Category Archives: home treatment team

hospital wards.

So I said I’d try to do blog posts from the past and from now. The last one was a now one, and this one is about inpatient. I’ve had a pretty bad little while so have put of posting this. It’s a kinda sad post, and I didn’t want to think about the sad. Re-reading it, it’s ridiculous how emotionally detached I become when trying to explain how I’ve felt. Everything is a load of facts and logic. I was told by a social worker that it’s actually a problem for me. Emotionally connecting to events. I emotionally feel things and think other things. The emotions and the facts don’t connect. I duno if that’s true, but this is from early December 2013. It’s probably not that enjoyable, but it’s there to read if you want.

So I tried to kill myself. A shit load of diazepam and a shit load of alcohol. I wound up in A&E, in and out of consciousness. When I was medically stable, I talked to the psych staff in the majors ward and was asked to go to an inpatient mental health ward.

After 13 hours in A&E and several instances of self harm (some requiring stitches), I was put in an ambulance and moved to a mental hospital. There was another girl there with her Mum, but I didn’t want anyone to come with me. I wanted to be alone. She looked scared though, so I’m glad she had someone. I was scared too.

I’d already hidden razor blades in places where no one found them. And lighters. When they searched me, they found nothing. I gave them one one blade to look genuine, but kept the other eight. I’m not going to go into hiding places because it might give ideas, but I had them on me, as well as a stocks of first aid stuff from A&E, so I could still self harm there, and I did. Even though I was on every fifteen minutes, then moved up to twenty four hour supervision after I spoke with a consultant. They tried to take my shoe laces and the strings out of my hoodies, but I convinced them style was too important to me, even though I knew it kept me the option of killing myself.

It was terrifying to start with. Being searched. Being made to wait with people you’ve never met. I met this great BPD girl though whom I’m starting to make friends with. She made me feel safe. I respect her for that, regardless of her issues, but I guess that’s because they are basically mine. She’s safe though. And made me feel safer.

The first ward I was on was the first with a bed, although technically I shouldn’t have been there due to me not fitting into its catchment area. The ward itself wasn’t so bad. The beds were a bit uncomfy, but it was clean and you had your own en suite bathroom. You could still have electronic devices like phones and laptops, though the chargers were kept in a locked office and everything had to be charged in there so you had no access to cords. The lack of music was depressing, especially as it’s one of my main self soothe techniques and I was seriously distressed. My allocated nurse was lovely and really helped me with my orientation and said she’d work to keep me on that ward as I’d find it distressing to move. She also told me that if they did move me, she’d put on my notes that I’d need access to music for soothing anxiety and my macbook for uni purposes. Although we weren’t allowed lighters, we could smoke every hour, and often in between because the nurses were pretty safe. I began to feel I could be ok spending a week in that ward.

Then on my second night, whilst I was sleeping, a nurse came in and told me a bed had become available in the ward that took in those from my catchment area and I had five minutes to pack up and move. I was distressed, tired and crying. My lovely allocated nurse had gone home so I couldn’t even look to her for help. Luckily, the girl I arrived with and the girl I’d made friends with had to be moved too, so I wasn’t alone in my shock and distress.

Once I got down to the other ward, everything got worse. They took my phone, my iPad, my macbook, my 3DS. All because they had cameras. They also took my make up because most of it had mirrors in it, and my perfumes because they came in glass bottles. They wanted my shoe laces and hoodie chords. All the time I was crying because I though my original nurse was supposed to help me in this scenario and I was tired and confused. I can admit my behaviour was quite extreme, but still, what do you expect from someone in an inpatient mental health ward. I asked to see the consultant because I couldn’t comprehend what was going on, but he just shouted at me “Rules are rules. You are causing too much distress. Either you discharge yourself right now, or I’ll discharge you right now.” So I got my shit together and left.

Having no where to go, I sat in the hospital courtyard crying. I ended up self harming to try and make it better, but it didn’t help. I just wanted to die. I watched the blood pool on the pavement and felt the release, but still just craved for it all to be over. I can honestly say I was on the cusp of running away. Getting out of London, maybe to the sea.

Luckily, I saw someone I knew from the Home Treatment Team (HTT) who’d always been safe to me. I called him over and he gave me a big hug and took me to A&E. I was hardly there any time, but this great guy had made some calls and got my family to agree to take me home and to be under HTT care whilst I was still in “crisis”. My Daddy came and got me. My family had tidied my room and bought me comfy pjs and tried to make me feel homely. I just wanted to go to sleep. It’s hard to sleep on a Valium detox though. It’s three thirty am right one and I’m still going.

Since being home, I’ve been seeing the HTT and they’ve been giving me the appropriate detox for my addiction so I can’t hoard tablets. They still don’t seem to have picked up on the fact I have enough aspirin to kill myself. I’ve gone back to self harming once or twice a day and am plagued by suicidal thoughts. No hope. No belief. Each day is a challenge to not just do it and get this all over with, but as I’ve said before, I have my thread of logic. I just don’t know how long that thread can last before it snaps.

The HTT are beginning to worry about not being able to keep me safe, especially as my self harm is escalating in severity and quantity and I am still actively suicidal. For now, they think it’s best to keep me in the community, but they are definitely considering putting me back into the inpatient ward from hell. It’s talked about most times they visit.

I don’t know what tomorrow holds. Maybe it’ll be great, but it’ll probably just be more of the same. I don’t believe it can be better.

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Filed under Addiction, bad day, bpd, fuck, home treatment team, Hospital, Mental health, NHS, recovery, self harm

advent!!!!

There’s a really annoying boy in my bed right now. The sort of boy that turns up at 6am, drunk, to tell you he misses you then ask you to be his “plus one” at his work Christmas party. I think this is a little bit ridiculous. I mean, its not entirely his fault seeing as I’m totally buff and super amazing, but still, why can’t people fucking chill? Seeing as I haven’t slept at all and he is now sleeping like a really tired, hungover person, I thought I’d catch up on some blogging.

