You’ll remember that last time I blogged about my mental health I referred to the “constantly emerging jigsaw that is my mind and my life”? Well, good news! We solved the jigsaw, it turned out to be complete after all, most of the pieces were there in the box all along, the edges were completed, those tricky bits of sky inserted into the right places and the picture on the box emerged.
The picture on the box turned out to be so abhorrent, so distasteful that the Awesome Psychiatrist decided that not only could he not see it, he refused to believe the picture on the box existed at all. The Awesome Psychiatrist is not alone in his denial of the existence of the picture on the box, indeed he appears to be in good company. I’m still waiting for a title for my picture; I think we’ve ascertained it’s not “bipolar” but my picture for all its vibrancy, colour and impact remains unnamed. Incidentally there is a very similar picture to mine contained within the DSM-IV but that is clearly not enough for the MH profession. I have gone from “concerning, troubling, confusing and complex, someone who needs help” to “Woah! Fuck, retreat, retreat!” you’ve never really tasted stigma until you’ve been stigmatised by the psychiatric profession, I have gone from “heart-sink patient” to “toxic patient” and nobody it seems knows quite what to do with me. If it were not for the Fantastic, Ninja, refuses to be beaten by psychiatric arrogance CPN and the Fab Psychologist I would have no input from MH services at all and it’s not because finding my picture has in some way cured me.
I feel like I am being punished for drawing the wrong picture; I didn’t draw it, if I had it would be of stars, rainbows and unicorns, my picture was drawn for me and there isn’t a rainbow in sight. My picture, for all its ugliness is a fair representation of my past, present and future- it doesn’t look good. If I could erase the picture and redraw it I would in a heartbeat, my crayons are poised, I have attempted to redraw my picture many times so that others would like it more but my picture, as with everything else I do is honest, it is true and I cannot help it if others do not like it.
A cursory glance over my exterior would suggest all is well (perhaps except today, it is Thursday, I have worn and slept in the same clothes since Tuesday), I’ve stopped saying “I’m fine” have substituted “I’m OK” it means the same thing- breathing, not dead, no active bleeding so most of the time I am “OK”.
My quality of life is non-existent so I’m currently thinking of a way to reassess that as well, I’m thinking of awarding QOL points to every cup of tea to see if that helps. I make it through most days in one piece mainly thanks to online friends, luck and a weekly wine coma (the administration of enough alcohol to ensure no movement, thoughts, dreams, ideas or voices for up to 7 hours) so far so good- still here, still OK.
The 30th of November marks the 2 year anniversary of my coming to the attention of mental health services (this time around) on the 30th on November 2009 I went to see the Wonderful GP and confessed I was rather unwell. This was mainly as I could no longer hide the rapid and severe weight loss I had experienced from friends and colleagues. In those 2 years I have played the game, answered the questions, tried the drugs, sampled the hospitality and all around me life has fallen apart. The woman who went to see the Wonderful GP that day had a job, a life, a future. I have nothing and it’s not my fault.
But I’m OK. HMRC Tax Credits finally got back to me yesterday, having done the sums I can now reveal that I will have £9.21 a month left over once fixed expenses are paid- fixed expenses does not include food, the Stupid Car, clothing, indeed anything else you can think of so it looks like I may lose my home too.
But I’m OK.