Admitted- the beginning- Part Seven.

I said when I got out I would write up my journal entries. Here goes the first one.

April 24th, 17:31.

Voices are on at me still non-stop. Being admitted. The mental health nurse said that I was a concern. Dr K got me to come here because she was worried for me.

The RAID team got called (Rapid Response mental health team) and now I’m waiting for a bed.

The voices are so angry with me! They want me to die so much. I don’t want to kill myself but they keep wanting me to.

I really hope this fixes some of this or I might die.

April 25th, 00:59.

I have been admitted.

I’m absolutely exhausted. I want to sleep but my brain is on fire, so I’ll be writing until I feel a bit more tired.

I’ve been taken to A&E before, like I’ve written, but I’m not sure it’s ever been as stressful as this. I was in such a state with Dr K at my appointment, she taught me some breathing techniques with a relaxation technique, then she rang the RAID team to let them know I was heading across. She talked to mum, too, and we got to A&E (ER for my American readers). The lovely Triage nurse saw me and told me that they would keep me safe. That was nice. Right then, I felt anything but.

The good part about being assessed was that I didn’t have to keep saying all the bad stuff in front of my mum. I felt believed, respected and valued.

I’m in Ward 3- have my own room with a little ensuite toilet. Not sure how I managed that but it helps with the paranoia. It’s a mixed ward but the men can’t come down here, so that’s a bit relief.

I saw the consultant- she was very kind. She has taken my blood and done a full mental health assessment on me.

I rang R and J. Both were awesome. Told Mr Robot about all of this too, and Harley Quinn and Y.

Oh, I think I actually feel tired now. I will end up writing more tomorrow.

Advertisements

found out.

It’s happened- mum saw my cuts. She was firm and asked me to give her all my blades. I had to stand there and show her the damage I did to my legs- I felt like a criminal, the worst sort of evil thing. Of course the voices loved that- but then she did something the voices did not expect.

She took me and the puppy on a long walk. She picked me flowers, let me get upset, laughed at the puppy’s silly antics as she galloped about and tried to eat butterflies. I held her hand or her arm, and she drew a heart on my wrist when we got home.

I am terrified now. I feel like I’m not numb any more, and with that fading away of numbness comes the awful terror and the pain and the anxiety. My cuts throb with the weight of my guilt, and I’m terrified of tomorrow when I go to the psychologist because I don’t want my mum to suffer any more pain: Dr K might put me in the hospital and I feel like I should go, but I don’t want to hurt my family or J.

I’m so jittery and confused right now. I hate the voices for screaming at me today. They STILL want me to take the steak knife to my legs. What happens if I can’t say no any more?

I’m worried for my friend Y and my friend Harley Quinn- neither are having an easy time and I’m worried something bad might happen to them too.

Dragging myself on a little easier- thank you.

tonight I’m fighting again, wearily and beddraggledly. I am exhausted, I am wounded, literally and metaphorically. I am at the point where I don’t know what to do any more- people want me to fight, the friends I’ve managed to talk to are so kind and good, as are all of you.

I just rang J and he’s been having a bad time but still managed to get me to take my valerian root, waiting on the phone til I did so, and then my friend Harley Quinn sent me a message that has made me cry.

Thank you Harley. Thank you for sending that message. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back- the voices are so pissed you sent it but it added to the slew of positive things that everyone has been saying. All of you tipped the scales and saved my life for tonight, and hopefully tomorrow too.

Oh gods, I know I’m as far down as I can be, but I need you all. thank you for keeping me company in hell.

J, Y, Harley, GoGoLogophile, Manyofus, Amber, R, Crashinglessons…. all of you and more, anyone who commented, said something nice, told me to try again… I owe you a debt of gratitude. Mr Robot- thank you for cracking me up, I’ve needed it. The lady in the shopping centre today who chatted to me about my gran’s trousers- you were lovely. Thank you.

The people who didn’t stare when I started twitching at the voices- thank you so much, you helped me deal with my paranoia by not looking.

Thank you mum, dad, sister and the rest of my mad family. I have needed you all so much and here you were, dealing with my silence and the fear that always produces.

