Plus Bye Mum! and The Obligatory ‘I Had an Appointment’ Post.
Let’s start with the first one.
One of two things has happened as regards my last post, in which I speculated that my mother was reading this infernal bollocks that I call Confessions of a Serial Insomniac. Either I have been suffering from a paranoid psychosis (or, in less hyperbolic terms, just paranoia) regarding all the reasons that I thought she was reading it, or she has become shockingly technically savvy over the last few months.
I went to her house this morning after an appointment with Lovely GP and, when her attention was distracted, I searched her history, cookies and Temporary Internet Files on both Firefox and Internet Explorer. There was no evidence of any visitations to this site at all, save for one single cookie which is probably from a time I wrote a post from her PC (as it had some references to an upload, to which, of course, she would not have had access. For the record, I thought I had deleted all reference to that session, but meh). When I say ‘searched’, I actually mean that; I used the built-in search boxes to search for terms such as ‘serial insomniac’ or ‘confessions’, rather than really rip the piss out of her privacy by wading through each single thing.
So seemingly I stand corrected on my earlier accusations. Mother, I apologise. Even though you aren’t reading this and don’t know about it. Hmm. Sorry anyway.
The Obligatory ‘I Had an Appointment’ (Part of the) Post
I saw LGP at the unGodly hour of 8.50am. OK, so for a normal person, that’s not that bad, but I’m still registered at my mother’s old surgery, and since I live at A’s in the main, it involved a drive to the other side of town and then a hike up the motorway for a while.
I realised with horror last night that I had failed to fill in a form for the admin staff at the surgery. Rather than do any work themselves when they receive DLA claims in from Social Security, they write out to the applicant asking them how their disability or illness affects them. To be honest this suits me fine as they don’t really know how being mental affects me, and of course I do, but nonetheless I’d received the form the other week and had kept putting it completion of it off, despite their request to return it promptly. I therefore sat in LGP’s car park immediately before my appointment and scribbled all the bollocks I could think of down – psychosis, dissociation, failure to engage in everyday tasks, severe anxiety, major depression, self-harm etc. I hope I’ve covered everything.
Anyway, the main reason I went to see LGP was to scrounge Diazepam due to the now absolutely-imminent abandonment of me by C(unt). LGP was sympathetic towards me given C/The Trust’s unprofessionalism, and seemed to understand that I have been completely retraumatised by the experience; however, the poor sod seemed unable to do anything about it. He asked about NewVCB, and I said that she too was horrified about what C/The Trust are doing, but that she also seems uterly powerless to do anything about it (though she did try to dissuade C from cutting the process short, but the miserable git chose to refuse to listen to her).
The last time I saw LGP he had suggested going to see the Nexus Institute in the wake of the whole disaster that my therapy with C has become. As I noted in the post in question, by psychological association I’ve developed an aversion to the Institute due to a really antiquated encounter with some NHS assessment bitch, but nonetheless I have been thinking about the suggestion and have perhaps warmed a little to it. My concern now is that they offer, according to C anyway, a maximum of 24 sessions, which seems hideously inadequate to me. When LGP raised the issue again this morning, I said so to him. I pointed out that I felt that about 15 – 20 sessions was the minimum required to open up to a new person – and that was when the relationship was a good one.
He said that his experience of patients using the Institute’s services was that they had managed to actually achieve a lot in that timeframe, therefore opining that it was at least worth a shot. He told me that they have a waiting list as they genuinely seem to be good at what they do.
Fair enough, but I bet they have never met a cynical, snide fuck like me before.
