Archive for February, 2009

Gone, But Not For Good

I’m going away for the weekend – visiting various friends and relatives. Previously looking forward to it, now I’m just daunted by the scale of the energy required.

Appointment with work occupational health tomorrow morning – don’t know how I’m going to cope with that.

Whilst sitting in my corner today, I almost flipped a coin: tails I live, heads I die. I stopped because I didn’t want to find myself pitted against the Crisis Team again, knew I didn’t have the energy to keep it from them.

The buzzing in my ears is growing annoying. I feel under constant mental barrage, my posture is apparently noticeably tense. Yet all I feel is lethargy and lack of energy.

Crisis were going to discharge me on Monday, but have done an abrupt about turn.

Time’s passing is marked by daily milestones: coffee with so-and-so, appointment with so-and-so-other. Each one passed means another day of this existence achieved. I’m plugging on, but struggling to do so more and more. People ask me what I’d like, how they can help – all I want to do is curl up in my corner and hide. But I daren’t give that answer.

Blogging is helping – at least if I succeed in killing myself, my family will know that it wasn’t because I was a coward or didn’t seek help from MH services.

NB: This post would not have been possible without spellcheck. Thank you who-ever invented that!


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Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

Thou only art immortal, the creator and maker of mankind; and we are mortal, formed of the earth, and unto earth shall we return.

For so thou didst ordain when thou createdst me, saying, “Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.”

All we go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.

Give rest, O Christ, to thy servant with thy saints, where sorrow and pain are no more, neither sighing, but life everlasting.

Excerpt from the Book of Common Prayer

Things are not good. I guess I’m still pretty severely depressed.

The fire raged and the fire burnt and the fire has had its way with me.

I am nothing but dust, a few withered bits of husk, having one last final dance upon the wind.

I am all run out of me: I get up and I go to bed, I go about my business, but it is not me.

The lights are on, yet nobody is at home; she is the girl sitting in the corner of the room, hiding from the shadows.

I nearly tried to sleep on my floor last night because I did not have the motivation to get out of that corner and go to bed.

I have stopped caring now: neither life nor death hold my interest.

I am stuck in a living death from which I seem to have no escape.

This is hell 😦

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What to do when the PCMHT don’t want you because you’re too severe but not severe enough for the CMHT?

Blue Skies and Green Grass

I think I may have found this out, at long last.

Dropping down to crisis point seems to have mobilised referrals and people in a way that would never have happened otherwise. The crisis team are on the verge of discharging me, but I now hold promises of a referral to both the Primary Care Clinical Psychology service and to a psychiatrist for regular follow-up over my meds – so I suspect I shall be seeing that blue-green waiting room a few more times. Unlike last time, they are insisting on creating a crisis plan with me before discharge.

Both my worker at the young people’s place and the crisis team have independently expressed the idea that they should talk to the other side. Whether that phone call has actually been made, I don’t know, but I know that my worker was very keen on putting her head together with them/my GP before I’m discharged, and working out a way that she and my GP can keep me from “falling through the net”… like I very nearly did this month.

Frankly, if they do talk to each other, I will be A) amazed, but also B) relieved. I’ve gotten fed up of playing the chinese whispers game, and of forever being the one to relay information between services. Yes, I realise that there is an issue of confidentiality here, but there is some automatic liason between NHS services that simply doesn’t happen between my worker and those same services. When I was discharged from the hospital, one of the nurses there gave (after asking my permission) my worker a phonecall to explain what had happened, and followed it up by faxing a letter that she could keep in my records. Sure, it was a simple thing, but it made the world of difference to me at a very vulnerable time – I did not need to explain the details yet again, or even work out how to broach the subject… instead the time of our session together was freed up for deeper conversation. I did not need to say anything, because she knew, and she understood.

So, this seems to be where I stand now: freed of the PCMHT, and with a potential pic n’mix from both primary and secondary care (as, to be fair, I expect most people have).

I hope it doesn’t all go back-end-up again, but I really do fear that it may.

NB: I’m drafting a post to try and explain what was going on in my mind and in my life prior to this post, which might help make more sense of my posts since, but I haven’t really wrapped my head round it yet myself, so it will be a while in the coming.

