*TRIGGER WARNING – SUICIDE*
I’m desperately unhappy.
When I was suicidal a few months ago the Crisis/Home Treatment Team (HTT) and Community Mental Health Team (CMHT) talked about how I’d fuck my daughter up if I killed myself, mentioned new therapies to try. I felt guilt tripped out of killing myself and was given a shred of hope. But where are these therapies? Where is the support? It was all bullshit. So now I’m left here like this, with no quality of life, when this all could have been over months ago.
I last met with anyone in a professional capacity (aka Paid To Help Me) in August. My next scheduled appointment with the CMHT is the 22nd October. I missed two recent appointments, at the beginning of September. One because I forgot (I’m increasingly frustrated with a brain that doesn’t work) and another rescheduled a few days later because I was ill (physically). So, I feel like they’re punishing me. I’ve been bumped down the list because I’m not committed enough. MrTPM has called them (I can’t use the phone, another frustration) to ask to see someone before the October date. They said they’ll get back to him.
We’re still waiting, five days later. I don’t know what to say to them now. I’m honest whenever I see them, I tell them I still think of suicide, that I’m not happy. I don’t know what else I can say to get more help.
Doing one step at a time was fine. At my last appointment (about 20 years ago…) I was told to try planning meals and answering the phone. I’m ok for a couple of days. But I can’t manage those things AND the day to day stuff that I HAVE to do. I have to look after my daughter, keep her clean, feed her, dress her, take her to preschool, engage with her. And each one of those things is a real challenge for me. I analyse each step, each thing I have to do. And while I’m sitting there, trying to play with her, I’m thinking about how unhappy I am. I have no patience, I’m snappy, then I’m upset that I’m treating her like shit. She needs to not be near me with how I am at the moment. And that’s my everyday. I can’t achieve the small steps because I cannot focus on them.
I just need some fucking quiet. How can I get better if I can’t focus on it? And with no health care professional around to guide me?
As far as the ‘working diagnosis’ of bipolar disorder and the Lithium therapy goes, I have no idea. I’m on a trial, which indicated to me that it’d be monitored, both physiologically and psychologically. I’ve not had a blood test in weeks. I’ve had one blood test since I started taking it in June and none since the increase to 600mg. Whether it’s helping my mental state, I don’t know. I think I’m better than I was, overall, but with episodes like the one a few days ago (triggered by the letter from the CMHT), I’m not sure how effective it is. Have I got bipolar? Have I not? If I haven’t, what have I got? I’m very lost, and left to figure this stuff out on my own.
I feel unsupported. And with that I then become disheartened. I’m struggling to not give up as it is. Is this a government thing? Lack of funding? Is this a communication issue? Are staff over stretched? Should I be thankful that I’m not ill enough to be a priority? Does a person have to be literally hanging on a rope to get a helping hand? At times, I’m concerned I’ll find out.
(Apologies if this post makes no sense, much of it is excerpts from text messages to the Samaritans.)
*TRIGGER WARNING – SUICIDE*
HOPE. Something I had very little of yesterday, as my husband frantically tried to get me some help. The last few days have been filled with staring vacantly, anxiety that made me want to claw my own skin off, and almost constant planning of suicide. My mood made even worse with the knowledge that, logistically, I had no sure fire way of ending it all. The day spent smoking too many cigarettes, the nights tearful and panicky.
The calm that thoughts of suicide can bring is eerie. Time is spent looking for websites that will legitimately send you morphine for $20 and the best way to drown yourself in the bath. Working out how long it might take you to walk to the nearest train line, and how you’d explain yourself in a note to the train driver, to be read long after they’d scraped you into a body bag. It all seems rational, logical, the obvious best choice. For you, and for those around you. Then you realise, you don’t really give a shit about those around you anyway, your own pain is all consuming.
Getting quick help via the community mental health team is nigh on impossible. ‘We’ll speak to a doctor and call you back’, ‘they’re just with a patient, we’ll call shortly’. All the while my husband was trying to juggle work too, and I was going even further out of my fucking mind. Then the call that saved me, for now at least, an appointment made at the inpatient unit with the home treatment team.
Sitting in that waiting room was tough. Really tough. Anxiety level high, sobbing, not wanting help, just wanting to die. Knowing that once these people were involved, there was no way I’d have the opportunity to see it through. I’d be stuck receiving help that I didn’t fucking want.
The nurse was so lovely, without being patronising. She allowed me to sit and cry, to mull things over, my husband could ask all the questions that he wanted. I’ve never been so open and vulnerable in a mental health appointment. There were moments that I did my usual cover up thing, dry humour, laughing. But somehow she cut through the bull shit. That and there was no point in trying to be strong any more, I didn’t want to be strong, I was just desperate. The home treatment team will be visiting all week, with a treatment review with the community mental health team on Friday.
I’m not sure how I feel today, really. Am I relieved I’m getting some help? Will this mean more effective treatment? Am I fucked off I’m not dead? I could be long gone by now; relief. Am I just vacant, defeated? I think I’m all of those things. Nothing sounds appealing, nothing raises a smile. There’s the occasional fleeting moment, when my daughter talks to me, that I’m engaged, I forget. And then that moment is gone, and the emptiness returns. Is there a sliver of hope? Perhaps. Which is more than I had yesterday. I feel a bit indifferent about life, I can’t commit to any opinion or emotion. I’m just…here. Barely existing.