Last, and not least, thank you to my Puppy. Your little canine body, folded in my lap, your enthusiastic puppy kisses all over my face, your trust in me and your unfailing love- thank you, this provided the tiny spark my Logophile friend was talking about. I limped through hell with you trying to bite my ears, cuddling up, and not taking my morosity for an answer. I think you had lessons from my old boikie Terry, sitting on the edge of the rainbow bridge, reaching a paw down to touch me when I needed him most.

And to you, my abuser-

 

FUCK YOU. I WILL FUCK YOU OVER SO HARD, YOU WILL FEEL IT IN THE NEXT LIFE. I HOPE ONE DAY YOU FEEL THIS PAIN TOO, AND I HOPE YOU NEVER RECOVER. TRY LIVING IN HELL FOR A BIT. I HOPE IT HURTS.

 

Thank you everyone, thank you.

I’m alone at three in the morning. I haven’t rung J to let him know I am feeling awful: too much programming in the way. I’ve lied to my mother about feeling “ok” now, and that I will get up in the morning and “face the day”. I have been on an online counselling service, which wasn’t great.

I am out of options.

What can I do next? I don’t have a clue. My usual method of writing hasn’t worked. My efforts to calm myself down haven’t worked. I don’t want to wake up my flatmates, because they have enough on their plates already.

I am feeling very unsafe.

I want to do something really stupid. I want to neck a whole bottle of alcohol, or slice my arms and legs with the sharpest knife I can find, sitting in the bath, until I can’t lift the knife. I want to cry again but all my tears are gone.

I want to die again.

I don’t want to die…. because I should be here for my friends and family and for J. However, today I am not me. I am in pain. I am programmed, I am listening to my stupid fucking dark passenger, and I want to cut.

I don’t know what to do to feel better. I don’t want to relapse. I want to sleep and forget and not have nightmares or paranoia or flashbacks any more.

I am exhausted but there is no chance of me sleeping.

What if I just cut a little?

That’s cheating. I am four and a half months clean. I would break my record.

Who am I keeping it for? Me? J? My family?

Tonight I don’t know. Tonight I feel unreal.

I just want to know everything will be ok. I suppose right now it isn’t, and it never will be.

Therapy in four months? I could be worse by then, or dead or something. I feel emotionless typing that. The only thing I feel is the guilt and unease that my ex used to cause when I couldn’t contact him: that saving up of anger for the big storm.

I’m getting sick again, and I want to be how I was in America with J.

Apparently I’m not allowed that. All I am allowed is pain and death and anxiety and paranoia and hallucinations and PTSD and whatever mood disorder I have on top of that and the fucking voices and memories of abuse that go on and on and on and never let me rest.

I am sick of life like this. I just want to be better. Is that too much to ask?

 

Fed up.

Today, I talked to a friend, D, who suffers from mental health issues of his own. He is currently undergoing therapy for his problem, and for some reason, today we ended up talking about the mental health services, and how different our experiences have been.

He had a huge wait for therapy, but after he moved, he was able to access therapy very quickly. He has regular sessions, and he says that they are helping him a great deal. He is also taking an antipsychotic, but it seems to be helping him to relax, and he says he hasn’t seen any of the side effects that can occasionally manifest.

He also said he thought that I hadn’t got the right people helping me, which I completely agree with.

So far, I am STILL waiting for regular therapy. I have had NO HELP managing my symptoms. I had to stop cutting by myself. I still have panic attacks, and the antidepressant I am taking has only helped me feel a little more balanced. I have still felt suicidal on it, and if I forget to take it, I suffer chronic headaches which make my jaw lock.

I have been prescribed an antipsychotic which I am not going to take because I can’t afford to see if I will gain weight on it- I’m a dancer, and my stupid judgemental peers will never hire me if I am the wrong shape. Personally, I enjoy being fit, and I don’t want to be any more lethargic than I already am.
I still have no diagnosis after seeing three psychiatrists and a CPN. I saw a psychologist for four sessions, and I know I need more because that was what helped.

I am slowly coming to the conclusion that the mental health services actually don’t care that I hear voices, that I have a history of suicidal thoughts and attempts, of self harm, of emotional and sexual abuse. I think I am yet another unsolvable problem to them and that I will never get the help or answers I need. You may say that’s paranoia, but I am at heart willing to believe the best of people. So far all I have seen is that the mental health professionals I have seen just don’t have a clue what to do with me, and some of them don’t care.

