An update, possibly rambling!

I’m a woman on a mission on today, to crack several sticky issues, but I wanted to bash out an update here while my cup of tea is brewing ūüôā .

Social care
There’s been no word from social work since the social worker who assessed me for social care in May, left to begin maternity leave at the end of July, despite my being told that I’d be allocated a new social worker. I’ve tried to contact the service manager, my ex-social worker gave me her details as she left, but I can’t get any response for her. A form did arrive in the post two days ago, from a different department, together with a letter asking me to supply the financial details requested in order that they can determine how much to charge me. This without my having been told that I would be charged. My next task today will be to complete the form. For the moment I’m putting the question of what happens if the decided charge is more than ‘buttons’, putting social care out of my reach, because that’s too scary to contemplate right now.

I still haven’t been told who will prove the care I’ve apparently been assessed as being eligible to receive (according to ex social worker), the terms of it or when I can expect it to start. Six weeks ago, my second choice of provider had apparently said that they thought they could support me but couldn’t confirm just at that moment. It’s proved impossible to find out anything more since. Sheesh, just writing about this is making me feel weary, so it must be a bagful of fun to read too. Apologies folks ūüôā .

Advocacy
I’ve emailed the local advocacy service this morning. My advocacy worker is now only available on Thursday and Fridays and so have asked for a meeting on either day this week, in order that we can discuss the following:
– Social work/care – I’ll ask if she will phone the manager when we meet – when she phoned earlier in the year there was immediate action. I could phone but I think the added clout of someone other than me phoning could make a difference. Also, I’m already under too much stress and both my interim therapist and my inner self care monitor (!) are urging that I lighten my load if at all possible.
– Complaint re crisis team – This is covered in this post, skip to the paragraph beginning ‘In September 2016’, to read the most pertinent bit. I have just two months left to get the complaint in. I’ve had to put it on hold with so much else going on.
– GP – I’ve lost such confidence since the crisis team debacle – not helped by my struggling to click with a new GP since my one left the practice last year. Her replacement is largely ineffective and the senior partner I chose to see instead, generally patronising but also, worryingly, dismissive of my mental health and won’t discuss it. I don’t know whether that’s due to his own ‘issues’ or whether he’s been influenced by the crisis team’s inaccurate conclusions.

Health
I’ve just called to make an appointment to see a female GP at my practice, having realised that I’ve consulted three male GPs during my five and a bit years with the practice and never had a good experience with any of them! Conversely, I’ve seen four female GPs there – all but one at least several times and all of those were excellent, only the one was dreadful (older, rude and crabby) and I opted never to see her again ūüėÄ !

My first choice is about to begin a month’s leave. I’m booked in for a double appointment with my second choice (only second because she works fewer hours) on Friday, 8th September, and have already asked if my advocacy worker can accompany me. I’ve been advised it’s worth having that support until I am settled with a new GP and until my complaint about the crisis team has been resolved.

Primarily, I need to speak to her about the new and different depressions that I’ve been experiencing, which I strongly suspect are related to the perimenopause. Despite having experienced episodes of depression for nearly 30 years, these are the worst I’ve experienced, because they are so … complete … that’s the only word I can think of to even begin describe it. It’s just MORE … than previous depressive episodes, possibly because my usual depression is ‘reactive’ – a response to a particular trauma or stressor – this stuff ‘just is’, as clinical depression often is, but with the added ‘quality’ of exacerbating my Complex Trauma symptoms. I lose all capacity for days on end and it’s as though I …¬†Tigger, grab life by the horns, heart set on living – have left¬†the building. I’m left entirely unable to connect to anything or anyone and actively suicidal … like never before (and I’m without support for that). It’s difficult to write about. It’s difficult to appreciate if you haven’t been there. Suffice to say it’s horrendous and I’m generally worried for my safety and very much hoping that the GP will be sympathetic and will work with me to find a way to manage this, and to get to the bottom of the myriad of other new symptoms that I’m experiencing lately, making it impossible to sustain even a semblance of life.

