t put much faith in these self-harm team people really, but it is at least an avenue to explore.

She once again asked if I had any thoughts of going home and trying again to kill myself, and once again I made some sort of ambiguous noise.  However, she took this as a ‘yes’, and to that end took me back to the doctors’ station to seek my discharge, which was instantly given without any further examination or questioning.  I left, and walked home alone.  I had been there 12 hours, and not a thing of any use – save for the possible self-harm team referral – had occurred.

When I got home I found evidence of what happened all over the living room floor.  Mercifully, there were no blood stains on the carpet, but there were maybe eight tissues that were absolutely saturated.  Blades lay scattered everywhere, though the scalpel itself was curiously absent and has remained elusive (A swears he didn’t find it).  I tidied the place up, grateful that A had been seemingly oblivious to it all.  He had had enough trauma.

I found him in bed listening to the radio.  I crawled in beside him and begged for his forgiveness, and I am very lucky to be able to report that it was granted, on the proviso that I don’t do this again.  I promised I wouldn’t, though A wonders if that is a promise that can be kept given how strong the compulsion to die can be at times.

All I can say is that I will try my best.  I really will try my best.  To look at it from a cynical perspective, I really don’t want to have to go through 12 hours of unmitigated hospital shite like that again.  The inadequacy and comical inefficiency of the NHS never ceases to amaze me.  I mean, OK – had there been some big emergency in, I could have understood the waiting there like complete numpties for 28 years – but there wasn’t.  There were a handful of other minor injuries, so it was just complete and utter shit.

How do I feel now, about 30 hours after getting home?  I feel remarkably not-too-shit, though there seems to be a permanent, cynical sneer across my face (though that was quite possibly there long before Friday night).  I still think the world is a shithole and that my life is a mess, but I am simultaneously touched by the generosity of some people, both out there in the ether and here, in ‘real life’.  See here and here for just some examples of individuals that prove that Twitter is very, very far from the facile, meaningless shite that many in the media present it as.  I fully believe that were it not for Twitter, I may well have successfully killed myself in the last nine months – not on Friday probably, admittedly, but at some juncture.  It is the best support group that I can imagine.

W and of course, in a beyond-words sort of way, A, also prove that maybe, in the midst of all the darkness, there are some people who make this existence less shit.  I am grateful that people care.  I hate my life, very profoundly do I hate it, but in terms of having people to give a shit, I am glad to declare myself a fortunate individual.

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Protected: Pointlessly Stupid Navel-Gazing Repetitive Nonsense – C: Week 37

Posted in C, Moods, Psychotherapy, Triggers with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on Thursday, 14 January, 2010 by Pandora

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Reflections on 2009

Posted in C, Everyday Life, Moods, psychiatry, Psychotherapy, Random, Random Mental Health Related Philosophising with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on Thursday, 31 December, 2009 by Pandora

Wasn’t it 1992 that the Queen said was her annus horribilis?  Well, let’s fast forward 17 years to now, New Year’s Eve, 2009. This year has turned out to be the annus horribilis of your humble narrator – mostly. I’ve been on the brink of sectioning on a number of occasions, the brink of suicide on others, I’ve developed serious psychoses, I’ve been twatted by the system and I lost my job.  Yet, there are a few glimmers of non-shit somewhere in there.

To that end, here, for your dubious delectation, is the good, the bad and the ugly (well, the bad and good anyway) of the last 12 months in the world of this PsychoFreakBitch…

THE BAD

Being Mental

Perhaps rather obvious, but yeah, being mental hasn’t been a great deal of fun.  I know I’ve argued that if I could flick that figurative switch to the sanity setting I wouldn’t do so, and I still hold to that, but nevertheless, the panics, depressions, mixed states, psychoses and frantic states are not exactly things that I enjoy.

As you know, faithful, darling readers, I have been mental for many years – my first diagnosis was in 1998, but in reality I did have some manifestations of madness well before that juncture.  However, 2009 was by far the worst year for it, as I think most of those close to me would attest.  The dysphorias, the exceptional levels of anxiety and the psychoses, all having existed before, have been exacerbated so considerably during the last 12 months.  I’m not sure why; maybe it is the intensity of psychotherapy, maybe it’s medication, maybe it’s simply the ‘proper’ development of BPD and/or bipolar disorder, given as they tend to manifest most strongly in one’s 20s, maybe it’s another psychiatric illness altogether.  Maybe it’s nothing more than coincidence.  Either way, it is.

Specific Issues on Mentalism

–> Psychoses

Tom was alright, but ‘They’ have been a hideous bloody curse.  Even with the anti-psychotic, ‘They’ are almost ever-present, though their severity was mostly reduced with said medication.  The worst manifestations of ‘They’ were when they tried to get me to kill myself and, worse again, when they wanted me to kill MW on Christmas Day.