To be honest, I’ve not been blogging much recently, in the reading and posting capacity. It’s mostly because I’m actually doing ok right now. I have my moments, but I’m spending a lot of time with my friends, boys, the Fam, at uni etc. so I am actually busy. I’ve gone from never busy to often busy. And I’m enjoying it. I really like my friends at the moment, a few in particular, and I’m getting my confidence on again so I’m actually talking to people. People are so good. Sometimes you forget, but remembering again is fun.

I’m still under the HTT, which I guess is good because I still have my unstable moments, especially when there’s any contact with the Ex. I literally cannot hack him. He completely ruins anything that makes me feel happy. I know that sounds dark, but he makes me feel so horrible. Like, I spoke to him the other day and ended up crying in Tottenham Court Road, spending £30 on stationary and buying darker hair dye purely because he likes my hair lighter, then getting home, crying, dying my hair and painting my nails black because I was angry and shouting at everyone I spoke to and self injuring. That boy has a lot to answer for when it comes to my mood. He fucks me up so much I swear. And I hate that I miss him. Cunt. And generally I’m not so rude about people. Well I am, but in a lolz way, not a serious way. This is a serious way. Still, he’s fading and I have people shaped distractions.

There is good news though. I’ve finally been seen by my new psychologist. It’s sad because I’m going to have to say goodbye to my super nang therapist who I love and actually sometimes trust, to be replaced by some next woman I don’t even know. The Psychologist is still seeing me weekly right now, but probably not for long. He wants me to write him a goodbye letter, and he will write me one and then we’ll read them to each other. All sounds a little bit too cringe for me really. I’m not sure I’m up to that challenge. I guess I’ll have to give it a go, but I so badly don’t want to :(. Plus I don’t want to say goodbye to the Psychologist because I love him so much. I hate it when people go. I’ll probably cry and look like a dick, but what can you do? I have to be ok moving on to some new therapist who might suck out and I might hate and might be really horrible. I hope she’s not, but who the fuck knows? Soon there’ll be a new the Psychologist and I just have to deal with it.

Still, this change means I no longer have to attend stupid coping stupid skills group. I hated coping skills group so much it’s ridiculous. Seriously. All the way in fucking Essex. So much travel for so little gain I swear. Plus I didn’t like the facilitator that much because she was too loud and in your face and the people in the group we’re all a lot older than me and no where near as logical and scientific thinking, so what I told them didn’t really resonate and vice versa. I don’t say that like their thinking was bad, it just wasn’t at all like mine and it made it hard to feel comfortable. Maybe that’s just me trying to rationalise my own prangs, but it is how I feel. It’s fine though because I never have to go again, which is a huge fucking relief.

But anyway, I still haven’t finished being assessed by IMPART yet. Apparently there’s only one left, but who the fuck knows really. There have been so many assessments you couldn’t imagine. In the whole process, I gained another diagnosis – panic disorder. Gotta catch ’em all in NHS mental health service. Really annoying, but I guess I already had it and now it just has a name.

I’ve been pretty open about my mental health with the sleeping boy seeing as I can’t go out in the dark by myself and he lives about 2 mins from my psychiatric hospital, but he has some pretty wafty ideas about mental health. He’s anti-medications and thinks that treatment doesn’t work and talking therapies fuck you up more and you shouldn’t have them. I didn’t really want to smash his opinions down with scientific research, statistics and generally knowing what I’m talking about because he’s only 20 and I didn’t want to be rude, but I’m sorry what the fuck? Suicide is the biggest killer of men under 25, anorexia the biggest killer of women under 25, people with psychotic disorders really fucking need their medications to stay stable, as do many people with other problems. It really bugs me. I spend so much of my life surrounded by people who either do or try to understand mental health, I forget sometimes how much people opinions can differ and be based on negative stereotypes. Still, at least he’s not rude about my mental health which I appreciate and he does try to get it. Jeez I’m such an over-sharer. He is a bed teef though, which makes him supes annoying.

Blah anyway I’m babbling away, losing my point. Standard though. This is what happens when you don’t plan your blog posts properly. I really should get some sort of structure to my blog. Except I can’t be fucked really. Maybe I’ll do it sometime. It really doesn’t help that I literally haven’t slept at all. No amount of sedatives stops insomnia anymore. Annoying.

The most important thing to mention in this post is the absolute brilliance that is ADVENT!!!! Which means advent calendars and lots of alcohol and festive spirit and mince pies and fun times and everyone is happy and it’s my favourite time of year. I love December. I love Christmas. I love winter. So much. I’m so excited and hyped all the time. Yesterday, me and almost all my S named ladies went to the Southbank Winter Festival to drink mulled wine for advent and it was so fun. Plus really pretty. The Southbank looks beautiful and festive. There’s this igloo outside the Hayward gallery which is literally so cute and pretty. And a bicycle powered light up tree. And so much good food. I had the world’s tastiest lamb burger with harissa and garlic mayo and it was so good. It might not actually have been the worlds best – that may well be the mulled wine and festive cheer talking. It was really good though. So good I could literally smell how bad my breath was and didn’t even care. I ended up getting pretty drunk, but not too drunk. Siblets on the other hand…. Well…

So anyway, I should probably try sleep if I can. Plus this massively horrible, seriously racist and really fucking irritating woman just showed up at my door (unannounced) and I have to rescue the Ma from her because none of us can stand her. Daughterly duty and all.

Here’s the igloo:

20121202-223324.jpgAnd inside the igloo:20121202-223549.jpg

And a festive London Eye:

20121202-223532.jpg

 

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Filed under bpd, coping strategies, general, home treatment team, IMPART, NHS, recovery, shopping, therapy, university

crazy 24 hours.

Last night was really bad. I tried to distract myself, but it didn’t work for long.