Time is of the essence
I’m trying to be as productive as I possibly can in the next two weeks, squeezing even more than usual out of every ‘spoon’, to get as much sorted as possible, because, if the establishing pattern continues, I’m likely to lose the next two weeks of my ‘cycle’, and spend it clinging onto life by my fingertips. Lordy, I do hope not, but I’m trying to prepare to try to mitigate the impact. The last episode alone cost me ¬£124 in appointment cancellations fees (dentist and physio) eating up the last of my little kitty from the Journalist’s Charity, and I haven’t even got my new specs because I had to cancel that appointment too. Oh my, I HAVE to laugh :-D, while I can, it keeps me going.

TTFN. Thanks for reading.

Heart x

 

 

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Treadmill Tales #4

That’s just about a mile clocked up now – it’s taken me rather longer than it once did!

Same stats as days two and three … with pace of 3.1 mph and a wee quarter of a mile completed. Today, despite feeling dozy after a busy week and a very early start, the urge to up the pace was strong. I reined in¬†Tigger and resisted. Again, I enjoyed the feeling of being back on the treadmill.

According to my plan, I’m not due to up the pace until Day 11 … I suspect that’s going to change but I won’t get silly. (Down, Tigger, down boy!)

Enjoy this

 

Treadmill Tales: The Return

Tales from my treadmill were once a regular feature on this blog. I charted my journey from ‘last person on Earth to consider taking up running’ to the person who not only purchased REAL running shoes from a PROPER specialist store but also purchased and proudly displayed this sign.

I got to  the stage where I could not only run for a bus, I could run a mile on my treadmill and did so five or six days a week. I could also run up the stairs to my second floor flat when I moved in here a little under three years ago.

I have a treadmill (running machine) at home. I used to have an exercise bike but switched to a treadmill when I found my bike too uncomfortable to use after my Fibromyalgia diagnosis. Long time readers of my blog may remember my deciding that, in my early forties and having just left my marriage, I wanted to take up running … and teach myself to knit … as you do.

I’m not at all ‘sporty’. I love walking and used to do it semi seriously, walking in Snowdonia and the Lake District among other places, anywhere from three to 12 miles a time. With Fibromyalgia, exercise can be a difficult undertaking; pacing is vital and any activity must be built up slowly in small increments. If you remember my drive and Tigger instincts, you’ll know that this does not come naturally to me. I’m ambitious and I’m competitive too, especially with myself. I started off walking for a few minutes at a time built up through longer and faster walks to a slow jog and then a moderate jog, until finally I could moderately jog a slow-ish mile, and did so five or six times a week.

For much of the first half of this year I couldn’t walk up the stairs to my flat, let alone run up them. With an eating disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Depression and severe isolation and loneliness having led to serious weight gain and a complete loss of fitness and stamina, I now face an uphill climb. It is daunting. I am being very positive and very Tigger about it, but this blog is the place where I can tell it like it is and I need to acknowledge that I am concerned in spite of my enthusiasm and determination. I know what it took to lose five stones (a hangover from my first ‘run in’ with Binge Eating Disorder), and I had some support then. Now it’s just me and I am much less well physically now than I was then.

So anyway, here’s the plan – starting today:

  • Walking at a gentle pace for FIVE MINUTES each day for the next FIVE DAYS
  • Day off
  • Walking at a gentle pace for FIVE MINUTES for ONE DAY
  • Walking at a gentle pace for SIX MINUTES for ONE DAY
  • Walking at a gentle pace for SEVEN MINUTES for ONE DAY
  • and so on … increasing by one minute each day
  • Take a day off every SIXTH day
  • and after reaching 10 minutes, continuing to increase the time spent walking by a minute each day but also beginning to increase the pace, slowly, each day thereafter.