Of course, the psychotic symptoms were not limited to hearing voices.  The shapes continued amok throughout 2009, though in retrospect I think I can say that I maybe noticed some abatement of their severity when I started taking Olanzapine.  However, I also developed new hallucinations, such as music, knocking and whimpering.  And I hallucinated my erstwhile stalker once.  Fuckin’ A.

Oh, and let’s not forget the delusions – A was in collusion with GCHQ, the sun and signs were watching and/or communicating with me, ‘They’ steal the thoughts from my mind, my cousin ScumFan was a drug dealer, A was not A but A’s sister, yadda yadda.

–> Dissociation

This has been pretty fucking annoying and at times highly disturbing.  There have been a number of times that I have found myself in dissociative fugue states – being in random places some distance from home, having no idea how or why I got there.  I need not explain the potential implications of these (admittedly relatively minor) fugues to my readership.

Of course, it does not take a fugue to make a dissociative episode.  Despite my ability to write 3,000 or more words on my sessions with C, my psychotherapist, it is not infrequent for me to dissociate parts of these meetings, particularly (unsurprisingly) when we are tackling something difficult together.  Several of the fugues have been in the wake of sessions with C.

I’ve also found myself in amnesiac states during or after arguments or highly stressful events, and of course I have the standard BPD features of depersonalisation and derealisation – forms of dissociation, I believe – on a frequent basis.

Although I’ve experienced depersonalisation and derealisation for years, I’ve only knowingly experienced full dissociative episodes – ie. proper periods of amnesia, losing time – in the last year.  Well…maybe it began in 2008, but it would mostly have been in 2009.

However, I only remember the rape and other parts of the sexual abuse in flashbacks, for example, and in discussion with C we have found that I have many ‘symptoms’ characteristic of someone who dissociated something traumatic in childhood.  The suggestion has been that, given the strength and quantity of these symptoms, there may be more than I don’t consciously remember.  I hate the idea for its own sake, obviously, but I hate it even more by virtue of the fact that it is not recalled (if indeed it did happen); it leaves me with a distinct lack of control over how I now react to triggers.  Perhaps that can be addressed in therapy over time (if therapy even fucking continues over time).

–>  Self-Harm

Is self-harm even bad?  Sometimes I really do wonder.  As a way to cope, it works.  As a way to fascinate (by virtue of watching the beautiful krovvy), it works.  As a way to seek absolution, it works (albeit temporarily).

Still, it serves as a permanent record of a very horrible year of my life, and I suppose in that way it could be considered a bad thing.  It’s something that, as of this writing, I feel quite nonchalantly about, but who’s to say in 10 years or something, I won’t look at my scars and feel triggered back into mentalism from which I may have found some relief?

I’m classing this as a bad thing of this year because, prior to 2009, I hadn’t engaged in any serious self-harm for years.  2009 saw it return on a relatively frequent basis.

Losing My Job

In reality, I was nowhere near as upset about this as I should have been, but one thing I really do detest is being in the hateful position of being dependent on the state for my living.  I had always dreamed of a career (not just a job) and the opportunity to use my intellect in a meaningful fashion.  I did not want to end up being a dolescum, and this is still something that I am hoping to change in seeking treatment for my madness.

So I suppose that is the worst part of losing my job; I now am officially everything that I never wanted to be in my adult life.  It’s also awkward from the perspective of my developing my career; having to explain a gap in employment of whatever length and an incapability dismissal will not be a lot of fun.

Trouble with the NHS

It all started with all the trouble with getting an appointment with, and then sustaining appointments with, the VCB.  Then C waded into the quagmire with his ‘I can only offer you 24 more sessions’ bullshit.  As you know, of course, I am fighting this.

Then there was Dr Arsehole just before Christmas (about whom I will write in the next ‘C’ installment), and the latest is that I have an appointment with Psychiatry on 20 January (more than a month after I was meant to have my most recent review appointment)…but not with VCB!  No, readers, apparently I am seeing ‘Dr M’.  What in the fuck..?  I might not like VCB, but at least I had got to know her to some extent.  But now they’re fucking me about again.  Arsecunt.

Christmas

It was fucking God-awful dreadful.  Enough said.

C

Not C himself; of course I don’t know the man in any realistic way, but my sense of him is positive.  OK, he does wind me up sometimes, and it is not at all unknown for him to actually anger me, but generally I am very fond of the man, regardless of whether or not that is simply a case of transference.  However, psychotherapy is not a fun process.  It’s not fun at all.  In fact, I believe firmly that it has made me more mental than I already was.

It therefore seems ridiculous to continue with it, but there’s method in the madness…

THE GOOD

C

‘Him again?  You just said he was a bad thing in this year!’

Yeah, I did, but he’s also been one of the most fabulous things.  Aside from my absolutely obsessive attachment to him, which I am pretty sure I wouldn’t have were I not very fond of him in a non-transferential sense, I believe the therapy is good for me, and is working.  Yes, it has made me more mental, but I believe this is a temporary state.