I duno what flipped in me, but I flipped and got really agitated and distressed. I wound up on the phone to the HTT at midnight or summin with a bottle of aspirin and the full intent to die. Because they’re in and out of A&E at night, they had bad signal and promised to call me back in 10 minutes. It took me about 3 minutes to decide I couldn’t just sit, so I self-harmed pretty badly down my already gnawed up arms. Nothing that needed A&E, only steri-strips. That lasted about 45 minutes till I called them back again and there was no answer. So I then called the Crisis line, which was also useless and just burst into tears until they found someone to connect me to. He talked to me for about 45 minutes and persuaded me that yes I should take my meds rather than try to hoard them and I calmed a little, but still felt unsafe.

I got the Brother to come and sit with me. I told him how I felt honestly, even that I wanted to just die because it all burnt so much. I think that was brave of me. He made me some apple squash, put on Time Trumpet and watched it in bed with me and Afiq (my teddy). I even took my zopiclone, though it didn’t work so well. We got through the whole season before I felt sleepy, but he left me falling asleep to the Armando Iannucci Shows. The Brother was good and picked things that made me giggle and lifted my mood up a lot. He looks after me better than anyone else in the world. He doesn’t cry or tell me how he doesn’t understand or ask questions. He accepts it and goes “Right – let’s do something nice together right this second. For as long as it takes.” I need that when I’m feeling so desperately lost and low. I can’t find a way out myself, so asking me anything and expecting positive outcomes is ridiculous because I can’t find the answers.

I woke up not too drowsy and a little bit more hungry than I have been the past few days. I think the initial side effects of the zopiclone are wearing off a bit now. I was able to eat breakfast, a cookie and a big lunch, though I feel too sick to eat right now so I duno how dinner will fare up. I was in a foul mood though. I was angry. Like really angry. I was fuming at the HTT for not making it better and not taking me seriously. Sometimes I think I should just kill myself so people will finally believe I’m not making all this up. I get paranoid that everyone thinks I make it up so they don’t listen to me or take anything I say seriously. Then I start to think that I am making it all up and I’m fine, so I need to make myself less ok. Then I realise I’m not ok in the first place if I’m thinking of doing serious harm in order to get other people and myself to believe me. It’s a cycle of thought with no clear exit. Anyway, I was planning on shouting at them and telling them that they don’t care and don’t listen and don’t understand, but I managed to keep myself marginally acceptable when they came. I was argumentative and rude (which I regret), but I didn’t tell them how much I fucking hate them or anything. I don’t even hate them. I just felt like they didn’t care, which made me hate them at that moment in time.

Keeping my anger in didn’t last long though. I’ve been getting angry lately that the Pa wants to walk Juno all the time. We share care for her. He gives her breakfast and a quick morning walk, I give her a long daytime walk and lunch, the Ma feeds her dinner and the Pa gives her a quick evening walk. This works out well for me because generally, I’m home alone during the days, so I can walk her whenever and we get lots of bonding time. Granted, now the clocks have gone back, the walks will literally have to be earlier, but I have trouble motivating myself to do anything for hours once I wake up so I generally walk her between 3-6pm (now it’ll have to be 2-4pm. Fucking daylight savings). The Pa has some time off work because it’s half-term for the Ma and it was Eid on Friday so she had that off too. He’s kept asking me if he could walk her or saying “I’m thinking about walking Juno now” at like 1pm, whilst I’m probably still in pajamas. I’ve got it into my head that he hates that she’s not his dog and his dog only. I think he’s trying to steal her from me. My walks with Juno are one of my favorite parts of the day because I have music and my pup and autumnal weather, so this has been really getting to me. Juno looks after me and I love her and I don’t want her to stop loving me (some next level abandonment issues. I mean, come one – She’s a dog. She loves everyone). Anyway, I went downstairs to give her a hug and she ignored me calling and just sat by the Pa. Now I know she’s a dog and has no bad intentions, but this really really hurt me anyway. I then told the Pa he could walk her and he’d won and he’d got her all to himself now. I then ran upstairs and started hitting and biting and ripping etc. Obviously I had to go upstairs because I didn’t want Juno to feel stress in the household as it would upset her.

Anyway, the Brother came to talk to me and suddenly I was devastated. I was crying about how no one loved me and the Pa had stolen my dog from me and I had no one to care for me and even my dog can’t love me and blah blah blah. I was angry and devastated and confused. Mostly, I was just way too emotional. The Pa came into my room and I shouted and cursed and cried some more. Standard. He told me to just hug my puppy, but I told him she doesn’t love me anymore and I didn’t want to be rejected again etc. You know the drill. So I told him off, cried, and kicked him out my room. He threatened to send Juno to Battersea because he “doesn’t want a dog to tear a family apart” (which I think is a bit dramatic, but I know I was being dramatic too). I told him that I love her too much to let her go. It was a bit of a scene.

Once left alone to my own devices, feeling like death and wanting to self-harm, I checked the Daily Puppy (I know I keep going on about it, but still), just to see whether they’d accepted or rejected her. I did not expect to see my beautiful Juno staring at me as the puppy of the day 27th October 2012! All of a sudden, my mood changed entirely. I was ecstatic. I called the Pa and ran downstairs with my laptop to show him. I read all the comments, told everyone how many biscuits she had, started scouring twitter for all the Juno related tweets, ‘liked’ the Daily Puppy facebook page and shared their picture of Juno and commented on it and linked her profile on my page and was just really happy. As of right now, over 1,000 people on Facebook have ‘liked’ her picture and 54 have shared it, she has 1,611 biscuits and 52 comments on her Daily Puppy page. People are even putting her on Pintrest. I got major excitement. Bouncing off the walls excitement. We went on an extra long hour and a bit walk today so I could show my whole neighbourhood the puppy of the day. She’s a local celebrity, even though no one recognised her. I’m generally not someone to show off their pets like this, but with Juno I just feel so compelled. She’s too adorable.

