So Omega Three might be good for BPD, The Valedictorian has been researching (bless her sweet heart) so My Lady went out and bought me some and a jar of Vitamin B supplements which apparently give you energy. Could do with that, thanks.
After yesterday’s slice of toast and two squares of Well Known Purple Wrappered milk chocolate, I had toast with the crusts cut off (My Lady’s touch), half a half a scone and then wait for it… Mammy chips, a petit pain, a fried egg and beans. DO NOT FEEL GUILTY! Repeat! Yep, I feel guilty.
So, I saw my old GP this morning and she was sweet. She upped my Venlafaxine prescription and changed my sleeping pill. She also referred me to the HSE Emergency Mental Health Service down here and we talked about the possibility of an in-patient hospital visit.The Mental Health Service in the Big Smoke called me this morning to tell me that it wold be a month before I was seen to by their Psychology Department, so that will be at least two weeks after I see the Psych Consultant again who told me she was bumping me up the list – apparently a month’s wait in which you starve yourself/cut your wrists to shreds (I’ve never done wrists by the way) is pretty standard: “Hang on in there in your anxiety-infested mind for a few weeks, we’ll get back to you.” It’s quite the conundrum: all this media activity about #littlethings and yourmentalhealth.ie but actually it’s all up to you. Fix yourself please with walks and talking to friends and if you get really bad come to us and we’ll help you out after six weeks if you haven’t killed yourself and if you have then all the better for the waiting lists. That’s what it feels like. I told the receptionist who called me with the About a Month news that I was in a bad way. Yesterday and today have been fairly bottom of the well. I told her I didn’t know if I could last that long. I’m not being dramatic or trying to oust more deserving patients from their psychiatric fifteen minutes. She advised me to go to A&E if I got really bad. I am really bad. And look where A&E got me last time. Straight into your waiting room, after a week. She then advised me to contact Remise, the catchment area support service. Last time (the only time) I called them I was told that Psychiatrist Number Two (the “Why haven’t you killed yourself yet? lady) had reported that I didn’t need them and they didn’t want me to become dependent on them.
SO WHERE THE FUCK DO I GO?!
I have no money to go private. I know I’m not physically sick. I know there are people who need the time and skills and resources of the HSE more than I do but I am hanging by the most delicate of familial threads to any instinct to survive and that won’t hold out for a month.
My GP sent me to a private psychotherapist in the afternoon. I came home and slept again in between. She listened to my half explanations with patient bewilderment and asked me to look her in the face so that she could “connect” with me. That’s become a thing – not being able to look people in the face, especially health care professionals, covering my face with my hands and rubbing at my eyes and forehead. Her advice was to get out for ten minutes’ fresh air everyday and have chamomile baths. I hate baths. I told her that. She’s a nice lady. And I’m sure she’s good at her job but for sixty quid a pop, once a week, I don’t think herbal tea is gonna cut it.
Poor My Lady. She is worn out. I wish I could pull myself together for her.
Tom Selleck got upset today as did Miss Marple. I am distressing them so much. I hate how disruptive I’m being. Tom Selleck gave me fifty euro. Who is priority on my “To BE Paid When I’m Paid ” list?
Miss Marple, devout Catholic that she gave me a little prayer card to Saint Pope John Paul (it’s weird thinking of him as a saint) and I put it above my bed even though I have no faith (I don’t think) and if I have a scrap of it, it’s not Catholic. I would love to have faith. Cousin Like a Brother and The Valedictorian do and I envy them. Their church is so welcoming and genuinely makes me feel part of a loving community. I’ve met friends there like The Coach and her little family, The Preacher and his wife and I miss that coming together on Sundays followed by a big family lunch, not even our direct family but the family we’ve been welcomed into in America.
Americans are friendly. Friendlier than the Irish I think. They chat, they pack your groceries, the men tip their hats, the women smile their toothy white smiles and everyone wants you to have a nice day. In Ireland we grunt and walk into each other because we are so glued to our phone screens, WhatsApping instead of calling because that’s the new socialising on the iPhone Isle. Or are Irish people just uninterested and bored of other Irish people? Maybe Americans are fed up with each other too and it’s just when a Texan hears an Irish brogue they get bag packing and nice day wishing.
Did I say I spent Monday with Posh Spice? Bliss. Even watching Jodie Marsh watch women’s boobs get sliced and stuffed with her is fun. The Enforcer got me new Popular Fruit-named Tech Giant earbuds. The only ones that fit my tiny ears. The Enforcer reckins my ears are weird. Posh Spice doesn’t. Then the Enforcer had to help me get petrol in my car with his ingenious funnel trick. Everytime I park the damn thing on a slope the tank thinks its empty. Maybe that’s what’s happening to my brain: it thinks it’s empty because it’s not on level ground.
New Boy and I went for a walk on Monday night which was a good gusty Autumn evening. So I didn’t know why I crashed yesterday when I’d had four days of stable, and moments of good.
I really want tomorrow to be better, the therapist today concluded that I’m not “actively suicidal”. I’m more passively suicidal. I swear sometimes the professionals are trying to goad me into something. She also asked me what would it solve if i did activate my Get Out Clause? Well nothing, there’d be nothing left to solve, for me anyway. By the way, guilt tripping someone who wants to die into staying around for others doesn’t help. If anything it makes you feel like a more worthless piece of shit who definitely doesn’t deserve to live if they can even contemplate leaving their family behind. If you learn nothing else, remember that pearl of wisdom if you’re doing a Fray on it and trying to save a life.
Am I looking for attention? Is there actually anything wrong with me or do I just need to snap the fuck out of it? I feel useless and weak and annoying and disruptive and selfish and self absorbed after today.
Anyway, here I am. About to go watch The Apprentice, with sore eyes from rubbing and a creaky jaw from teeth grinding.
I always find it funny that the theme music with Lord Sugar’s face is from Romeo and Juliet. What’s in a name? Sugar, me arse.