In being forced to (re)live some of the most horrible things about my past and, to a lesser extent, my present and potential future, it seems inevitable to me that my conditions would be exacerbated.  I had to get worse before I get better.  That was what I expected well before I commenced therapy with C, and that is still my belief.

Additionally, and this is probably related to the transference issues, C is the only person to whom I will talk completely openly.  For a long time, I would literally discuss many (not all) things with him, but it is only in the last couple of months that I really have stopped abstracting things.  I’ve now let my guard down and allow myself to be vulnerable around him, and I trust him.  That kind of relationship, however strangely asymmetrical, is a big achievement for me, and I think if it is allowed to continue as it should that it will pay dividends in terms of my mental health.

Diagnoses

Some people hate them.  There are a number of other mental health bloggers for whom I have the utmost respect that consider diagnoses ‘diagnonsense’.  I do get where they’re coming from, but I am grateful for mine.

It helps me to be able to attribute certain symptoms to an actual illness.  Now I’m not saying I use the conditions as excuses, but they do explain some erratic and bizarre behaviour, and I find that rather comforting.  Furthermore, in saying I have certain illnesses, it makes my range of symptoms part of something, rather than just a nebulous bunch of ‘things’; quantifying it in this way makes it seem more real, I am convinced, to others.  Just throwing the term ‘depression’ out makes it sound like a cop-out (NB. please note that this is not my view of real depression at all – I just think that some people, ignorant of mental health issues, view the word this way.  They believe that “I have depression” equals “I’m depressed,”, which of course those of us who have been there know to be a fallacy).

One further positive I’d add about the diagnoses is that they have enabled me to connect with others that have the same (or similar) disorders.  I will be eternally grateful for that, and for the support and kinship those individuals have given me (see more on this below).

Turkey

Our holiday to Turkey back in September was probably the happiest time of this year.  As I wrote at the time, I felt entirely contented throughout our stay, and indeed we enjoyed it so much that we are returning to a resort close to the one from 2009 again in May 2010.  I will never forget the crystal clear waters, the warmth of the locals and the sheer relaxation of lying about in secluded coves.  Whilst reading Social Factors in the Personality Disorders: A Biopsychosocial Approach to Etiology and Treatment, of course.  I mean, obviously!!!

This Blog

I will always be thankful that I started writing this blog, and indeed that I kept writing this blog.  My initial hope was that it might help me to identify triggers, but to be honest in that regard it hasn’t been as successful as I might have liked.  It has, however, given me a focus – writing is an activity that, despite the sometime difficulty of it, is something that I enjoy, and can direct my energy towards.  It also serves as a chronicle of what has been an extremely difficult period in my life, but one that is also likely to be a highly formative one too, if I don’t end up offing myself.  I’ve found it fascinating to rediscover diaries I kept in the past, and no doubt I shall find the same with this – though I hope that I will still be maintaining this journal well into the future.

I’ve been ever so grateful for the wonderful feedback I’ve been given on this blog too.  Some people find my writing style engaging, which is a huge compliment; others find solace in the fact that they are not alone, as what I’ve written correlates with their experiences and/or feelings; yet others seem to be grateful to learn directly what everyday life, therapy or whatever with my various diagnoses is like.

On a similar note, the blog has enabled me to meet so many people with whom I have found affinity.

Twitter

By far the best thing I have done this year was join Twitter (I’ve met many brilliant people through the account allied to this blog, but even more again through my ‘main’, slightly less anonymous, account).  I have met so many wonderful people – both mentals and non-mentals – through this service that I could not possibly thank them all here, much as I’d like to.  The support, friendship, empathy and, frankly, in some cases love that I have been shown has been a source of immeasurable help, more than the personnel concerned will ever know.

–>  Thank Yous – Twitter

CVM*
K*
@bourach
@woundedgenius / @behindthecouch
@notbovvered
@fromthesamesky
@error505
@an_other
@kimshannon
@helentaustin
@benpolar

* Both of whom I now consider ‘real life’ friends – I have met K and communicate with her most days; I haven’t met CVM, but again communicate with her most days and certainly will meet her when finances and circumstances allow the travel.  I love them both.

The above is far from an exhaustive list, but there are others that I cannot mention to protect either their or my anonymity.  Some to whom I am incredibly grateful are not even aware of the fact that I write this blog.  That does not mean I value them less, however.

–> Thank Yous – Blogging Buddies

Some of the above-named individuals of course keep blogs, but they are not people I met originally through this medium.  The following are.  Thank you to:

Alix Rites
Crazy Mermaid
Borderline Case
The Prozac Queen
Pumpkin
Vanessa
NiroZ (no longer blogging, alas)

Again this is not an exhaustive list.

It is my honestly held belief that were it not for the aforementioned individuals – both the Twitter friends and blogging mates – I would either have killed myself or been horribly sectioned this year.  So thank you to all of you listed, to many not listed, and extra special thanks to a select few – I hope you know who you are.