Suddenly, I love everyone and everything and today is fantastic and I complied with the HTT treatment and took my medications in front of them. I promised I’d call again if I have another minor crisis or need to self-harm again tonight. The CMHT Psychiatrist (who will, at some point, be just the Psychiatrist, but I’m taking a transition period to not confuse people) emailed me this morning and told me I should go to the local Community Drug and Alcohol Team (CDAT) for help with my Valium issues. I emailed him back to tell him it was stupid this morning. I already have four teams involved in my care – adding another seems a bit much and a bit confusing. IMPART + CMHT + EDU + HTT + CDAT = waaaay to many acronyms. Plus, I’ve already been working on it myself to get off it. Then this evening I talked to the HTT about it and now I’m going to go tomorrow. I have to be there at 9:30am to get seen quickly as they only offer drop in sessions and the later you get there, the longer the wait, which sucks, but they’re in the same building as the HTT so I can kill two birds with one stone in that trip. Plus an extra hours walk is an extra hours worth of headphones so it’s not so bad. Still, at least group is cancelled this week so I don’t have that to cope with as well as all this other treatment malarky.

What is rubbish though is that, with the HTT coming twice a day (due to my tablet hoarding compulsions), I had to miss dog training today. The Pa can show me it all tomorrow so I can catch up, but I hate missing it, but it’s only one class and its session two, which is the same one I saw when I visited the group to see if it’d be good for Juno. I reckon I can figure it out better with the HTT by this time next week (if they’re even still seeing me twice daily. To be fair, if they are, I’d prefer them to come evenings anyway because I can’t got out in the dark as it is, but I can get them to come earlier).

This might sound all positive, but I’m not sure it is. Right now, I’m less excited. More lonely and sad. That’s probably because I just had some Valium though. The problem is, as I’m lowering my Valium intake or as more life stresses build up (having to repay my Professional Careers Development Loan, broke without a job for instance), my personal life gets more complicated and painful or my duloxetine needs to be upped or for whatever mixture of reasons, my emotions are becoming increasingly volatile. Both in a good, and bad way, they are getting more and more intense. More and more difficult to manage.

I’m getting more obsessive over little things too. Right now, I’m obsessively trying to decide between an iPhone 5 or a Galaxy SIII. I’m also obsessing over the Daily Puppy thing. It’s not like I mind being obsessive, but I find it hard to do anything else. Especially the things I need to do (like sort out how to pay off this loan and try to change my student bank account to Co-op so all my accounts are in one bank, thus easier to manage and getting the Psychiatrist to sort out my freedom pass etc.). I look over the same webpages again and again and I can’t not do it. Everything else becomes secondary to whatever I’m obsessing over. I’m also starting to get hyped up about my iPad 4 turning up (I had a major breakdown in Sainsbury’s, so even though it was against store policy, they gave me a refund so I pre-ordered the new one. Not a mini one though. I don’t want a mini one). I’m counting down days. Literally. It’s arriving on Friday and I cannot contain myself. Then on Monday I can upgrade my phone and well…. that’s its own minefield. These things cost money I shouldn’t spend, but I figure I can deal with it at some point in the future.

I’m also getting more irritable. Little things are triggering anger, rages and hate. Like the fact that it’s half term and the Fam are all around and I get irritated when they speak to me because this is my time and if they try to hard, I get angry and hate them. Of course, they are all trying too hard because the Psychologist told them about my increasing level of risk and stash of painkillers. I’m self-harming more and more, and it’s getting progressively worse. None of this is really that good. I’m not trying to stop it either. I don’t know how to and even if I did, I’m not sure I have the motivation for change. I’m acting as if I’m ready to change. I’m taking all the right steps and trying to do what I’m asked sometimes,  but if they don’t watch me take my meds, I hoard them. I’m not trying to cut down on self-harm. I’m not giving the HTT my stash of pills like they keep asking. I’m perfectly aware of the fact that it’s dangerous to have them there as I tend to act on impulse, but I want to keep that option open and I know that if I gave them away, I’d just buy more the same day and not tell them.

So I don’t know if I’m doing good or not. I don’t know if I’m being compliant with treatment or not. I don’t know what I want to get out of it or if I’m ready to change. I don’t even know if I even need help or not. If I’m acting or I really feel like this. I don’t know what to do or if I’m doing everything wrong.

All I know is that no one hears me screaming and I’m desperate to find a way of letting the whole world know how much my insides burn so that someone will understand and make it better. I don’t even think that’s possible.

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Filed under CDAT, CMHT, home treatment team, IMPART, Juno, life, recovery

and they’re back again.

So the HTT are back again. I spoke to the Psychologist yesterday about my mood, increasing self-harms, suicidal impulses, stocks of pills and alcohol etc. and from that point on, it was all things go.

Firstly, he called my HTT and asked if they’d see me. They told him I had to refer myself, so he called me back and told me to do that and that if I didn’t, he’d be compelled to tell my parents. I got the Brother to call him to calm him a bit, then called the HTT. They would only accept a referral from the CMHT Psychiatrist. This is where it all went wrong.

The Psychologist is from my EDU, which is based in north London and is part of a NHS Mental Health Trust. My CMHT, HTT and IMPART are part of the North East London Foundation Trust. Basically, that means the communication between my primary care giver (the Psychologist I see weekly) and everyone else is essentially awful.

I called the Psychiatrist, but he was unavailable, so I called the Psychologist. He said he’d call the Psychiatrist then call me back. I called the Psychiatrist a lot of times and was given assurances he’d call as soon as possible. Then I just waited and waited.

At about five thirty in the afternoon, after giving up hope that anyone liked me or cared about my existence and convinced (yet again) that I should just kill myself, the Psychologist called back. Apparently he talked to the Psychiatrist and was told I’d be contacted. When I told him I hadn’t, he was pissed because he’d been told that they’d take up his issues. He then told me he had no choice but to call the Fam. He was all like “I don’t breach confidentiality lightly” and like “This comes from a place of care”, but seriously – fuck him.

So now the Fam know I have a stash of painkillers and I’m suicidal and ‘high risk’.

