Casual encounters at the CMHT.

So I went to see my CMHT today. They were actually lovely. I always avoid going top places when I feel crap because I worry that they’ll turn me away. Apparently the reason I haven’t heard from the Touchstone Centre is because Dr Gupta never got my message, so he said he’d call them today.

I initially went to talk to the duty person, who is a social worker. From 9-5 on weekdays they have someone who you can drop in and talk to, even if you have to wait. We spoke for a while, I was in bits. I cried all over my jumper. She was lovely but I felt she was focusing on the wrong issues for the time being. The problem was that I was thinking off hanging myself, but she was telling me to think about my long term goals, like looking for a college course and where I want to be in five years time. I know these are definitely good things to think about but when you’re snotting into your sleeve and the only words you can formulate are ‘please kill me’ maybe the focus is a little off.

Luckily someone cancelled on Dr Gupta, my psychiatrist so he could see me, he upped my dose of duloxetine to 90mg on the spot and said that if I still feel no effect (I’ve been on it at 60mg for over two months now) by our next outpatient appointment in December then we’ll change the medication altogether.

I felt like such a pile of shit this morning and I’m still only a 2.5 on the mood scale but it has gone up since I saw the DP (duty person) earlier when it was only a 1. I feel like of looked after, since I’m going to the training weekend tomorrow afternoon, there was no point in them bringing in the home resolution crisis team. That’s where someone comes round to your house everyday for a specified period to distribute emergency medication and to make sure you’re alive basically.

Dr Gupta says he’s worried about the time in-between today and Touchstone so he said to call him if there are any problems. He gave me some information on local things to do for the mental health community as we’re known politically correctly. I call us the mentals. They have drop in centres where you can just hang out, play pool etc. He thinks I should meet some new people who won’t judge me for being ill, but that it might help dissuade some of the isolation I’ve felt since everyone went back to university.

He said that this blog was good though and encouraged me to keep it up, if only for my own benefit of documenting my moods.

I reckon I’ll give some of the drop-in centres a try and let you know how it all pans out. I probably won’t post until Sunday now, unless they have wireless at the centre I’m staying in this weekend, but I’ll speak to you all very soon.

Stay safe, I’m trying to. xx

I dream of suicide.

My mood has been slipping lower and lower. It’s driving me mad. I cut last night for the first time since the boob incident. It’s a record for me, that long without any silliness but I can’t see it ever happening again. I didn’t go too far. Just the tops of my arms and my ankle. My ankle bled a lot though. It always does.

I hate myself for it but at the same time I feel oddly happy. I don’t fit very easily in this world but cutting is something I can actually do. I control it (mostly). I make myself feel that pain. It’s so different from the emotional tricks that BPD is constantly playing on my brain.

I’ve been really very suicidal recently as well. Only in the last few days but it’s also entered my unconscious. I go to sleep thinking of slashing my wrists and so I dream about it. In the morning there is always a gut wrenching disappointment to be alive.

I have been fantasising about hanging myself. I’m not exactly petite so it would have to be a fairly strong light switch to hold me up. There are these metal things on my ceiling. They were put up to hold one of those swinging chairs. I’ve long since taken the chair down but I have wondered if I could string something up there. I don’t know who to tell or even if I should tell anyone. I feel more confused the more I think about it. I hate myself for considering it but hanging out to dry does seem like my best option at the moment.

Here is a poem about what’s been haunting me of late.

I dream of suicide

The grim determination of the blade into the vein.
The wondering if these thoughts are turning you insane

The thud of heavy bones as the chair is kicked away.
The relief of the knowledge you won’t live another day

The acrid smell of plastic as the bullet leaves the gun.
The final acceptance that there’s nowhere left to run

The tremble of your fingers as you pop the tablets out.
The gulp of every mouthful shows the absence of your doubt.

The sudden jolt of morning with the alarm clock bleep.
The disappointment: it was not death, it was only sleep.

 

Self-destruction and a rant.

Today’s been fecking weird. I’ve felt all light headed again. There’s anything wrong in particular I’m just feeling pretty shitty. I wish I knew why. Mind you, black and white moods are a symptom of BPD so I guess I don’t need a reason. Borderline Personality Disorder is, for the most part, a reactive illness, but sometimes I just feel like sticking my head in the oven when to an outsider I’ve had a perfectly acceptable day.