Anyway, it was left with me telling him I would, indeed, do as I was told for once and contact them for an appointment. I am shitting myself at the mere thought of this, so how the fuck will I feel when I actually get round to the fucking meeting?! And my concern is also this – my relationship (or, rather, the premature cessation thereof) with C has traumatised me so severely that that’s yet another thing for a new therapist to have to deal with. It’s not all about the sexual abuse in the first place – it never was. Now there’s just another layer of trauma-shite to add to:
- the sex abuse
- the bullying
- the whole dreadful saga with my ex that I’ve still never written about here
- the fact that I still weep for my grandfather nearly 12 years after his death
- V’s abject cuntery towards me
- V’s abject cuntery towards my mother
- V’s relatives’ abject cuntery towards me and, to a lesser extent, my mother
- an issue I’ve never discussed here pertaining to how my mother treated me when I first manifested severe depressive symptoms as a teenager
- general life disillusionment that, unresolved, simply leads to further crippling depressions.
Can a therapist trained in helping people overcome sexual abuse deal with all that bollocks as well? And do they have any expertise in treating people fucked up the arse by the NHS and being more of a mess as a result? (Actually, they probably do; I’m sure my situation isn’t terribly uncommon).
Of course, the long-term plan is for me to enter analysis, but at least Nexus are free (donations notwithstanding), so I shall try them first. I just hope that the limited timeframe afforded is not going to end up with a repeat of my current therapeutic disaster…more psychotherapy-induced trauma? Oh yes please, world – give it to me, yeah!!!
Anyway, I risk never getting to the point if I don’t stop blathering about points made a zillion times before. I led LGP to believe* that I was having a breakdown within a breakdown over the end of things with C and begged him for Diazepam. ”The last time I had any was May!” I pleaded. ”Please!”
It was truly pathetic.
He checked my notes and confirmed that May was the last time I was issued with a script for the beautiful, wonderful, amazing, fabulous tablets, and noted that I am “clearly not abusing them.” No shit, mate. He agreed to give me some more, though I was disgusted when I left the surgery and read the prescription that he had only issued 14! I have seven left from the previous script, so there’s 21 – that’s only a fucking week’s worth!
To be fair, he said that if I was having a really hard time, that I was to ring him and he’d let me have some more. You can be sure that I will be “having a really hard time”. I feel that I need to hoard them, to have a proper size of a stash – just in case. You never know when they’ll be needed, do you? On that note, I observed with amusement that the back of the script paper now instructs you not to heard medication, as apparently that’s stealing money from the NHS or something. This caused me much merriment – I hoard like fuck. Too bad. They failed to give me what I needed, so if I’m ‘stealing’ from the fuckers (such melodrama!) then I feel like a Robin Hood character, and am glad to be involved in screwing them. Fuck them.
LGP asked the old rote question of whether or not I would overdose on the Diazepam. I said that I wouldn’t, and then proceeded to tell him that I’d had my stomach pumped before and had no wish to relive the heinous experience.
“But are you having suicidal thoughts?” he asked.
I laughed in his face. ”Of course I’m having suicidal thoughts,” I chuckled. ”My entire life revolves around suicidal ideation. But I won’t overdose, don’t worry. I know how to do myself in and, unless you plan really carefully, that is not an outcome facilitated by overdoses.”
He raised his eyebrows, intrigued. ”You’ve become something of an encyclopaedia about mental health issues,” he said, smiling.
“Well, I read a suicide newsgroup, so I know a bit about suicide methods,” I admitted.
He nodded. ”But it’s not just that,” he went on, “you’re very self-aware, aware of what’s going on with you, and you’re extremely articulate about it all.”
I couldn’t help but blush. That was nice. I think.
He asked if my interpersonal relationships were of a satisfactory standard, and I responded that I had the support of A, a mass group of wondrous online friends, and a number of non-online friends that were supporting me unwaveringly. I also told him that relations with my mother are at a reasonable point, though at the time I was still paranoid about what she was or wasn’t reading.
“It’s not that I think you should be grateful for the situation you’re in,” LGP said, “of course you shouldn’t. But at least you do have a support network, it’s better than absolutely nothing.”
I suppose it is. I asked if I could see him in a month as support additional to NewVCB and he said that of course I could. He then mused for a second, and when asked what he had been considering, he told me that they also have counsellors that operate in the surgery.
“However,” he said, “I don’t think it would be appropriate for you. Firstly, your issues are clearly very complex. And secondly, you are clearly…” he searched for the words “…at a level above that sort of therapy.”