Despite the mental health assessment going well on the 23rd December, it’s now the 9th Jan and I still don’t have a follow up appointment or a referral to their psychologist, something they both promised me I could have.

Stop bullshitting me, please. If you don’t want to fix me just say so, and I will continue to try and fix myself. So far I’m not doing to well with that- I had another panic attack on the tube yesterday. I see my ex wherever I go in London. I am terrified he will find this blog and I will lose you all.

I suppose my big question is this- what happens next? When do I get help?!

I am beginning to fear that the answer is never.

The good news is that my awesome friend D is going to give me the number of the mental health team who look after him. Maybe then I will get some answers, and they might help me like they have helped D.

I hope.

Nightmare.

Apparently, PTSD sufferers experience nightmares. I had been wondering for a while whether I have PTSD along with whatever else I have, and I’ve written about that before.

Now I’m fucking positive.

Last night, I had a nightmare that’s still on my mind now.

I dreamt I was being the bigger man again, like I always was, and trying to patch it up with me and my ex-boyfriend. I was attempting to be friends with him again and he had agreed. I dreamt I’d gone to visit him in his flat, the one he said was perfect for us both, and I was trying to be friendly and not act as if we were still together. He was the opposite: talking about how he thought we should be together again, that it hasn’t been quite right since I left, that he never really meant to let me go like he did. He then told me he wanted to marry me, and that I should say yes and we should start talking about arrangements, and that I could just move straight in with him and it would all be fine. He was repulsively close to me, and kept touching my arms, grabbing my hands, kissing me. I kept turning my head away from him, trying not to let him kiss me, trying to move away.

Eventually I just took a huge step back from him and told him I had met someone in the States that I cared about more than anything, and if he wasn’t prepared to be friends we would have to part the ways.

Well, after that he went crazy.

He turned from being kind and caring and sensitive to violently angry and contemptful. How dare I think of anyone but him! I was a complete slut for going and hooking up with some arrogant prick in America, and how dare I shame him and his family by coming here to beg for friendship he didn’t think I deserved. How could I even look him in the eye!? What a bitch I was!

He started throwing things, not at me but at the walls, and pacing around. He yelled in my face. I argued straight back with him that my new boyfriend wasn’t an arrogant prick, he was all the amazing things a boyfriend should be- completely unlike my ex. He shouted back that I was a complete whore, going over there and putting myself out for him.

I started grabbing my stuff and trying to get out, and he was yelling at me and calling me a slut over and over again as I headed for the door.

Mum woke me up, and I literally thought I was still trying to escape him, and that he was nearby, insulting me and J and making me feel terrified and small again.

This is the impact the sorry fucker has had on my psyche. I hate him so much for it.

One of the other nightmares I have had about he and I was when I dreamt I was living with him, his mother and stepfather, his grandparents and sister. He was being his usual abusive self, and I had decided I had had enough. I told him we were over as a couple and I was moving out, and the whole family apart from his sister started laughing at my scars, belittling my mental illness, and tormenting me. They made it nearly impossible for me to pack, I was crying so much, and I had to put my belongings in a taxi and let the driver take them to my parents’ house whilst I walked my dog the long way home. For some reason, he was in the dream too, only he had also been living at my ex-boyfriend’s house. It was getting dark, and I was concerned for my dog because he’s old and pavement walks hurt his back legs.

After that one, I woke up in tears.

I re-live my assault in my dreams too, and they get more and more graphic. The last one had me being picked from a line of girls to be the victim of a serial killer- he was supposed to choose one girl to kill and another to assault. Lucky me, I ended up with both. I woke up as the knife was plunged into my chest.

 

I still haven’t heard a thing from the psychiatrist. I think they don’t care. I suspect this evaluation is not happening quickly enough because I’m not a screaming lunatic on a street corner.

Be careful what you with for, mate. I am attempting to re-start my dance career, giving it one last go, and if moving back to the Company proves a trigger, then that may be exactly what you get.

Especially if I keep having these fucking nightmares.