Friends

Of course, real life friends have been of immense value to me this year too.  I haven’t been fortunate enough to see my best friend D an awful lot, but we’ve have corresponded via email and communicated via the hated telephonic device, so of course I am very grateful for his support.  In spite of an acrimonious break-up of a serious relationship, not to mention other problems, D has still been there for me through all of this sorry year, and for that I am significantly in his debt.

B has also been very supportive.  It’s not that we tend to go into great detail about issues of concern, but he’s just there, and that means a lot.  In particular, like D, his ability to provide a metaphorical shoulder to cry on whilst dealing with significant difficulties in his own personal life is testament to his integrity and the strength of his friendship.

AC has also been great; as well as actually giving a shit and supporting me through mental illness, AC has also been there just for those ordinary, everyday things that friends do together – the theatre, lunch, whatever.  I also must hat-tip DL for this too.

Honourable mentions to A’s friends and family too.  Even though they’re (mostly) not conversant with the finer points of my mentalism, they nonetheless have been a source of fun and comfort.

And of course a re-acknowledgement of CVM and K 🙂

A

Saving the best for last.  He’s seen it all, and it all ain’t pretty.  Yet he is still there.  Still loving, still comforting, still supporting, still protecting, still fighting the corner, still providing, still entertaining, still staying sane.

There are no words.  ‘Thank you’ seems so woefully inadequate, but it is all I have.  I just want to make it publically known that I will always owe a debt of gratitude to A for everything he has put up with this year.

AND FINALLY…

This post might lead you to believe that there was more good than bad this year, and I suppose in the most objective of senses that may be true.  This is why something like CBT will never work therapy-wise for me; it doesn’t matter how much evidence there is or is not for a belief – the belief is still held.  The reasons for the belief need to be explored fully and processed.  But I digress.  My point: 2009 was an absolutely fucking shit year, and I will be glad to see the end of it.

But I have hope.  A small glimmer thereof, but a glimmer nonetheless.  Not of a miraculous cure, but of some stability maybe.  With the help of C (I hope) and the love and support of my fabulous friends, both those in the physical world and those online, there might just be a path to stability somewhere down the line.

Happy New Year folks.  If ‘happy’ is ambitious, then at least I wish you peace and something approaching sanity in 2010.

Yours ever

SI x

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“I Hate You, Don’t Leave Me” – Therapy Sucks – C: Week 32

Posted in C, Moods, Psychotherapy with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on Monday, 30 November, 2009 by Pandora

The best-selling text written on borderline to date is a book called I Hate You, Don’t Leave Me, by Jerold Kreisman. I am struck by how much that title applies to this weeks session with C, which was fraught. Fraught fraught fraught. In a way, given parts of the post regarding last week’s session and my slightly more generalised anti-NHS rant of Wednesday, this should not be a surprise. On the other, given how passive – nay, submissive – I am known to be towards C, the fact that I was able to let it be fraught was surprising.

Not unlike last week, my memories are rather skewed. My most clear recollections involve me shouting at and insulting him and then threatening to walk out, then later breaking down and crying for what seemed like ages, in a defeated, resigned sort of fashion. Am I defeated and resigned? I’ll see if I can make some sort of sense of it all, but don’t expect miracles.

OK, so I went into his office and sat there like a knob, as seems to be fairly typical these days, as I refuse to start the conversation (no doubt an avoidance tactic). I had vowed to A that I would bring up the material in the aforementioned NHS rant, but as I sat there under C’s silent and enquiring gaze, I felt that I was going to chicken out completely. Eventually the silence led to the usual miserable whinge from me about wasting his time.

I saw my opportunity here – an opportunity to somewhat surreptitiously bring up my concerns, under the pretence that I was concerned about wasting C’s time. So when he yet again asked me why I felt the silences were so bad (apparently they can be very revealing and useful – since when did this become psycho-fucking-analysis?), I responded with something like, “well, we have a limited amount of time to talk about a number of things about which I need to talk. 50 minutes today, something like five more weeks overall.”

I don’t remember his verbal reaction (if any), but I think I noticed a split-second narrowing of his eyes at this, denoting confusion at the statement.

I have no idea what happened next. He must have probed me on my assertion that we only had five weeks of therapy remaining, though I distinctly don’t recall him doing so until later. In any event, I started babbling on about how I’d spent the preceeding few days looking online and in Yellow Pages for an alternative psychologist of a similar therapeutic bent to assist me on a private basis, but that I was having no success so could he please recommend someone, because if he wasn’t going to treat me until I was well enough to face the world without a therapist, then someone else would have to do so.

Again, the sense of confusion emanating from him was palpable, and I think he actually questioned why I’d felt this exercise was necessary.

I can only imagine that this was the point where I demanded specific answers from him on whether or not we were going to discontinue our relationship in January. Most (though not all) of the rest of the session centred around this, but I can’t be bothered to break it down into a specific chronology, and am not sure that I could even if I wanted to.