­­­________________

It’s a couple of hours later now and I am feeling a bit better. I think I might work on some kind of mood chart because my emotions genuinely confuse me. I’ll scan it in and post it up at some point, if I ever get round to it.

I know that spending time with people, more often than not, will up my mood levels but for some reason I constantly isolate myself. It’s like everything I do has a streak of self-destruction even if it’s not immediately obvious. Self harming through one way or another is evidently self-destructive while spending an hour alone in your room when everyone else is downstairs together will make me feel shit but in a less noticeable way. I’ve only had this realisation recently so maybe I will make the effort to spend time around people. But then again, it’s a lot easier to sit upstairs and plan to hang myself.

I do think (and blog) about suicide a lot. Even when I’m not actively suicidal, I do have a dull ache in the pit of my stomach, a nagging feeling that I would prefer to not be around anymore. Maybe this is disturbing, I’m not sure because it’s all I remember. I wake up and think ‘oh it would be so much easier if I was dead’. And that’s on a GOOD day.

I know I have things to live for; I’m not so deluded that I think life is awful. If anything, I know that life is wonderful. The world is an amazing place just buzzing with weird and wonderful people. I just feel so disconnected from it. I reach out to grab the opportunities that are waiting for me and I can’t quite reach. I had the opportunity to go to university. I am very intelligent; I would’ve achieved a 1^st class degree. This isn’t boasting, I know I’m not perfect, I’m not even halfway there but academically I knew how to pay the game. I know how to answer an essay question on the powers of the Prime Minister in comparison with those of the President and get nearly full marks. But in the end I ballsed it up. I dropped out of a great university where I had loads of friends because this sodding illness got the better of me. It makes me so angry, but I am doing all I can. I take my medication, concentrate on staying alive and I’m on the waiting list for therapy. What else can I do?

I know, I know. Mum is always telling me ‘You’re ill Rachel, its not your fauly. You’ve not done anything wrong’. And I know she’s right, Higher Education isn’t going anywhere, but I didn’t want to be a screw up. I used to watch Jeremy Kyle and think ‘I’m not like them’. My mum is on benefits and, yes we’re quite poor but we have dreams. My mum is studying so she can get a job. My little sister has learning difficulties and is registered disabled so mum had to stay at home with her until last year. Now she’s school and my mum has got a Masters in Theology at the age of 44 after leaving school with 3 GCSEs. She’s done so well and I’m so proud of her but I wanted to do it properly. School till 16, A levels and then university. I was so on track. This time last year I was the pride of my whole family. The first one to go to university at the age of 18, it meant so much to everyone. They were finally proud of me. I love my family to bits but Matthew, who’s nearly 18 had always overshadowed me, not deliberately, but he’s stupidly intelligent and he’s a musical prodigy. I am happy for him, but last September it seemed like it was my turn.

12 months later however, I’m sitting at home every day, except for the occasional dalliances with A&E of course, and he’s off to Cambridge on a choral scholarship to study theology.

Life sucks sometimes.

Sorry about the rant.

PS- I genuinely couldn’t be prouder of Matthew, someone from our council estate, benefit scum family off to Oxbridge! Wow!

Paracetamol palaver and a poem.

I am hammered. I’ve just downed a bottle of wine in less than 20 minutes. It was such a good idea at the time. Now I feel like shit. I’m going to take the rest of that paracetemol just to punish myself. STUPID BITCH. Why have I done this (again)? Goshhh. I need some help.

I’m going to call the crisis team tomorrow is I have to. I need help and I need it now.

I have taken 12 tablets so far. I feel a bit sick but that could be more because of the wine. I don’t know what I’m planning. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I just want something to change.

I’ve taken 16 now, feeling a little sicker. I hope I can keep them down, I don’t want to throw up again. I’ll wait a good 2 hours before taking any more, just incase.

___________________________

Several hours later:

Wow I really fucked up today. Well, more accurately I got fucked up last night.