Luckily, I was out with the Pa at that point, so only him and the Brother knew, but I already knew what would await me at home. It would be tears and drama from the Ma. She’s terrified I’m going to die and I devastate her life.

Then, at 6pm, the Psychiatrist called and asked what was going on. I told him how fucked off I was that he’d messed up my Valium prescription and what my Psychologist had told me to tell him – suicidal intent over the past few days, worsening mood, worsening self-harm, stash of pills etc.. Because it was 6pm at this point, he couldn’t see me till Monday and told me I had to go to A&E. If he’d called half an hour earlier, I could have avoided the Famo issues and just gone to A&E whilst saying I was heading to the pub or something, but no.

I was right about the Ma. I got home – cue waterworks. Which in turn, rackets up my guilt, shame and suicidal thoughts. I don’t want to hurt my mum, but I do, every single day. Just by existing.

So anyway, I packed a bag, grabbed a really good friend and off to A&E I went. I was there from about 7pm till maybe 1am ish. The friend really helped lift my mood. He was fun with me and joked with me and made me feel better sometimes, though little triggers and memories kept knocking me back down again. Of course, me being a dick, I took razors to the hospital and cut myself in the bathroom. Seriously – who does that? Why am I such an idiot? Nurses had to dress my stupidity and I wasted their time. They were nice to me though. I’ve never been treated badly by A&E staff for my mental health issues, though I know for a lot of people this is a common occurence. I’ve only been treated well and kindly. I guess I’m lucky. I’ve always been offered the right, evidence based treatments, support when needed and been treated kindly. Maybe it’s because I’m in London. I know so many people haven’t had such luck.

Standardly, I had an ECG, my blood pressure taken, a blood test and a urine test. I don’t know why. My bloods were fine though, my blood pressure is a tiny bit below average (which is good) and my ECG was normal. Apparently I have a water infection. I hadn’t noticed, but now I’m on antibiotics for that too.

Anyway, it took till about midnight for the HTT people to see me, so now they’re back. I was sad because I wasn’t seen by someone I know and I wanted a recognisable face. I’m getting zopiclone now to help me sleep without Valium and green, which will hopefully help me feel better whilst cutting down on the diazepam, but will make me more drowsy in the day as my body isn’t resistant to it. And they’re going to provide me with Valium everyday so I don’t have to go cold turkey again. I slept through their appointment times this morning though so I’m not even sure if I’ll see them. They called and said they’d be coming, ad I know who it’ll be today and he’s lovely so that’s less scary, even if I don’t know what time it’ll be.

I’m still really on edge and have thought more than once about ending my life in the two hours I’ve been awake. Still, at least I had a good nights sleep. Now I’m just waiting and hoping the HTT turn up in time to settle me a bit. I’m fucking exhausted and have no appetite. The idea of eating anything makes me feel sick. And every time I go downstairs, the Ma looks at me like I break her heart and my whole body just aches with guilt and shame. I don’t know what to do.

So yer, I’m feeling really fucking low and I don’t know how much I’ll be blogging for a while. I’ll try keep up with reading, lurking and commenting, but I duno.

I feel like shit.

Sorry for whinging.

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Filed under bad day, bpd, CMHT, home treatment team, NHS

concentration.

I’m doing fucking awful at blogging in general at the moment. To be honest, I don’t even know why. I guess it’s not distracting enough. I know that sometimes, blogging is a great release from a whole load of ugly thoughts and working stuff through, but right now, I don’t really know what I’m working through.

As far as recovery from anorexia is concerned, I think I’m doing quite well. It’s not that I’d consider myself fully recovered, but I don’t actually think of myself as having anorexia anymore. I’m not restricting in any way and will happily nibble on chocolates and cake and bread and hummus and crisps and apparently a maple pecan danish which I had for the first time yesterday and they were so completely excellent. I went to a picnic with my friends and got riotously trashed and on vodka, wine and gin (sometimes even with juices as mixer) and actually had a really nice time. I nibbled a lot a lot and have no idea what my calorie intake was and it hasn’t bothered me all that much today and everything. My BMI is normal at around 21 and that doesn’t bother me too much. I mean, it bothers me, but it gets easier and easier to handle and I think my body is still kinda slim maybe. I hesitate in writing that because I’m scared that people who read this will think that I should think that was too fat, but realistically, I even out at a size 8 and that can’t be too big right? I still feel like Jupiter, but I’m getting more able to rationalise it and it doesn’t bother me 24/7. I still get multiple issues per day with my body, my shape, my weight and my size, but it’s not all day every day. I do still have problems with eating, but I’m managing it without it having a negative impact on me physically, and it is improving so I guess that means it’s improving psychologically too. Like I always have to make my own food and stuff and I haven’t got close to eating intuitively, but I eat nice foods and I have a lot of variety in my diet and sometimes I cook really nice things with lots of time and energy and sometimes I throw some veggies, grains and pulses in a bowl because I’m tired and can’t be fucked. I think it’s getting closer to normal every day. It’s good. I still walk a lot, but apart from yoga I don’t do any other set exercise and I would rather see my friends and wind up with a killer hangover so skip yoga if it seems more fun at the time. I very rarely get sucked into food porn and health or diet websites. I’m no longer using eating disorder forums really. I almost except that my weight was actually critically unhealthy and that I could possibly be or look better or more healthy now so that’s an improvement. And not being fully obsessed with food and numbers and calories and weights which I guess is good. It leaves my brain for much more horrible things, but at least it isn’t quite as boring. Clothes shopping still makes me want to die but still. I get a lot of compare and despair thoughts when I see people or just generally realise I am no longer small. I also want to restrict my food quite a lot. These things don’t make me do it though.