This is undoubtedly a slower approach that I would like. I’d love to leap in and although beginning with walking would love to start pushing myself harder, and quickly. I don’t much like making concessions to my chronic illnesses but although driven, I’m not daft … at least not now after more than a decade spent battling the blessed things. I may adjust the above plan, as I go, but I promise to only ever do it sensibly ūüôā .

I’ll make a brief daily treadmill progress report post because I find that accountability helps to keep me motivated and also because a fellow blogger and I are both getting back to using our treadmills and hope to encourage each other. (Hello ‘manyofus’!)

Thanks for reading – as ever comments welcome.

Heart x

 

 

 

 

Heart set on dying?

I want to die. I really want to die. I just want this to end.

Those thoughts have been uppermost after months of waxing and waning. I’ve continued to fight but my ongoing deterioration is undeniable.

I long for someone to tell me to sit down, to say ‘let me do it’, to take the strain if only for a few moments, and for them to bring me a cup of tea and a sandwich. I long for someone to let me curl up under some ‘comforter’ and pour it all out. I LONG to feel connection to someone. I long to be heard. I long for kindness and support. I long not to have to do everything by myself, to be able to stop having to continually fight horrors alone. I long not to feel that on occasion I have to inappropriately ask support of people who should not be giving it, because I am desperate. Like the person you know only to nod hello to at work only to then find yourself suddenly having to ask them to wash your smalls or some other indignity – and no, I haven’t actually done that¬†one. I long to be asked: What do you need? What would help right now? and to feel that the person asking was willing to try, amid their own limitations be they geographical, health or time or otherwise related, to try to work with me to make some progress.

At some point during the night, a friend on hearing of my suicidal despair told me to ‘stay with him’ and that we’d ‘try to find a way through’. Such powerful words when you’ve lost hope and need something to which to CLING.¬†Those are just the words you need from friends at the worst of times. Certainly I was glad to hear them, only I couldn’t take comfort in them.

We have never met. We live many miles apart. We are online friends, although we have come to chat on the phone in recent months. I haven’t had the gut feeling that there is something to fear from the friendship and that it would be dangerous for me to proceed, as I’ve had many times in the last 15 years. I trust my ‘gut’ but have forced myself to ignore it since loss and illness narrowed my world to such an extent that I came to feel that this ‘beggar’ couldn’t afford to be choosy. Every time my gut instinct proved right but not before I’d paid the price for ignoring it. This friend, of last night’s words, and I have some shared experience and this friend undeniably has empathy. Although it’s a relatively new friendship, this person appears to have a good grasp of what I’m about and a reasonable grasp of my complex circumstances. Finally, after the last year, too many damaging encounters and friends who have betrayed my trust have left me unable to trust and connect. I can now only see that this friend, and any others, will come to stop caring.

One thing I know about you is that this isn’t your fault, more that it’s an unholy concoction of circumstances … You’re my friend and I’m very proud to know you.¬†How can this friend – an ordinary bloke, said with no disrespect but a worry that perhaps I am under-estimating – say that where other friends can not? If older friends* – those in whom I can still feel something, could say words like this, the power would be extraordinary and could catapult me into new connections with some confidence. Does anyone understand what I mean? If people who have known me for years, who were once very close to me can’t say/act like that I matter, on top of the betrayals of family, can I ever really matter to anyone else? *They are now so very few, admittedly this is a very small sample.

It seems ‘crazy’ to think that when my abuse was first revealed more than 15 years ago and I became so very ill, I consoled myself with the thought that friends would rally …
I didn’t expect that I would lose so many of them because they couldn’t or wouldn’t understand and so rejected me, or found my situation too uncomfortable and so distanced themselves. I pushed away the stragglers who remained on the periphery, too terrified to confide for fear of more of the same. A few years ago I reconnected with one such friend lost in that way, someone I valued very much and trusted, but ultimately there is now only more distance. This is alienation in the truest sense, my situation and suffering (I hate to apply that word to me; it feels to reek of self pity) too alien to comprehend, and waaaaay too alien to ever want to embrace. I long for that ’embrace’, some connection. I belong nowhere …
It seems crazy because in spite of all that, deep down inside somewhere the desire for friends to rally still lives on.