The very much paraphrased essence of this bit of the meeting was:

  • C – I never said it would discontinue in January.
  • SI – fuck you, you did.
  • C – I said we would review it.
  • SI – Same thing.
  • Repeat 700,000 fucking times
  • C – but you know it’s finite.
  • SI – but it would be irresponsible of you to make it finite now. MEGA RANT ABOUT THE NHS – Starting with point 1 from last post (if they’d done something with me when I first showed outward signs of being mental, then we’d probably not even be here), moving on to point 2 (it’s either the bin or C – latter is surely cheaper, but the NHS is such a stupid fucking bureaucratic mess that they won’t consider that).
  • C – you may well be right but unfortunately that’s the way it is.
  • SI – how do you expect to adequately reverse two decades of mental illness in less than a year?
  • C – answer not recalled but probably some politican-esque answer of avoidance.

Blah blah blah. He kept refusing to tell me directly whether his reference to reviewing things in January was a suggestion that we would end things then. He did, however, have the audacity to ask me what I wanted him to say. Hmm, that wouldn’t be obvious or anything, would it?

I said, slowly and menacingly, through (very evident) gritted teeth, that what I wanted him to do was to give me a straight fucking answer.

I don’t remember what he said, but it wasn’t a straight fucking answer – so I lost it. I absolutely, completely fucking lost it. I felt the anger well up in my stomach, like some sort of raging inferno, and felt it rise through my internal organs, eventually finding its way to my vocal chords.

I screamed at him, “I’ve fucking had enough of this. I’m leaving right now!”

And, indeed, I got my things together and went to stand up, but he started blathering on again – so, curious though still furious (I’m a poet, didn’t know it), I relented and sat back down. I think he was asking me where this anger was coming from or some such other non-sensical wank given that it was profoundly fucking obvious where it was coming from. (Or maybe not. Maybe I am angry at my father for abandoning me and C, in his role as a temporary surrogate father, is now bearing the brunt of that anger thanks to the perceived threat of abandonment. Oh yes. It must all be to do with one’s subconscious, mustn’t it? Nothing to do with the fact this uncertainty is fucking with an already fragile mindset. Fuck off, psychology).

I threatened to walk out again, telling him that if we were going to end things that we might as well just do it now rather than waste more of our time, but he kept managing to entice me not to leave.

I then spat at him (in something of a stylistic homage to part of this post) that he was “nothing but a fucking sadist” because he and the profession to which he belongs do nothing but make people relive trauma and misery and that it takes “a special kind of twisted individual” to think that that’s an enjoyable career path. I asked, rhetorically, if he’d use the old cliché of ‘I want to help people’, sneering about that being used as some sort of defence of his decision to practice clinical psychology.

I continued with my contempt-filled bile, telling him that he didn’t want to help people, that instead he wanted to “headfuck” them (I was gratified to see how agog he was at this. “Headfuck?!” he repeated, apparently aghast and astonished. Hahaha). “You’ve had your fun with me,” I asserted, vindictively, “so now you want someone else to headfuck.

He harped on the ‘headfuck’ comment for a bit, asking me to explain it, but I don’t remember exactly what he said and neither do I remember my response. So let’s (regrettably, cos that was fun) move on; at one point he asked what it would be like to end therapy. I said that I would have no real outlet to help me cope with the enormity of what I feel and of what I want to talk about. I said that I was emotionally (yes!) fragile in the extreme and that being left alone with the totality of my mentalism might well send me over the edge.

And how would it feel to continue, then, he pressed. Well, we have reached a point in our relationship where I feel that I can trust him enough to fully explore all that needs to be explored (not that that will be easy, but at least I think I can do it now). Our relationship is, I feel, the only adequate vehicle that I have – and have had – for a recovery of sorts. Only with his support and guidance can I face these things and, hopefully, move on from them. Or something – I don’t remember the exact nature of what I said. It was something like that.

Was it at this point that I uttered those tiny but synchronously hugely vile, belittling words? I don’t know, but this post is so disjointed anyway that it hardly matters. I said, “you can’t have escaped the fact that I’m very attached to you.”

He didn’t specifically respond to that as I recall, but at some point or other he did say that terminating therapy was going to be “a problem” whenever it happened, irrespective of whether we continued now or not and whether we’d worked through things properly. He didn’t say it, but the clear implication was that that would be due to my attachment to him. He’s right; I can’t deny it, it will be fucking horrible. The only thing I can say is that I would hope to be in a better mental place to deal with such a difficult prospect further into the relationship; right now, I am convinced that it would merely result in a hospitalisation – or even a possible run to catch the bus.

The long and the short of it is this: (a) we will review progress this Thursday rather than in January, as he recognises the enormous pressure that Christmas places on me, which will be compounded by his fortnight’s worth of absence at said point; (b) again, he stressed, there would be at least four sessions in the run-up to a termination of treatment devoted entirely to how to deal with that cessation (and it would probably more like six sessions); and (c) he is happy to continue ‘working’ with me as long as there is actual work being done – he won’t just do it for the sake of avoiding ending it.