This week, I had a weigh in with the ED psychiatrist. It was pretty distressing as I weighed more than I’d expected. Granted it was in the afternoon so I’d actually eaten two meals by this point, but I was a whole 3kg more than I was at my previous weigh-ins. At the time, that bothered me the most. There was more though. Like the fact she told me I was selfish for taking an overdose which made me really fucking angry and I shouted at her. I don’t think suicide or attempts at it (not that this is what I consider my overdose as) are selfish. I think that it’s an act of people who are incredibly unwell and don’t see other options. It’s sad and horrible, but not selfish. It’s like calling any mental health issue selfish, which I completely disagree with.  She told me I was too angry in general, which fucked me off. She also told me my weight gain wasn’t normal and I should work out why I’d gained so much so I could stop gaining and gaining. On top of this, she stated that she’d be happy to discharge me. I guess I should be happy with this, but I freaked out because it’d mean I couldn’t get access to a dietitian or the Psychologist or anything at all and no one takes me seriously and I hate it because I need access to this help if I need it so I told her no, then stormed out, fell into the grass in the middle of the hospital and hit myself in the head whilst crying. In a predominantly mental health hospital, I don’t know if this kinda behaviour is more or less acceptable in that kinda location, but it happened anyway. For about 15 minutes. After storming out of therapy the week before, I seem to be making a habit of the dramatic exit.

Anyway, the next day, I had my first period in 4 years so that’d explain the unexplained weight gain, as well as the extremely stupid emotional responses. And also it means that I’m actually a healthy weight and that I’m probably not infertile or anything. It’s a good thing I think. It’s kinda weird. I’ve never really had normal periods. They’re not a bother or anything for me, which is pretty lucky, but they started pretty late, have never been regular and I went on a POP pretty much straight out the door so they got less and less regular and easy to understand. I don’t know what to expect really, but I guess I’ll figure that out if they keep going. Who knows really. I know this is all a little TMI, but I don’t care. It’s my blog and if people judge me as a weirdo, so be it. All in all, it’s probably a good thing. I feel slightly ambiguous in that eating disordered way of “If I have periods, I’m not small enough” which likes to rattle around in my brain till it keeps me up at night. That’s what diazepam is for I guess.

So yer, my body works, my eating disordered thoughts are lessening and my behaviours are lessening. All in all, that side of my life is improving.

The HTT also think I’m doing well. They plan to discharge me within the next week so they must do. I don’t feel any different from when they started seeing me really, but I didn’t feel deserving of them and didn’t use them as I should. They honestly don’t know much about me or my mental health. I can’t call them because one time I called them drunk. I don’t trust them to be able to help me. I don’t think they take me seriously. They don’t believe me that I burn. They don’t see and I failed because I didn’t show them. I have all the time in the world to show everyone, I just haven’t found the right way. But I was never deserving and never that bad anyway. They were supposed to turn up yesterday, but they didn’t so I didn’t get my medications and they’re so late this morning I don’t think they’re going to show up. I probably should call them, but I don’t because they don’t like me anyway. They blatantly forgot me on purpose because they see me as a waste of time. If they ever come again, I’m thinking of kicking them out. I’ll probably change my mind but I’m really pissed off and they’re leaving me anyway so I want to get there first so it’s on my terms. Or do something dramatic so they’ll stay. I’ll probably cop-out of everything.

Same with the Psychologist I think. He sees me as a waste of time. I can tell each week he’s finding me more and more annoying and awful and can’t be fucked with me. I’m seeing him this week, but then he’s taking leave for a few weeks and I’m thinking of firing him before he can fire me this week. He hates me and thinks I’m undeserving so I have to make him think I don’t give a fuck about him and couldn’t care less if he ditches me or not so I’ll get there first. I keep getting more and more worked up about therapy

But anyway, eating disorder wise and I guess crisis wise I’m doing well maybe.

It’s everything that’s left is what bothers me.

I’m so full of emotions and thoughts and I can’t contain them. I can’t contain my brain. I know brains are weird and how consciousness is contained is a little bit strange to think about, but technically it is entirely contained within my body, predominantly inside my skull. It doesn’t feel like that though. It feels like my brain just spills out of me all over everything I touch. It goes either way. When I’m happy, I spill my happy all over my thoughts and all over my surroundings. I can’t concentrate because my mind is agitated by my mood and all my thoughts jump around possible happy things like when I do well and people like me and I’m funny and beautiful and get the boy and get a first in my degree and wind up becoming a medical doctor because I’m amazing and could do anything I want and I have a puppy and it’s a good hair day and I’ve picked an exceptionally good nail varnish combination. When I’m comfortable, I’m so comfortable that I can share anything with anyone and I should call them and tell them that I miss them because they all care for me and I care for them and why don’t people tell this to each other often because it always makes you feel better and all my secrets should be shared and it’s ok if I’m silly because people like silly and I hold hands and hug and get all up in personal space and feel safe. When I’m desperate, I’m so desperate my whole world sinks and I can’t bring myself to talk or eat or sleep because I’m the ugliest, stupidest, most boring of everyone I know and any compliment is a backhanded joke at my expense and it was a fluke I even have a degree and I’ll be unemployed forever because I have no skills and suck at life and there’s nothing and no one likes me and I’ll always fail and be low functioning forever. When I’m scared, everyone is leaving because they can’t see that I’m serious and no one realises I’m burning and I’ll burn forever because burning on the inside isn’t as deserving as burning outwards and no one will believe me and they’ll all go and there’ll be no one left to help me and I’ll just keep on burning and burning. I could list more emotions that spill and spill on my reading and my work and my social life and getting dressed in the morning and every other second of the day. I can’t concentrate at anything at all and I can’t commit to anything and I’m wasting my life with all the mess it’s causing. The diazepam doesn’t help with the concentration aspect, but it does stop me getting so frantically worked up in an emotion (good or bad) that I can’t cope and act out. I think my moods are elevated since the duloxetine kicked in, but it’s equally uncontainable and unrestrained. The good is really good, but even that gets too much to handle. It’s kinda like being a child, except a lot more destructive.