Picture me, if you will, clinging to a perilously lofty cliff face with no safety lines and ever-crumbling hand and footholds, frequently flailing, slipping and falling, before grasping and clinging on again by the merest margin.

I want to let go. I want nothingness to engulf me.

Count your ‘pegs’, or whatever climbers call those things that they tap into rock, your ‘ harness’ and other ‘safety lines’, for me now, will you, please? Perhaps there’s a spouse or partner, a pet, a home of your own, children, a job, sufficient income, food in your fridge, connections and pleasures, colleagues, friends, wider family, history and memories, a safe place, a trusted professional. Things that amid stress, and even at the worst of times, to which you can cling and feel grounded, tethered, held in place – pinned to that cliff face even though you are terrified, even though your predicament is hellish, you are held in place. I ask this because in all these years I have never yet encountered any other ‘struggler’ without tethers. Plenty who can feel that they are without them, who can struggle to see them, yes, but no one without any in actuality. A GP once told me that those people never make it. I like to defy odds but in the last year I have feared I’ve been stupid in my dogged belief that I could.

Fantasies and fear are my only ‘tethers’. I want to write more on this but I’m flagging. I’ll try to do it in another post, except to say that in the absence of psychosis and with depression only rarely removing my rationale, I fear a suicide attempt failing and landing me in a worse situation. I’m not living, I’m existing, but I’m failing to die.

I live with the knowledge that if I were to go missing there is no one to notice or to raise an alarm, and that if I were to die it could be weeks before I would be found. I don’t dream up these thoughts to dwell or wallow or feel sorry for myself. They are facts I’ve been forced to face in the last couple of years. Realisation slow in the making but helped along by having to beg a near stranger to help me to get to A&E in December and the days that I’ve gone without food since 2015, either through lack of funds or lack of capacity due to illness to prepare something, because there was no one willing to help – for eight days at worst. It’s immensely difficult to lay bare these examples as the circumstances surrounding them are complex and there is much left unsaid. I fear misunderstanding and negative judgement.

I’d never heard those words before last night, not in all those years or the preceding years of abuse and trauma. Not one of the people I loved and cared about ever said those words or any remotely like them. I’ve said those words VERY many times. I’ve actually lost count of the number of times I dealt with someone else’s suicidal crisis between 2011 and 2016 alone. I have quite a record and, given that I’m not a Samaritans volunteer or mental health professional, it’s probably a fairly unusual one. I jump in, a LOT, always hoping to make a positive difference but sometimes for misguided, even unhealthy, reasons, mostly a desperate need to try to prevent others feeling what I feel.

I have had not a single regret that I cut myself off from what remained of my family as it was only, and could only ever be, abusive. Likewise I have never regretted leaving my marriage a little over three years ago. It was dysfunctional, deeply unhealthy for the most part and has been described by others as sometimes being abusive; I find it difficult to claim that. The hugs were wonderful, as sometimes was the kindness and the connection, but the damage it was doing, ultimately to both of us, was too great. I am sad that illness and my circumstances have isolated me. I am angry that chronic under-funding of health and social care has killed many and severely worsened my own health and circumstances leaving me to suffer acutely, unnecessarily, and unable to ‘grab life by the horns’ and thrive. Again, that’s so difficult to say. Ultimately, I’ve been rendered housebound for the past four months – no longer able to leave my flat either psychologically or physically due to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and issues of pain, fatigue and mobility.