On (c), I accepted the reasonableness of this position, but told him that if there were occasions where I found it very hard to talk to him about a particular issue, I did not want him to be of the view that that was me simply trying to manipulatively (not that that’s a word) extend therapy. I wanted him to be aware that some issues are just difficult to face, and it will take yet more time to address them.

He seemed surprised that I thought he would think that I would try to draw out the process, but assured me that he wouldn’t and didn’t subscribe to such thinking.

It was probably here that I started crying. I babbled incoherently through my sobs and he couldn’t understand me, and kept trying, in this annoyingly understanding and compassionate tone, to get me to repeat myself. Eventually I managed to articulate that, although I desperately want to continue with psychotherapy, the idea simultaneously petrifies me as I really don’t want to think or talk about so many things that I probably need to think or talk about (deja vu, anyone?).

I sat and cried for a few minutes, then started (literally) beating myself about the head as punishment for crying. He told me to stop it and said that I should allow myself be upset and indeed that he would actively encourage my tears if I was feeling an emotion that may precipitate them. For once I did as I was told, sitting silently in tears for a few minutes. As I said at the start of the post, for some reason I just felt terribly defeated – even though I shouldn’t because it seemed like I had got what I wanted – ie, C was saying that we could continue the psychotherapeutic process. Perhaps I felt defeated because continuing is agreed with the qualification that we are actually still doing something constructive – my visceral desire, of course, is to have him in my life permanently in some way. But this is armchair psychological conjecture; I have no idea why I felt this weird resignation. Perhaps it is simply that I was exhausted by riding on the rollercoaster that this session had been.

At what I think was my instigation, there was a discussion around the fact that it’s basically taken me six months and more to even begin to open up to him properly. I have discussed many things in sort of superficial ways, but I’ve not gone into much detail about specifics relating to my past at least and certainly, I have very rarely – if ever – behaved in a fashion like I did in this or the preceeding meeting whilst in session. I, of course, lambasted myself left, right and centre for being a time-waster.

C disagreed, opining that it was perfectly reasonable for me to have taken all this time to ‘test’ him, to make sure that he was worthy of my trust. Apparently he does not believe this to be time-wasting at all.

Whilst that is ostensibly reassuring, of course I find this a rather curious declaration on his part. If it was reasonable for me to have taken so much time to get to know him (well, kind of) before opening the floodgates, then how can it be unreasonable for me to expect long-ish-term therapy from this point to examine relevant issues from my past, or of transference, or of my life right now? The notion of continuing on some sort of rolling contract, rather than setting an initial timeframe of, say, six further months, seems incompatible to me with the idea that it was a positive thing to have used up the first six months essentially getting to know each other.

Anyway, I dried my eyes and apologised for shouting at him and for “being nasty”. Ever the psychologist, C replied by stating that if that was something I was harbouring, that it was good to demonstrate it to him, and that he would encourage me to do the same in future. He’s right of course, but it seems so terribly cruel for me to sit and shout “sadist! Headfucker!” or some such across the room, when the reality is that I don’t actually believe that and that I probably just wanted to hurt him (which I have no doubt he realises).

One thing I remember clearly about this session was that he seemed reluctant to let me leave. Normally, on the 49th minute mark, he pipes right up with the “we’re going to have to leave it there” line, and uses the remaining seconds for very brief housekeeping or, simply, goodbyes. On Thursday, I kept grabbing my stuff to leave, but he kept interrupting. It was odd and, looking back now, seems a little unsettling; he must have been seriously troubled by my mental state at the time.

Indeed, he said that he was concerned about how much I ruminate on therapy and that, that day in particular, he wanted me to find something else to occupy my mind, noting how difficult I had found the session.

I told him I would go home and kill people on Grand Theft Auto: Liberty City Stories.

He laughed (I don’t know why because I was absolutely serious) but continued by asking me what I enjoyed.

“All my interests are solitary pursuits,” I advised. “Aside from GTA and other video games, I don’t do much and don’t enjoy much. I do enjoy writing the blog, but one needs a specific mindset to write about difficult things and I am really not in it right now.”

(As an aside apparently C now thinks this blog is a good thing, despite the cuntified whinging that I reported here. Well, not that he thought it was a bad thing then per se – he just thought I was too fucking braindead to be careful in what I wrote here. Anyway, he now believes, correctly, that I seem to find the composition of posts cathartic and that I have found immeasurable support through the people that read what I write. If you don’t already know, folks, this is absolutely true. Thank you).

In the end we agreed that I would make an effort to rejoin the gym – as they all bloody do, C thinks exercise is imperative in promoting mental health. What’s more, though, he seems to be of the view that the physical effort required in exercise alleviates anger, stresses, blah blah. Personally, I find the gym insurmountably boring, but I’m unlikely to try and do myself in there I suppose, what with the other fuckers about. I haven’t rejoined it yet, but I will tomorrow. As for that day, despite my expectations that I would go back to A’s and my promise to C to actively take my mind off the session, in the end I went to my mother’s house and straight to bed. Rather than reveal why, I let her think I was ill.