And at the same time, I don’t feel any of these things. It’s all just constructions I create in my head to try convince myself there’s any person left since I so completely killed off anything real and all that’s left is lies I have to perform will full intensity to try to force myself to believe it. I’m performing so hard it’s bursting out of me and I burn. Nothing I do or have ever done feels like it really happened. Sometimes I actually lose time and don’t have memories of what happened. I have no consequences so anything I do or feel has no influence on what comes next. Nothing is real. Except I know it is, but I don’t experience it as real. Watching life happen whilst everything is lies and nothing has consequences but with it turned up so loud that it’s making me raw.

Standardly.

This kinda distracts me from the blogging universe as well. I find it hard to read through posts, I write posts in sections over actual days because I cannot keep my mind in one place. And what makes it more difficult is that I don’t know how to make this better. I don’t know what actions to take. Recovery from anorexia involved a clear course of action. I had to change the behaviours, no matter how fucking horrible it was for every attempt I made for the best part of a year. It’s only through changing behaviours over and over again that I could challenge the thought processes and fears that kept me stuck in my completely damaging eating habits. It’s not more or less simple than recovery from other mental health problems, but the aims are clear. Concrete behaviours ruled by fear are bastards to change but at least it’s concrete. There are no concrete steps I can think of now. I know there are all these mental techniques, but I find that much harder to engage with or even contemplate than physical action. I like to see change, imagining it seems ridiculous to me. I know that it’s actually not, but it all feels so…. holistic therapy or motivational life coach to me and even though there’s real evidence that the techniques I’ve researched work. I’m just better able to contemplate the physical over the mental I guess.

So I feel kinda stuck. And I don’t really know if I should just be posting the same thing over and over because I’m not making any progress and I don’t want to have this “woe is me” kinda blog and seeing as really, I’m waiting for the next round of treatment to begin, not much seems to be happening.

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being a moody mood.

So I think I had a pretty much disasterous day yesterday. I stormed out of therapy which is never a good sign. I was freaking out. I don’t even know what happened. I don’t remember everything. I was totally fine I think this morning, but I was really busy trying to be busy so I didn’t exactly have time to reflect. I was a ball of nervous energy at the HTT people that visited. It was all lack of eye contact, twitching toes. More than usual as well, which seeing as nervous energy is my usual reaction to other people is saying something. I was hit with gravity emotion a lot and had to keep stopping to get pulled to the Earth’s core a lot, especially on the overground, but I was ok. I started to get a little bit more worked up on the way to therapy. I was thinking of what I wanted to talk about and a lot of it just wasn’t true and I realised I was scared the Psychologist wouldn’t think I was good enough or something and he wouldn’t realise how much help I need and that my actual facts couldn’t describe what my internal world is. Add that to the fact that my internal world gets so confused with the external and I was getting myself a little bit too fast I think.

The Psychologist kept asking me questions and sometimes I’d answer, then I’d beat myself up for saying anything because it wasn’t right and I think nothing worth it and it’s all wrong anyway. I’d forget, then remember that I’m awful and shut up again. I think it really pissed him off. At one point he just started staring for ages and not saying anything. This got me really uncomfortable. I couldn’t stand the eyes like accusations, analysing my every move. I completely clammed up. I told him I had to leave and shouted a bit then stormed off. I immediately regretted it and stood outside hitting my thighs with my fists in order to pluck up enough confidence to go back. I knew I’d beat myself up for storming out, but it was a real fight. Physically I was winding tighter and tighter. I went back only to pace and shout and tell him off and tell him I needed to be taken seriously and that no one believes how much it burns my insides all the time yet no one hears me scream and I have to find a way to show people I’m screaming so that they understand and take it seriously and help me. Then I stormed out again. Second time I didn’t go back.

I then proceeded to stomp about north London, cursing at myself for being awful and getting increasing wound. I ended up calling a few people so I could tell them to take me seriously so that they would understand that I’m fucking suffocating in my brain and I need people to know and understand and help. Right now it feels like everyone thinks I’m a massive joke. I don’t want to be a joke. I’m desperate for someone to take me seriously. I feel like I have to do something so people know how I feel inside. This led to a few people getting anxious about my safety and I was forced into repeated contact and conversations ro keep track of me. To be honest, I think I was pretty vulnerable and at risk at that point.

I eventually calmed enough to get myself home and to lunch. Seeing the pup really helped me to chill. She’s so fantastic. If I feel shitty I can go and lie on the kitchen floor and put her on my belly and stroke her back. She makes my whole life better I swear down. She’s so fantastic.

Anyway, things got a little easier, but then quickly got worse again. I had the conversation with the Uncle last night. It was hard. I was talking about my recent history and issues whilst he told me about his past mental health difficulties. He was institutionalised with bipolar in the nineties and is probably the person I know with anything remotely close to similar to my current situation and really, it’s not all that similar. He’s a nice guy though and he’s got a lot of information on mood stabilizers and the like, as well as advice on how to navigate mental health care and a lot of positivity.

He’s a bit of a poster child for recovery. Still, I got all worked up about that too. I think it went ok. Apparently he told the Pa that he was “honoured” to have been asked. Seriously naff.

I then proceeded to hug the Ma for a really long time in the hope that I could convey the severity of how I felt. I don’t think I did though. I don’t think I actually understand the severity of how I feel so I just want to share it, but don’t know what it is. Then the Pa showed up and I didn’t think he was taking me seriously and didn’t care enough so I stormed off and hid in my room, locking myself in with lots of heavy items propped against my door. Luckily for me, I think my medications have effected my sleep so I’m quite tired in the evenings and fall asleep well (only to wake up in the very early hours. I’m still not getting enough sleep, but I am sleeping different I think. I have to try really hard to stay awake at night in the hope of pushing the time I wake up into more normal hours. It doesn’t work though and I end up falling asleep at like 1am, only to wake up at some point between 5am and 7am depending on the day. It’s not a lot less sleep than I need, but it builds up when it’s every single night. I’m exhausted all the time).