Inside my mind I am as proactive as ever, as hard working, as determined, as enthusiastic, as ‘can do’, as ‘grab life by the horns’ but now mostly only when I unconsciously dissociate from reality. Reality that includes a sick body; a mind tormented by loss, grief , loneliness and desperate desire to thrive; hunger; and isolation so complete that I don’t know when I’ll next see or speak to another human, and I’m struggling to remember when I last saw someone. I am permanently online, often now too lost to connect to anyone but still ‘seeing’ the world, if only virtually, remains a sort of tether but one without comfort. Without it these past few months, I think I would already be dead. It’s kept me from completely losing my mind.

I hoped that writing this would provide some sort of catharsis. I have written it to try to let it out of my head. I have written it while trying not to try to hard, trying not to think of the audience or worry who might judge, feel offended or otherwise react negatively. Part of me doesn’t want to receive comments on this post but another part cannot allow me to enter my WordPress ‘dashboard’ and turn off that function on this post. I fear judgement and disdain. I fear troubling anyone. Another part wants people who know me to read this post, and wants to find ways to encourage that. I know I welcome questions and would welcome the attempts of others, especially my friends, to learn and understand. I am thoughtful and reflective and my depth of insight is frequently noted but I think I may currently lack the wherewithal to isolate my motivations, comprehend and marshal them in my best interests. Perhaps I am setting myself up for more hurt? Part of me feels that I should let people grow ever distant, set them free.

I have continued to engage with my online friend since we connected late last night. I am in the sitting room at my desk writing this post. I emailed my recently allocated social worker, ostensibly my key worker, around 8 this morning to let her know that I am in dire straits. I have been told there is nothing that can be offered right now, but I forced myself to ask her directly if there is anything¬†at all ¬†that she could do to help me at this time. Occasionally, pushing hard reveals that actually something is possible, but my experience is that pushing alone, however skillfully, is rarely enough. You’re easily dismissed when alone and without others to back you. I had to do something having failed to find the courage to attempt to kill myself. I’ve not yet received a reply but continue to compulsively check my email. She might even be on leave. The working day is all but over as I write this sentence, at any rate.

I could say more; I still feel compulsive urges to do so, particularly around the suicidal ideation, and also expanding on reasons for the dearth of support, in a desperate attempt to make readers understand. I shall refrain from doing so, and deploy my inner ‘Tigger‘ to publish and be damned.

Final note: I have just received a reply from the social worker. It is kind enough but offers no support, just tells me to keep keeping on by myself and reminds me of the usual crisis lines. I will try to write specifically about the health and social care support situation soon.

Thank you for reading.

No Tigger left behind 

You might think that as someone who experiences reactive depression and suicidal ideation that I’d be a bit of an Eeyore.

But oh no, I am most definitely a Tigger. Boundless enthusiasm and plenty of bounce that’s me! I can almost hear myself go Boing …. .

In the early hours of this morning after my post Terror, I received this image from a Twitter friend with the hash tag #noTiggerleftbehind. It brought such a smile to my face. 

Ours is a fledgling friendship, not so much.in time terms but in trust which for me is challenging in friendships because of my trauma related experiences. It’s conducted via social media and, more recently, occasionally a natter on the phone. We live at practically opposite ends of the country and have never met. 

I may be alone in most terms but would like to believe that perhaps I do matter to some however it might appear that my demise wouldn’t be felt by anyone. 

The image is now the wallpaper on my phone for purposes of regular smiles.  

Back from the brink

TW: This post discusses depression and suicidal intent.

It’s been almost two months since my last post, so much for my daily blogging plans ūüėÄ !

I laugh, but in truth I have been very ill.

There is a lot that I’d like¬†to say and I hope to do this in a series of bite-sized posts, rather than in one overwhelmingly massive missive! These posts may appear daily, weekly, alone or in clusters. Who knows? I’m taking life one day at a time, and doing what I can each day. All I can say for sure is that I will be blogging, now that I’m able to function again.

I am happy that my capacity to function is restored to me and to be making progress, slowly but surely.

It was a strange feeling as I started to come out of the depths of the depression, to be able to feel something other than that I had to die.