So, how do I feel now, several days later? To be honest I don’t know. Although C said he was happy to continue working with me as long as we were not just avoiding the end of therapy for its own sake, the lack of a more definite answer and indeed timeframe still annoys me, and I am nervous about this week’s session as of course we are to review progress to that point. I do think significant advances have been made, as it happens, and I assume that C must too otherwise he wouldn’t have felt it was reasonable for me to take six months to get to this juncture. But nevertheless – I am dubious about what he’ll arrange next. Another 10 or 12 weeks – or something more meaningful?

I am sorry that this entry is so confused and disjointed, but that’s an accurate representation of my mental state during this session and, to a lesser extent, of the entire session itself.

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Until It Sleeps

Posted in Moods, Triggers with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on Thursday, 19 November, 2009 by Pandora

The iPod has been acting as a mindreader again.

I’m not in the habit of doing this as this blog is mine; my life, in my words. However, sometimes others just say it (whatever ‘it’ is) better than me, and this is very much one such occasion.

So, ladies and gents, I give you the nature of my present sorry existence – as presented by Metallica.

Until It Sleeps

Where do I take this pain of mine
I run but it stays right by my side

So tear me open and pour me out
There’s things inside that scream and shout
And the pain still hates me
So hold me until it sleeps

Just like the curse, just like the stray
You feed it once and now it stays
Now it stays

So tear me open but beware
There’s things inside without a care
And the dirt still stains me
So wash me until I’m clean

It grips you so hold me
It stains you so hold me
It hates you so hold me
It holds you so hold me
Until it sleeps

So tell me why you’ve chosen me
Don’t want your grip, don’t want your greed
Don’t want it

I’ll tear me open make you gone
No more can you hurt anyone
And the fear still shakes me
So hold me, until it sleeps

It grips you so hold me
It stains you so hold me
It hates you so hold me
It holds you, holds you, holds you
Until it sleeps

I don’t want it, I don’t want it…

So tear me open but beware
There’s things inside without a care
And the dirt still stains me
So wash me ’till I’m clean

I’ll tear me open make you gone
No longer will you hurt anyone
And the hate still shames me
So hold me
Until it sleeps

(c) James Hetfield and Lars Ulrich, Metallica (from the Load album, 1996).

I will write properly tomorrow, but in the meantime you can listen to and watch the video for the above here.


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Remonstrations with C – Week 29

Posted in C, Everyday Life, Moods, Psychotherapy with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on Wednesday, 11 November, 2009 by Pandora

I was absolutely dreading seeing C last week, after the disaster of the previous week.  Although the rawness of my hurt and anger had abated somewhat, I still felt fucked over and undermined, and obviously had no idea what he was thinking.  In fact, I’d arrived at a position of relative indifference towards him, something I’ve never really felt during the whole time we’ve known each other.

My initial thinking was that, from a psychodynamic perspective, this was a very bad thing.  You can’t just switch transference off, not well before the relationship has fulfilled its duties anyway (which as you can tell, ours as yet has not). I mean, one is surely supposed to feel strongly – or at least not ambivalently – about the therapist in the course of this type of psychotherapy.  But perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

As I walked behind him from the waiting room to his office, I couldn’t help but observe how much his bald spot has grown since I first met him back in February.  He has lovely fluffy hair, like a man about 40 years his senior (old people always have lovely fluffy hair, don’t they?).  But now it is falling out.  By odd coincidence, I noticed my first grew hair on the evening of the disaster session that this meeting followed.  I must not allow myself to be deluded into thinking that I am encouraging or in some way perpetuating C’s hair loss.  That would be fucking stupid.

I sat down, and immediately cast my eyes downwards, so as to avoid his gaze when he sat down.  I don’t recall what he said at first – maybe he offered some salutation or asked where I wished to begin, but in any case he paused for a few minutes (during which I sat in a fiddly silence) and then told me that I “seem[ed] very agitated.”

Well, look at Dr fucking Insight. Your powers of perception astound me, C!  Well, actually, they do at times – but I think on this occasion the observations could have been made by a dead giraffe with its neck twisted in a strait jacket.

I elected to ignore him beyond a mere shrug.  ‘They’ were laughing spitefully at the back of my head and getting on my tits, though I don’t think they influenced my behaviour around C particularly. He hadn’t mentioned the previous week, and I hadn’t the balls to bring it up unsolicited, so what did I have to say to him?

Eventually, of course, he broke the silent deadlock with that perennially irritating question, “what’s going through your head as we sit here?”

As I recall, I told him that very little was going through my head.  Apart from the grammatically- and personality-challenged ‘They’, not much really was happening in my head.  It felt as if I existed in a thought vacuum.  I didn’t feel good by an stretch of the imagination, but I didn’t exactly have anything tangible to exemplify that at that particular point.

This impasse continued for a few minutes, as ‘They’ assessed C.  Perhaps unsurprisingly, their conclusion was not especially positive.