Went to A&E…blah blah. Same as always except this time I genuinely wasn’t trying to kill myself.

Here’s a poem I wrote about the kinds of feelings that have been haunting me recently. I’m too zonked out for a more articulate entry. Apologies, I will make up for this tomorrow. Promise.

Rotating Thoughts

Stained bedsheets
Scarred skin
Sad eyes.

Dirty fingernails
Long sleeves
Weary sighs.

Bloody tissues
Picked off scabs
Hysterical cries.

Racing thoughts
Feeling forgotten
Doctor’s lies.

Shaking hands
Worried mother
Constant fears.

More distractions
Googling death
Hiding tears.

Avoiding socials
Cutting up
Downing beers.

Inner turmoil
Anger bleeds out
Ringing ears.

And stop.

 

Morbidity, calories and a tenner to buy fags.

I’m becoming more and more obsessed with my appearance. I lie awake for hours planning what to wear the next day and wonder what shoes will work with a certain skirt. But I know it’s all pointless. I don’t really care what I look like any more. I’ve cut all my hair off, I’ve got horrible skin and I’m covered in lumpy purple scars. Ooh, can you say bombshell?

I think it’s a distraction. If I have to think about getting dressed tomorrow morning then I don’t need to focus on how much of a mess of my life I’ve made today. It’s confusing though, and it’s also bringing back some latent food issues. I find myself thinking about calories counting or wondering about binging. I REALLY don’t want to get back into that again. I’ve already had my time where I lost loads of weight over a summer when my mum went away. I ate nothing. I restricted heavily for months and then at the height of the problem I ate nothing but sugar free gum and Pepsi max for over a week. I was light headed and empty and it felt fabulous but it could never last.

Since going to university I thought I had pretty much dealt with it. I didn’t exactly eat healthily but I didn’t binge either and more importantly I DIDN’T WORRY about it. That is the biggest sign of recovery I think.

I was lucky. My eating problems were a part of my mental illness, I’m reluctant to call them a fad but it was only a year or so and I sort of got over it naturally.

Oh, I’d forgotten, the pills I mentioned in yesterday’s whinge are still in my handbag. I didn’t take them. I don’t really know what came over me. Last night I was ever so morbid. I was picturing my mum updated her facebook status with something like …is sad that @Rachel O’Keeffe has died. That would be an interesting way to tell the family anyway. I thought about maybe popping a few tonight. NOT in an ‘oh please kill me, my life is so awful’ way, I’m not especially suicidal at present but I do still feel bizarrely numb. You’d think, coming out of a deep depression, to feel nothing for a while would be a relief but in actual fact it just makes me anxious.

I need to sort out various appointments soon. My eyes need testing, these glasses are over three years old and I’m getting headaches so I think it’s time or an upgrade. I also need to go to the doctors. I’ve been on the duloxetine for about 6 weeks now and overall I’m happy with it. It doesn’t make me shake like citalopram and I only feel sick sometimes. But I am getting more and more anxious and the moment, I got a sharp pain in my stomach last night and thought I’d eaten something weird but then I realised that it was anxiety making me want to throw up. My sleeping problems are rearing their ugly heads again. ‘What sleeping problems?’ I hear you cry. It’s partly that I’ve got into a bad cycle which means I can’t get to sleep until 4am meaning it’s difficult to wake before 3pm. I have worked out that I naturally sleep for about 11 hours. This is fine, in theory. I don’t have a job and I’m not doing anything else with my pathetic life so I might as well sleep. BUT it means when I do have to get things done, I’m groggy and incompetent. I’ve tried staying up all one night and then going to bed at 10pm, really tired so I can sleep straight away, but then the sleep deficit of the previous night means I’ll be zonked out until 1 or 2pm the next afternoon and so the cycle begins again!

I don’t know if there’s anything the doc can do about this but in an ideal world I’ve love some sleeping pills that I can take at 7 or 8 and I’ll sleep right through but still be up by 9. And maybe a new antidepressant, these low moods are worrying me. Buying tablets with the intention of overdose is not healthy state of mind to be in.