I have a lot of knowledge about mental health and mental illness and I’m very self aware, but I became so ill that I lost all perspective.¬†I am naturally relentlessly positive and have boundless enthusiasm. I’ve previously described myself as ‘a bit¬†Tigger. Depression takes that from me. At its worst, it strips me of all¬†capacity to function and to see anything other than suicide as a realistic option for me.

Glad though I was to emerge from those terrible depths, as the days progressed and my mood began to improve, I became aware just how bad things had been and I had to start to process the knowledge that I’d been dangerously ill. I hadn’t been able to¬†wash, dress myself or clean my teeth. I either barely ate or ate poorly. I struggled to¬†engage with anyone or anything. I couldn’t engage with my crisis plan or crisis support, for to do so seemed utterly futile. I experienced¬†feelings of self loathing that I had thought were long behind me. I could see only that I had to die.

Indeed I did plan to die. I am immensely grateful that one friend became¬†worried enough to contact my GP … on the day I planned to make a suicide attempt, although she wasn’t aware of that. It took persistence on the part of my doctor, repeated telephone¬†calls and voice mail, before I could find the capacity to answer the phone to her¬†that day, but all that¬†gave me pause. Our eventual conversation was difficult but helpful and led to her visiting me at home the next day, as I was unable to get to the surgery. A new path unfurled before me. Things were going to change.

 

 

 

 

This cannot be fixed by relentless positivity and boundless enthusiasm.

I turned a corner again yesterday.

The previous three days – Friday, Saturday and Sunday – were incredibly difficult; hellish. Lying in bed in the early hours of this morning, trying to switch off and sleep, I found myself feeling as though someone else had lived those three days. I had some memories from those days and yet, in those moments lying in my bed, it didn’t feel as though the me lying in bed was the same me who lived through those three hellish days.¬†I haven’t considered it as deeply since, I’m slightly afraid to do so.

I was certainly very depressed during those three days, triggered by further bad news about my financial circumstances that has, for now at least, eradicated all hope of avoiding becoming homeless in December – with nowhere to go or stay. It is a harsh reality. Coming after so much loss – almost entirely¬†due to the abuse I endured in childhood and beyond – losing all family, friends, my career, previous good health, the chance to have children, my marriage, independence, a significant amount of memory, even a not inconsiderable amount of hair due to alopecia, and more related to those losses – the prospect of further loss is terrifying. More than that, it’s unbearable.

I’ve survived all the rest and coped, often alone, I feel unable to cope now. Finally I’m saying I can’t take any more. Despite intensive efforts, I’ve as yet been unable to find support to avoid this feared loss becoming reality. I need a miracle …

In that terribly depressed state during those three days and yesterday too, before I really started to emerge from it, I was more readily accepting of that harsh reality. I am generally a realist. I don’t tend to shy away from harsh realities or stick my head in the sand.

The me that has emerged, from those three days and more, is still very much aware of the horrid reality that I’m facing. It’s a me that is still very much depleted and strugging, but it’s not deeply depressed. That ‘not-deeply depressed’ me (something far closer to the essence of me – some might call that my ‘authentic self’) wants to go ‘Tigger’…

You remember? A.A. Milne’s terrific tiger with boing. He of relentless positivity and boundless enthusiasm. I’m a bit Tigger, certainly relentlessly positive and possessed of boundless enthusiasm, deep depression notwithstanding. Lying in bed last night, thinking as I was, I felt Tigger me, desperately wanting to find hope, desperately wanting to find a way to live.

With the best will in the world and despite having ‘where’s there’s a will, there’s a way’ as a life maxim, logic tells me that I cannot Tigger my way out of this situation.

My own collection: Tigger is the one with THE tail, much as I am the one with a heck of a tale. I'm increasingly afraid that my story cannot have a happy ending.
My own collection: Tigger is the one with THE tail, much as I am the one with a heck of a tale. I’m afraid that my story cannot have a happy ending.