Eventually, after having ‘They’ berate C for a few minutes I took a deep breath and told him that I was seriously considering voluntary admission due to the danger posed by ‘They’.  I went ahead and explained about ‘They’ in detail.

“I don’t want to go, C, I don’t want to go,” I told him, anxiously.  “But I’m concerned that I’m in dangerous position and that I ergo have no choice.”  It’s funny; it’s the the first time I recall using his name when addressing him directly.  Not that it matters really – but it seems more personal or something.

He talked for a while about the procedure one has to follow to seek admission to an NHS psychiatric ward.  Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem that it is as simple as it used to be.  You have to meet your GP or psychiatrist, but rather than them referring you directly, they then send you to one of those fuckwit Crisis Teams who decide how mental you are.  Based on my experience, you’d need admitted after meeting them, not that they’d realise that, because apparently a cup of tea and some meditating will cure all mental illnesses and emotional difficulties.  Yep.  That’s why people in my position are considerably more likely to end up topping themselves than the general population, you pathetic cunts.

Anyhow, I was actually reasonably impressed with C’s non-judgmental take on on both ‘They’ and my hospitalisation proposal.  It is often his wont to tell me that I can be in control of stuff like this, which to my mind is (mostly) horseshit.  Although we later discussed the possibility of exploring non-medical ways of dealing with ‘They’, certainly at this juncture, his tone was accepting, as was the content of what he said.  That was encouraging.

After the discussion around hospitalisation, I admitted to him that ‘They’ didn’t like him.

This enraged ‘They’.  “That is not what we said,” ‘They ‘ shrieked at me.  “We said he was a cunt.  Tell him.  Tell him…TELL HIM!”

For the first time, in utter frustration, I actually spoke aloud to them – or rather, I shouted at them.

“Alright, for fuck’s sake, I know!” I yelled.  I had actually been in the middle of a sentence directed at C at the time, and he must surely have been taken aback by this random outburst – but he managed not to bat an eyelid.

I don’t remember how the discussion of my anger at the previous week’s annoyances arose, but eventually arise it did.  I do remember that he said that I hadn’t commented on that, and my responding that he hadn’t asked.

Rather than express my raw hurt, I simply said, “let’s put it this way; I wasn’t in the best of moods last Thursday.”

His response surprised me slightly, though I think I hid it well.  He said, self-referentially, “what a bastard, right?”

“Um…well.  Am I allowed to say ‘yes’ to that?”

“You’re allowed to say whatever you like.”

“Then yes, exactly.”

He nodded, apparently unoffended (not that he should be given his job), then we discussed the issue in a fairly forthright and adult manner.  There’s little point in going over it, as most of my annoyances were discussed in the letter – though I didn’t give it to him as I said I would in the comments of that post.  I did tell him about it, though, and admitted to having a printed copy in my bag.

C actively encouraged me to read it to him, but I refused.  I don’t know why; I’m annoyed with myself for chickening out, but it just didn’t feel ‘right’ at the time.  I told him I would think about it, and indeed I have the letter ready to take again tomorrow.

I had made the point that I had taken an awful lot of time to prepare the stuff I’d taken to him the week before, and told him that I’d found it horribly invalidating when that work was “thrown back in my face because [he] couldn’t be arsed to read it.”

He didn’t bother to defend himself in anyway.  Instead, he went to what seemed to me to be great pains to tell me that he really did understand my upset.

“And maybe you felt rejected?” he later queried.

Rather than duck out of this, as I would normally have done, I went ahead and confirmed his suspicion.

I wasn’t overly emotional throughout this discussion (though had been a bit during the discussion of ‘They’), but I had been out the day before wearing eye make-up (and hadn’t been arsed to wash it off – I know, I know, how disgusting), and my reluctance to express myself in this fashion in front of C had more to do with the possibility of having big black mascara-streaks down my face rather than my usual ‘must-fight-against-it-it-is-evil-and-weak’ stance.  For the first time I began to get a sense that I could and should talk openly to C about things I’d deliberately avoided, and that I could maybe start to demonstrate exactly how I might feel – and if that includes crying, or ranting or kicking things, then so be it.

There was nothing clear in the discussion that led to this, but for whatever reason, I felt the dynamic had subtly changed for the better – not that it’s generally been a bad one, of course, but perhaps it took an argument for me to fully trust him not to abandon me; ie. that if he was still there, still very much part of my life – and if anything more supportive – after a major disagreement, that just maybe he could be trusted with a range of unpleasantries.  Not that I ever consciously doubted that, but I don’t know – the subconscious is a funny thing I suppose, and I’ve always been firmly of the view that one should trust no one until they have definitively proven themselves trustworthy.  And even then, the trust should be cautiously administered.

Whatever subtleties took place last week, I hope they can sustain the future of the therapy.  Far from wanting to seek an alternative therapist, as I did the day I wrote the letter, I am quietly encouraged by things with C as they stand.

But it could all change tomorrow…


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