I haven’t mentioned the saga of my struggle with the DWP yet now have I? Well, the Department for Work and Pensions sorts out benefits claims. I put through an initial claim on June 15^th 2010 and am still waiting. I’ve sent doctors notes, medical certificates and now I’m waiting for Joe, my old college principle to send me a letter confirming that I am not currently in education so I can send that off as well. Apparently, due to the incompetent bitch (sorry, I really am angry about this, I’ve been broke for months) who took my details originally, it was still on record that I was a student and would therefore be receiving the relevant loans and grants. Unfortunately this is not true and I am skinter than a skint thing on a skint day wearing a skint hat and skint clothes holding up a sight saying I am a skint thing on a skint day…etc.

I shall keep you informed as to the outcome of my latest wrestle with both the NHS and the DWP.

I do worry though about others who are trying to claim. Luckily I have a brilliant mother who I am living with. She feeds me and occasionally buys me stuff. I get the odd babysitting gig and sometimes my Nan gives me a tenner so I can buy fags. I am not so hard done by. But what about the people who can’t live with their mum’s and don’t have someone to cook them dinner? The bureaucracy I’ve encountered in trying to get some money surely exists for them as well. I’d be on the streets by now with the amount of time it takes from claiming to them even telling you why you’ve not been given anything yet.

Shush now Rachel, I hear you say. That’s enough whinging for today. I quite agree. I hope you have a lovely evening and don’t die or anything. I’m going to try and fall asleep before 4am because I’ve got to take my little sister to the dentist tomorrow and the appointment is at 9.30am. I’m dreading the alarm clock already.

Dying is art, like everything else.

I feel like death today. Well, maybe not death. I like I want to die. It just seems quite the practical solution. I fantasized last night about drinking a bottle of wine and then just stabbing myself. After three overdoses I’ve kind of given up on that method of suicide and have become obsessed with the idea of stabbing. Either stabbing my forearm, right into the artery, or just going for the chest. I think it’s the amount of blood. But the pain of stabbing I think will be a far cry from slashing my thighs. Hence the idea to drink the wine. Pain relief. I might be irrational and suicidal but I am at least organised.

Today I don’t have these thoughts, I’m just tired. I’m tired of being ill. I’m tired of mum having to wake me and remind me to take my medication. I’m tired of not doing anything with my life, of being broke, of being a failure, of being fat and ugly.

I feel like I’m waiting for something. This is no good. I’m not good at being patient. I want everything now. I want to watch every film, listen to every song, and talk to everyone, but at the same time all I want is to lie down and stare at the ceiling. Anything more than that seems impossibly hard and makes me want to cry.

I never wanted to be this person you know. I never wanted to be the troublesome one. The child that means mum has to call up professionals for advice and has to help me draw up a crisis plan. The one who gets applauded for being up and dressed, sometimes even showered by dinner time. My condition means that legally mum is my carer. The term ‘carer’ is so often used with physical disability that it makes me feel not only useless, but also a fraud at the same time.

I know I need the help; the nudges, the whispers and sometimes the all out screaming of advice into my often deaf ears, but at the same time I can’t help feeling that I don’t deserve it. I have trouble accepting mum’s responsibly over me purely in a parental capacity so it’s almost impossible to accept that she has to look after me to an even bigger degree.

Anyway enough of this nonsense. There is something else I wanted to tell you about. Oh yes, I have recently (in the last three to four days I think) developed an alarming worry that everything around me isn’t real. It’s quite obvious that my fear; being quite literally on the borderline of sanity, is that I could easily fall into psychosis. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am, for the most part, a decently intelligent human being. I have done lots of research into mental illness especially. I know that you can’t accidently catch psychosis. I know that I can’t stop it happening, without medication but similarly that I can’t make it happen either. However that hasn’t stopped my increasing anxiety that everything around me is fake and that the sights and sounds which present as real life are actually entirely in my head. I had a similar worry after watching ‘A Beautiful Mind’. I worried that everything was made up, but this time, I don’t seem to have a practical excuse for the anxiety I feel.

Once again, rationally I know that everything is real, because knowing how twisted my imagine can be, if I was to hallucinate, it would be, or at least I hope it would be, more interesting than my mum telling my sister to hang up her blazer and do her homework. These things do happen. I know this.

I think.