I regarded my lovely (but, alas, ginger) doctor with interest. Was he implying that I am more intelligent than his almost-certainly-CBT-practising staff?
He took my blood pressure, which he felt was pretty high. He reckons that this is generally the usual PANIC PANIC that people get themselves into when in medical appointments, as well as stress over C. ”I suppose I should also recommend losing some weight though,” he added, clearly uncomfortably.
I advised him that in the last year I have lost over four stone (yes, those of you that met me on Saturday – that does mean that I was even more the size of a mansion a year ago) and am continuing to lose pounds. He was beside himself with joy (!) and kept congratulating me over and over, which was in hilarious stark contrast to the battering I took from his cunt of a colleague in December.
I left with the Diazepam script, a promise to him to contact Nexus and an agreement that we would meet again in about a month. Ah. Sighs. I do like LGP.
I went to the chemist next door to get my medication, and whilst waiting looked around for other bollocks to spend money on. I chose some Rescue Remedy, to aid the workings of the Diazepam, plus some anti-IBS stuff and Pro Plus. Then I saw Seri-Strips, bandages etc – and I jumped on them. I don’t feel like self-harming at the minute, but who knows what tomorrow will bring? Better to be prepared, because it could go totally tits up after my final session with C(unt).
Which leads me to…
The Final Countdown: The Eve of the End of Therapy
So. Here we finally are. All my efforts to fix this dire situation have been a waste. After 10.20am tomorrow, I will never see C again.
I look through my archives on this subject and actually find myself laughing at some of the histrionics displayed therein. Wa wa, I can’t cope without him. Wa wa, my life is over. Wa wa, I’m so miserable, I can’t cope, please kill me someone please! Tonight I feel…
…ambivalent. Fine. Asi es la vida. I don’t care.
Now don’t get me wrong. I am still positively full of righteous anger and indignation at the appalling way I have been treated by the Trust, and I don’t intend to just lie back down under it and let the fuckers abuse me more. However, as regards C as an individual specifically, I really don’t feel anything much about our soon-to-be-permanent-separation. * In this sense, my “I’m having a breakdown within a breakdown” performance to LGP was perhaps slightly exaggerated in pursuit of drugs. Maybe I should contact Narcotics Anonymous whilst I’m in the process of contacting new therapists?!
There are two probable reasons for this.
One: I have already done most of my grieving. About a fortnight ago – after a session itself after an unpleasant meeting with NewVCB – I was in a particularly bad state, so much so that I caused a fuss on Twitter, apparently having implied I was going to do myself in. That was a bad day, but it was one amongst many. I have shed millions of tears over this and whined and bitched and moaned about it here so much that it will no doubt seem like another blog once I desist from such shittery. My pain was so real, so deep, so astoundingly visceral – and now, it’s just not. It has apparently played itself out.
Two: a limited number of people know this, simply as I haven’t written about any of my sessions with C in five or six weeks, but in that time my view of him has shifted almost 180 degrees. I know that the fault in this whole sorry mess is only partially his, but he has become the fall-person for my disdain and derision. I used to respect him greatly and I was very fond of him, and that was on top of my issues of transference and attachment. Now, I kind of feel like he’s…I don’t know…a fly or something. He’s there and he’s actually rather irritating and frustrating, and you feel like swiping him – but, ultimately, he’s something of an irrelevance, his existence little more than a passing inconvenience. And that existence, in terms of my life anyhow, will cease to be in 13 or so hours.
It should have been different. Of course it should have been different. There is a small part of me that feels sad that I have come to view him thus, and as stated I know that it’s mostly not his fault. But this is the reality of things as they stand; he is the figurehead for every failure I’ve ever experienced thanks to his employers. Poor C. But not poor C too. Who cares?
Is this a defence mechanism? Probably. And it could unravel completely in the morning and I might be a suicidal, dissociated, agitated mess. For now, though, for this one important evening, I am OK. Surprisingly but genuinely OK.
Now. Who likes my new logo?!