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The Morning After the Night Before

Yesterday, when talking to the bloke from the Crisis Team, I came up with quite a good analogy for how I felt…

It’s like the morning after the night before… I wake up, and suddenly I’m seeing the Crisis Team, my life is even more of a mess than before, and it’s like… y’know… what the hell happened?

Well, I still feel that way, but now I’ve got a mental hangover to boot. My energy seems to have disappeared when the suicidal urges did, leaving me feeling flat, leaden and unmotivated. As I’m sitting here typing, waves of sadness come rolling along over me, throwing my concentration off. Time sometimes speeds and sometimes crawls, according to no discernable pattern. All I want to do is go back to bed.

I’d forgotten what this was like, how physically wrenching the pain is, how exhausting it is just to go places – never mind doing anything once you’re there.

I should have expected it really – I’ve been through a fairly stressful experience, and one that it would be unrealistic to bounce straight back from. My body and (probably moreso) my mind need time off to destress, relax and repair.

Yet I feel bad about taking that time, and it’s not even really possible at uni – this is an artificial world of deadlines and continous assessment. I haven’t even found the energy to explain to my tutor why I’m encountering difficulties again, why I’m still not better, why I’m still riding this mood rollercoaster a year after I was originally diagnosed.

Perhaps that’s because I don’t know the answer myself. Thought I was doing just fine on 10mg Tally until the rug was swept from under my feet, and I fell down so fast that I had no time to recognise the fall or repell the influx of false beliefs and imperatives.

Come on duloxetine, it’s only you fighting my corner now… better give it your best effort!

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Not Quite Daring to Look Ahead Yet

But, just to let you know, the storm of compulsions has eased, I’ve moved back to the same planet as everyone else (distinctly less elbow-room here though), and am starting to wonder how the hell I move on from this rather major wobble I’ve had these past few weeks.

Oh, and I’ve started taking the duloxetine.

It’s making me feel very nauseous and queasy 😦

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There Is Nothing There, Noone Here, Nowhere To Run

I don’t want to write moan after moan, especially since everyone who used to comment seems to have buggered off, but this is just the way things are atm. My life is squished between my hopes and fears, and the juice and joy has all run out.

I’m convinced every day that tomorrow will be the day I finally do it. Obviously I’m still here, so that hypothesis is wearing slightly thin now, but still I can’t shake the bloody feeling. I’m making plans again, googling for extra info.

I’ve given too much control to the thoughts, too much life. But it’s catch 22 – if I try to deny them, then I’m giving in to the lies of the rest of the world, of the Crisis Team.

There is no way to break the cycle, except to take the pills, and the thoughts won’t let me do that either.

It’s a trap, and I’ve been snared fair and square.

My coursemates are worried about me, but under the illusion that I’m being “looked after” and that everything will be fixed with a “referral to someone decent”.

And I’m still teetering in the shadowland between the living and the dead (or at least, another attempt), unable to commit to either.

I’m just one girl, alone in this storm, toying with forces I don’t understand.

And I can’t cope.


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Next Step on the Meddy-Go-Round(?)

She was late, but came in the end, and dragged me up to the hospital to sit in an awful waiting room with green chairs and fake plants. The trick cyclist asked me a few questions and sung the praises of duloxetine, so I told him what he wanted to hear and agreed to the new AD. We wandered over through the maze to the hospital pharmacy, where I coughed up the money for the drugs I didn’t want, and sat in silence with her, crying, waiting for it to be filled. I ran off in the end, before it was, and stood bawling in the corridor outside, before wandering off to find a slightly less public place to break down in (especially since people kept slowing down as they walked past, wearing that “Should I poke my nose in?” look). I returned in the end, to find she’d picked the pills up for me. We drove home, with my silence and her prodding.

Crisis are coming again on Friday, I’m not sure if I want them to, not sure if I’ll still be here or not. But I agreed to it, like I always do.

She tried to get me to promise to ring them if I “needed them” before then. I’m not sure why I would, but I know I wouldn’t even if I did, so I didn’t promise, just thanked her for taking me up to my appointment and walked off, away from the call of Chouette…?

Crisis are, frankly, not much use.

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