So after going over yesterday a little, I’ve discovered that I still have no idea why I freaked out so entirely. I do mean entirely as well. Physically, I couldn’t do anything but freak out. I just stopped thinking and started acting and I can’t identify why and it scares me. I don’t like it when I completely lose the ability the think and just start acting. I had a lot of those moments today when I realise I’m not in control. It’s really, really horrible actually.

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authenticity.

I’ve had a nice day the other day. It was hot, but not too hot. It wasn’t sunny. I went to St. Katherine’s Dock and had some really nice food and walked about, looking at all the posh yachts and things. I accidentally found the Denmark cultural market thing (lots of countries have cultural markets dotted about London during the Olympics). I walked from Tower Hill into the city to do some vintage browsing and a little shopping in Brick Lane, then grabbing a tarte aux fruits from Patisserie Valerie.

All good things. Except none of it feels like it happened. I know full well it did. I remember it. The memories don’t seem real though. The feel like someone else’s memories. It wasn’t really me. I wasn’t in control, I wouldn’t want to act that way, the things I said are things I don’t think etc. I have problems feeling connected to my memories and past feelings and thoughts. It’s not just past events and actions, it also happens in the moment. My brain starts questioning my actions. It’s most scary when it starts questioning thoughts and feelings. Everything becomes lies, except I’m not lying. It’s like I can’t not lie. I have to because there’s no facts and no truths and no person. Just stories I started telling myself years ago so I could pretend to myself that I wasn’t so terrible. Now whatever person there may or may not have been has gone and all that’s left is the narrative. It’s such a hard thing to describe and I keep trying to, but just can’t seem to find the right words. It’s just so distressing. It’s like suddenly you zone in to what’s happening and you’re doing something you don’t really feel is true because you’re not in control. You’re saying words that aren’t your words and don’t describe your thoughts. Then you start to try to work out what your thoughts are, but there are none. Each thought you have isn’t true. Even the thought that your thoughts aren’t true isn’t true. And because nothing is true, you have absolutely no choice but to keep making things up and pretending and lying because without the falsities, there is literally nothing. No thoughts, no actions, no emotions. You just wouldn’t exist. You become something entirely constructed. But the construction isn’t perfect because you just can’t create concepts that tightly mesh to make a coherent whole. The concepts don’t fit together properly and you get terrified people will push at the cracks and expose the fact you’re nothing and then they’ll laugh at you. So you panic, covering cracks with more concepts, digging the hole deeper and deeper. And the person you’ve so consciously, yet so entirely unconsciously, created is rubbish too. You’ve failed to make someone worth being and killed the truth completely. You’re just completely unable to be or feel anything true. You’re only a performance of a person, constantly performing even when you’re all alone.

It’s really horrible.

The Psychologist wants me to keep an authenticity journal. Every time I do or think something that feels authentically me, I’m meant to write it down to keep a log of what keeps me grounded. The problem with this task is that as soon as I reflect on whether I was authentic or not, I start questioning myself and my reality. It becomes lies. The question becomes how the fuck do I even start this task? I start freaking out about the task itself. I’m so stuck.

I play with Juno because I love her. But do I love her? Or do I pretend to love her because it’s nice and girly and cute to completely love baby animals and I want to believe that is who I am and I want others to believe it to so I’m just pretending to love her because I think that’d make me better? Do I really want to self-injure, or do I just want people to think that I’m not coping, even though I am, because then they’ll want to help me more? Did I ever really have an eating disorder, or did I actually just want to believe I did so that I could get attention? Every section of my brain becomes something to doubt.

On top of worrying about all this nonsense, I still have to actually worry about it. I have to worry when I’m lying in the dark, calling people up to tell them things I know I shouldn’t and might not even be true with no control over my actions. I have to worry when I’m running down the road, pounding my feet on the pavement till my whole body aches so I feel more present and can rid myself of the burning emotions I don’t know if I feel. I have to worry when I’m shouting at the people I love. I have to worry when I’m tearing my room apart.

But that’s why I’m getting a blood test tomorrow. The HTT are putting me on mood stabilizers to try to dampen my moods. They have to check my blood levels first, but then I start a new medication on top of everything else I’m taking. I’m scared of them. I don’t want to dampen all my moods, just some. I like when I feel great because I get really excited and jump about and cannot contain my happiness. It can be good to not be able to contain an emotion, but it can be awful too. In some ways though, I think it might be good to contain some on the good emotions too because then I’ll do less things that with hindsight make me feel so much shame. I like to share all my uncontainable emotions and although the good emotions are great, it’s in the sharing that I find the shame. So much shame. I never understand why I do and say things. The Pa is organising for me to have some sort of terrifying conversations with my Uncle about what mood stabilizers are actually like. He’s suffered from bipolar in the past and had a lot of experience with those medications, plus seems to be pretty darn stable so might have positive stories. I’m already feeling shame for that conversation and it hasn’t even happened.

To add to it all, I’m really struggling internally with my eating. I gained some weight I think, which should be fine seeing as I’m on new meds and cutting back my NRT and still have no periods so probably need a bit more weight anyway. It makes me feel awful though and it makes me want to control my eating more. I’m struggling to keep up my progress. I am obviously eating more than I need to, but I’m also hungry quite a lot and I don’t know what to do about it all really. Restriction keeps playing on my mind, but I don’t restrict. I keep eating regardless so I don’t wind up going backwards. It’s hard though. Like actually. I really badly want to lose weight. Really badly. My thoughts are getting more and more caught up in food and diets. I’m ugly and I suck therefore I must lose weight so I can be prettier and people will like me more. Whether or not this is actually true is neither here nor there. It’s not logical, but it’s how I feel. I feel dumpy and ugly.

It’s hard to eat. It’s hard to not exercise. I’ve spent a good portion of today looking up adult gymnastics and ballet classes. I want to be strong and flexible. Yoga isn’t enough anymore really. I’m not getting pushed enough. I’ll probably not follow-up on it, but today I’ll dream of exercise.

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Filed under eating disorder, home treatment team, Juno, life, recovery, rubbish